You Cannot Rescue a Sinking Heart

It happens again today. With no warning.
My heart sinks.
Plummets.
Straight to the bottom of my belly with no warning.
I had all the intention in the world this morning to be of service.
To be positive.
To be a good neighbor.

And certainly I will. In just a few more minutes.
In just a few hours.
Once I can pull my heart up off the bottom of the floor of my stomach.
Ugh.
It's much heavier than I thought.

And it's not like I'm not trying. I am!
I'm pulling and pulling.
But it seems it's found a nook down there
In between droppings of past hurt
Past heart-breaks
Little pieces are still down there
And now this big, enlarged, heavy heart of mine is getting cozy down there with the past pieces.
"How could you do this to me, heart?!"
I want to yell at it.
Now I'm getting angry. Frustrated.
And it's pulling back harder.
And the little pieces of the past are gripping their claws into my passionate heart.

"I thought I got rid of you guys?"
I say in frustration.
"C'mon. We made a deal in those meditations. In those yoga asanas."
"Don't you remember those journals? Where I flushed you out? Each and every little heartbreak.
Where I filled the holes that came after with gratitude?"
Ugh.
I thought you were gone.

And yet there you are.
Betrayal.
Sin.
Shame.
Cradling my inflamed heart with your claws.

Ugh.
You guys are strong.
And I'm not a good fighter today.
I cannot pull you up off the floor of my belly.

And when it comes time to read something
The words that I need to hear appear in front of me
And my eyes fill with tears
And my body starts to shake
And suddenly a tsunami lifts my heart
From the bottom of my belly
And carries it
Heaving
Up into my chest
And I begin to choke on the waves in my throat.

You cannot pull a heart back
To where it belongs
You cannot rescue it.
You cannot fight it
Or deny its right to be where it needs to be
You need to give it time
Acceptance, and understanding
And it will come back.
As always do
The tides of the ocean.

People Don't Leave Rooms

People don't leave rooms.
If I sit on the spot on the couch that I usually sit in, there's a big gaping hole across from me that looks awkward and uncomfortable and too barren to bear.
It's not an empty space, though.
It's a hole with something lingering.

The silence is louder than usual.
You can hear things, now, like a fly land on the drainboard.
Even putting music on doesn't help.
It knows I'm trying to cover something up so it doesn't sound the same.

Even eating inside has been weird.
It's like the food doesn't want me to make it.

You're holding on in places I didn't think I'd find you.
A t-shirt I stuck back on my shelf that I must have worn by you and didn't wash because it's your smell.
The sounds of motorcycles going by that we used to cringe about.
Geckos on my ceiling.

When you let people in
sometimes you don't know it's going to be forever.

The thing about living alone
is that every entrance leaves a strong mark.
Every sip of hot coffee
on lonely mornings thereafter
is loud and dramatic
And every nighttime
is a lullaby you must sing to yourself.

It's beautiful, in a way,
to live with yourself alone
for so long
keeping yourself company
And getting to know all the levels of your craziness.

Letting people in
sometimes carefully and cautiously
sometimes with corners tidied
and meals prepared with recipes...

And sometimes,
spontaneously
No second-thoughts
No house sweeping or bed-making
crazy salads and smoothies

Those ones
stay forever.

Everyday I Cry a Little Clearer

I used to think crying was a weakness.

I didn't ever want people to see me this way. My tears were shameful. A symbol of demise.
A wet, watery, streaming-down-my-face
Weakness.

Actually, I was perturbed by the whole notion of tears in general.

Tears of sadness.
Tears of joy.
Tears of onions.

Tears when I watched TV commercials of abandoned animals that I never knew, besides through the cold, distant colors of my television screen.

Why tears?
What are they? Where do they come from?

Whenever I started to feel my eyes welling up, the internal dialogue would begin.

Oh no, not now. Why am I crying? Seriously tear ducts? 

Confusion quickly turned to shame.

Please. Fuck. Who is looking? Play it cool. Swallow them down. Blink. Think of something else. Open eyes wide - dry them out. Fast! Deep breaths. Not too deep. Don't want sister to turn and see. 

What is wrong with me?

Someone once told me, "Don't be so emotional."
Okay, not just someone.
Many-ones.

And so I practiced...time and time again....year and year, again...how to suppress my emotions.
Because I was told not to be that way: emotional.

Yea well...You all know where this story goes.
By this day in age, we've all read the articles, blogs...seen the Ted Talks.

Emotions are cool and meant to be expressed. 
Just be you!
Don't change for anyone.
You're perfect as you are!

I get those things.
I believe them and I almost always, sometimes, mostly, live them.

It's just that I am 27 years old and I spent 21 years living the other way, listening to the other things... so it takes a bit of effort to create a new mindset around crying. And create new habits...

...A habit of embracing my emotions and gracefully enduring the typical response that comes from those around me when they see me cry.

I am an emotional person.

This doesn't mean I'm irrational. Well, not always.
This doesn't meant I don't have a grip on my life.
This does not mean I am weak.

It means, I need to be expressive. Always. In all the different ways I can be.
I need to experience my emotions and recognize whatever they are trying to tell me.

The truth is, now, I love when the tears fall.
Let me clarify... I don't always love the discomfort I see on the faces of my family members and the awkwardness of people around me when they are present for this...

But I love the release. I love the sensation of something in me that wants to come out...emerging in such a beautiful expression as that of water.
I love tasting the salty drops as they make their way into the corners of my mouth. I love watching them splatter on the pages beneath my face. I love feeling it all. come. out.

And I love the calm after.

Once it has been released...felt...experienced, I have a much clearer understanding of life, my place in it, and what I need to do next.

So my tears are not a weakness.
My tears are an expression of something that needs to be felt.
And I want to learn to live more and more in this space
of not-holding-back.

Yesterday, once the rain calmed, I took my dog and headed to the park. We were the only 2 there. It was a chilly morning that was much appreciated during a humid summer in August. As we were entering the park, an exuberant wind blew, shaking the branches of the tree above me and sprinkling me with water. I smiled. My skin woke up.

G ran ahead, excited to be off the leash, occasionally stopping and turning to look back at me. I decided to run and catch up.

As we made our way running down the long, windy and hilly trains that traverse Rockwood park along the Hudson River, I felt myself forgetting about my jog. I was so enveloped in the world around me that I didn't notice my own physical being - I had become part of everything else.

We turned a corner, and G took off from the path and ran straight into the field of long grass that was an island amongst the manmade trails. The energy of his sprint took over me and I found a surge of energy pulling me forward. I used everything in me and sprinted. Feet pounding the Earth, hair blowing, heart racing, breath heavy...

The sprint felt so fucking good that I felt all of my cells dancing inside of me.
I felt new and fresh and whole again.

And sure enough, like a moth to a flame, there came the tears to my ducts.

G's goofy smiling and floppy ears came bounding towards me and we all met - my sprinting legs and beating heart, G's drooling grin and muddy paws, and the beautiful energy of the morning hours - at a little shady spot beneath a tall tree.

I squatted down to grab G's head and we looked at each other, panting for a moment, before he trotted off to a nearby puddle of water to quench his thirst.

I stayed there, squatting close to the ground. Falling so in love with mother Nature. Like so many moments of my life in the forests of Costa Rica.

My breath was loud and my heart was pounding itself against the inner walls of my chest.
My hands touched the soil.
And my soul was so, so happy.

As I stayed there, legs bent and eyes close to the ground, I suddenly realized what was before me.

In the blurry canvas of browns and greys, distinct forms began to take shape.

An unearthed cemetery of Earth worms.
Worm after worm, exposed and unmoving above the gravel.
Hundreds of them.
One after another. Limp and lying.

My first reaction was sadness. All of these lifeless creatures splayed out on the ground.
Ready to be prey to the harsh sun and predators of the day.

And then my reaction turned to wonder. How did this happen?
Had the heavy early morning rains washed them out and up?

And I'm no scientist, nor Earthworm-tologist
But it was all so clear in that very instant

Water comes
always
in the natural flow of life
sometimes fresh, sometimes salty, sometimes sweet
Bringing to the surface anything that needs to be recognized
all the things that have been life-full
and life-giving in their years of existing in this form.

Once recognized
we surrender to the moment
the heavy waters subside
leaving before us
A moment of clarity.
And whatever is left there before us
in whatever state we find it,
we must make sure to use
these are gifts
given to us to create again.

And so my tears
have become my closest allies.

Subway Nights

Late night alone on the New York City subway.
Suddenly, I don't feel so comfortable in my short-shorts and trendy black boots that I found in my Mother's closet.
Ironically, I'm not worried. I just don't feel this is the best decision I've made.
Anyways, no one seems to care.
I look at each of them individually. Transporting myself into their world for a few seconds.
A woman, half-asleep/half-awake, holds a baby basin on her lap.
Her hair is pulled back tight and the baby is quiet.
It is after midnight on a Wednesday night.
I wonder where she is coming from. Traveling so late with her sleeping baby.
She doesn't look happy.
She doesn't look restful, despite her sleepy eyes.
It doesn't feel good to see her like this.

Two men are standing. Each of them are holding canes.
They are a bit older.
Neither of them are looking at anyone or anywhere.
They are just staring.
Occasionally fidgeting with something or tapping their fingers upon the cane.
They don't make eye contact with anyone.
They don't look happy, necessarily.
And the quietness of their face tells me 'surrendered'.
And I'm not sure if that's good or bad.
But they both seem like the type of people who could use a good sit and a good conversation.
They are alone, just themselves and their canes.
It's 12:05am on a Wednesday night.

A man in the far corner is staring at me.
An almost entirely uninterrupted gaze from an acceptable distance from my zone of comfort.
I wonder if he is doing the same as I am.
Taking a trip inside my mind, my world.
Wondering where I am coming from and where I am going.
I'm not thrilled about the staring
But it doesn't really bother me either.
We're just two people, who found ourselves in the same place,
alone at night on the New York City subway.

And when the bells rings and the doors open
Louder than usual
Interrupting the outer silence
and the inner noise of my thought journeys
I step up and with a slight smile
Say goodbye to my new acquaintances
No eye contact
Not sure anyone of them really saw me.

And the walk feels lonely back to my sister's apartment.
It's dark and bright simultaneously
The lights everywhere make me wonder
Who is awake and who is asleep in this world?
Cars speed by fast
and then I don't see another one until I get to the next big avenue.
One man is taking his garbage out.
The buckles of my shoes make a jingle with each step
And I hear each one, loud.

And just before I cross the last street to my sister's place
A garbage truck turns
And flashes it's lights at me
And I smile
Because for some reason that acknowledgement
Helps me feel less alone tonight.

Mushrooms Talk

Have you ever had a conversation with a mushroom?
No, not that kind. Not the kind when you eat them. Not the kind when you're tripping and you're not sure if its you or the mushroom talking...or if you even are the mushroom.
I'm talking about a different kind of conversation.
The silent kind. The conversations that happen in between all the talking.

I went walking yesterday through the wildlife sanctuary. A quiet place in New York.
No, not that New York. Not the city place with the buildings and the Times Square.
Not the New York everyone thinks about when you say New York.
I mean the other parts.
The parts that are still green and rocky and full of soil and
mushrooms.



Almost immediately upon the walk I fell in love.
It was a purpleish red and slightly tipping over. As if at any moment the next gust of wind would take it.
Take it and transport it's future generations all across the big green forest.
I wanted to touch it. Hold it. Feel in beneath my fingertips.
A part of me wanted to taste it too. I wanted to travel with it. I wanted to go where it was offering to take me.
Although I knew, it wasn't placed there on the forest floor beneath my feet for that reason.
So I just looked at it.
Snapped a photo.
Enamored.
And kept walking.

Before long another colored fungi popped up.
Pushing its way up beneath the fallen maple leaves.
Blanked in brown.
A cave of rusty colors surrounding it, as it made its way up towards the free air.
This one was orange. Bright orange.
A flat top.
A tiny sun amongst a canvas of different shades of darkness.
This one called to me, "Look at me!"
And I did.
Snapped another photo.
Stared at it, wondering, so many things.
Wanting to know more. To understand. To be a part of it's world.
And I kept walking.

As if you didn't know already, the mushrooms kept coming.
In all shapes and all colors and the conversation kept growing. The questions began multiplying and I found myself in a place I had never been before.
I wanted to know all there was about mushrooms.
I wanted to read books about them. I wanted to write poems about them.
I wanted to paint them.
I wanted to talk to mushroom experts. Mushroom lovers.
Mushrooms, themselves.

These days I have been spending outdoors. Mostly.
It is here that my curiousity grows. My inspiration thrives. My soul is happy.
My ambition to live life becomes hungry.
And the ego of my being becomes humble.
Because here I understand both my power as an individual and my collective place in the greater world.
This is what I need to feel more often.

It was the mushrooms' turn to communicate this to me.
Yesterday morning on our walk through the sanctuary.
The world has so much to tell you - if you listen.
There is so much out there to learn - if you follow what calls to you.
You can be happy - forever exploring the things that make you question, curious, and committed to understanding.
Understanding
Something we may never really know for sure
And that is why we have all of life to do it.

It can sometimes be called
Interest - induced learning.
I learned this yesterday.

No forcing you to digest textbooks.
No someone telling you wrong or right.
No schools bells to say 'times up'.
You go out there. You see what calls to you. And then you fully immerse yourself in that world.
Until your heart is content.
Guaranteed you will remember those moments
And that information forever.

That is what makes beautiful people.
Intelligent beings.
Caring souls.
The kind of people we need to take care of the future of our planet
The health of our own bodies
And the safety of our community.

I May Be A Little Bit Gay

I may be a little bit gay
in high school I had that dream once about a girl...
but I pushed it out of my memory, my reality.
I wasn't ready then to explore.
I've never been with a woman
not in the sexual way
What is the way that defines one's gayness?
I've just been with women
in the intimate way
Sitting side by side or face to face
Fully present with each other
eyes lighting up
walking alone through the rainforest
Passing oranges
Smiling quietly
Sharing our deepest desires and most heart bleeding stories
I've fallen in love with women this way.

I spent one full academic year
studying alongside some 80 of the most fascinating women I have ever experienced in my life.
I say experienced because they brought me with them on their journey
when they told tales of their history
when they cried with me
when they stood out in the open challenging the mainstream, the majority
I couldn't help but be with them
I fell in love with a few of them more deeply
quietly, from afar
Never told anyone. Never wanted anything more
Just to watch her from afar
In her grace and her glory. In the brilliant way in which she expressed herself
In her words, in her clothing, in her
Being.

I may be a little bit hippie
I like to wear whatever calls to me in the moment
Different earrings. Airy pants. Braided hair.
I love to love
I love to sit in fields of grass
I love to smile at cows, to say no to war.
Indulge in the taboos of life
from time to time
with a smile on my face
Loving women. Loving cows.
Loving trees.
I may be just little bit gay
and a little bit hippie.

I may be a little bit Latina-esque
Can I be that? 
I like to curse in spanish
Eat tortillas and pay no attention to time
Hitch rides in the back of pick-ups
And bathe, fully clothed, in the river.
I love to dance bachata
and rock out to Calle 13
I love to yell at chuchos in the street
And take them home with me at night.
I love to give 'gracias a Dios'
various times throughout the day
Eat breakfast with my neighbors
and not give a shit what time my meeting was supposed to start
Family is more important
always
I may be a little bit gay and hippie and Latina-esque.
That's just how I feel.

I may be a little bit autistic
I can sit for undefined periods of time
plucking leaves off trees, as the sky maintains my gaze
I become overly excited by simple things
I quiver at the way the light shimmers between the leaves.
I am enchanted when people can sit with me, quietly.
I am nervous in large crowds
At times I find it hard to connect with my family
I don't always know where home is
And yet I can find it anywhere.
There's a deep level of pain and confusion
That I didn't create, yet its with me from a former life
I feel the Earth's suffering
It's a part of me.
I love my alone time.
Taking me away from my solitude, my book, my safe place
is a process. A risky one.
Chances are I may not see you, if you don't look me straight in the eyes
if I cannot sense your utmost genuine care
I probably won't be with you
On a level where anything authentic can happen.

I may just be a little bit
gay
hippie
Latina-esque
autistic
book-worm
revolutionary
white
environmentalist
spiritual
alternative
feminist
radical
introvert
cynical
crazy...

I may just be. Often times I feel.
I'm not quite sure.
I don't fully understand or relate or belong to any of those labels completely.
Not biologically
Not genetically
Not entirely
Not for you to judge.

I just know I can relate.
I can embody, at times, the characteristics that fall into the category of all of those labels.
So, I don't know where one starts
and where one stops
being gay, autistic and spiritual.

I choose not to become blinded by the labels
Albeit, at times useful, for understanding one another,
More often than not restrictive, inhibiting and stereotypical, in nature
Causing us to be blind-sighted-
Limited in our ability to see clearly, accept fully and be naturally.

Who knows what am I
As of today, I have not tested myself with any conclusive results
I am still experimenting
Coming to know
Enjoying playing
Living
life

I have met many on my path
Who have awakened a side of me
That had seemed to have been lying dormant
For years before I knew it existed within me
This love for a female body
This ability to experience life beyond the constructs of time and space
This passion for living outside of my comfort zone...

I long to know more
I long to discover more sides of the human race
I long to get to you on a more intimate level
because I know that in this way
I am also getting to know more about me
And I really just love to be and grow in this way together

All labels aside
Or all labels together
Anyways they are all just labels that people invented
And if they make you happy or help you understand or allow you to be more free
Then paint yourself in all the words and colors and labels that you love

And in that moment that you're wearing your own labels proud
and you look at someone else in their very different labels
And it makes you judge or feel afraid or confused
Know that you are in the perfect place to begin
To see more
To find a way to get a taste of their world
To understand one another better
this is how the labels can serve
not to separate
not to fear
Instead, to recognize
"legally blind"
"physically challenged"
"diabetic"
You live a life that I do not know. I have never experienced your hardships
Your ways of happiness
Who you are as a being trying to exist in this world the way I am trying, too
Let me walk with you for a bit
So that we can create a more welcoming world
Together.

How Did I End Up Doing The Work That I'm Doing

How did you end up doing the work that you're doing?

How did I end up doing the work that I'm doing. It's hard for me to give short answers because I think my entire life is tied up in the work that I am doing now. It began from the time I was a child and was trying to make sense of my sister's illness within the confines of my child-mind and growing heart. Looking back, I was always curious about others who lived differently than me, from a really young age. As just a kid, I remember what it felt like to be working at my grandfather's hospice and being able to be useful to people who lost their sense of sight. I found a place for myself there and also in the world.

Then, working alongside 'at-risk' youth and in nursing homes in college- well, I learned very young that 'different' doesn't mean we have to be afraid nor impatient. I was drawn to these situations: living outside my comfort zone...and actually, just being there for people. It was all about finding a place where my strengths and personality could meet the other person's strengths and personality- though very different.  

Jumping a few years ahead, I felt drawn to joining the Peace Corps and the 2.5 years I spent in El Salvador changed the way I saw the world and helped wake me up to what I needed to do. It helped me break down (or start to break down) a lot of walls I had built up unknowingly. I felt freed, in a way. From this new place, I changed the way I made decisions- choosing my heart to lead and my head to follow from there forth. 

After El Salvador, I decided I needed to understand more about how we heal and grow as individuals, so I pursued studies in holistic health and healing academically, professionally and also spiritually. Some of that included spending time in an Indian-inspired yoga ashram in Thailand. I was there when I received notification that I was awarded a full scholarship to study at the UN Univ. for Peace in Costa Rica where I came to pursue a Masters in Environment, Development and Peace.

And so here I find myself today. Reflecting on how I go to be doing the work that I'm doing. And I realize that I have always been doing this work.

After all, what is work, but one's purpose on this planet.

We are given gifts- each and everyone of us and I truly believe that. These gifts come in different forms and some of us come to unwrap them at different times. Some of us come to share them at different times. They're always there. 

These gifts are our strengths and our personalities. Some of us can sing and bring joy to peoples ears and elicit emotions that are ready to be expressed. Some are patient and can just sit there beside us and bring us a sense of calm. 

We unwrap these gifts throughout our life and it is our duty to share them. 

This is how I come to do this work.

Tearing the paper, the wrapping down and saying yes to all that I was given. 

No more shying away. No more saying not good enough. Not profitable. No place in society. 

I'm doing the work that I have always been doing, that I am called to do, that I am most suitable to do.

I just need to keep unwrapping. All that tries to keep me in. 

Who Was My Mother Before She Was My Mother?

I pretend to know what it was like to grow up without a mother. I pretend to know what it was like to go on dates, search for jobs, and come home to a dinner table without one. I pretend to know what it was like to have a wedding, find a home and build a family, without a mother.

This is why I act like I have even the slightest idea of your greatness.
Of your pain.
Of your healing.
Of your strength.

I pretend to know what it was like to care for a baby in your belly and a 4 year old, while you gave chemotherapy to your 6 year old. I pretend to know what it must have been like to watch your first born child suffering. I pretend to know what went through your head as you watched her become weak, lose her hair, and lay in a bed for hours and days and eternities.

This is why I act like I have even the most minimal understanding of your levels of compassion.
Of your fears.
Of your regrets.
Of your unwillingness to settle for anything less than the best for us.

I pretend to know what it is like to raise 4 girls.  When you lost your own mother so young. When your first born almost didn't make it. I pretend to know how the course of your life has affected the way you cared for me growing up and the way you care for me today.

I pretend to know what it was like to set aside your personal goals and desires and dreams to take care of us all. To bring us from babies to toddlers to young adults; intellectually, emotionally and physically. I pretend to know what those 30 years of your life were like.

I pretend to know what it was like to say "no" to jobs you may have been good at, to say "yes" to raising us with your own hands. I pretend to know what it was like to say 'okay' when it was time to let your mother go, when you weren't ready to.

I pretend to know about sacrifices. I pretend to know about healing.
I pretend to know about you.

I pretend to know the reasons for the way you are today.

I pretend to know what gives you your deepest sense of satisfaction... Where your laughter comes from and how you maintain such ridiculous outer beauty. I pretend to know what you need to let go of in order to smile... How you pick garbage up on your walks home and how you obsess over Noni juice and smoothies and how you jump rope while you watch television- I pretend to know the real reasons behind you doing these things.

I pretend to know about your ability to make everyone know they are worth something; that they are worth everything.

I pretend to know about the level of patience and empathy and understanding that you have with children. I pretend to know about your ability to connect with any child and every child, independent of the form of communication it may require or how long it may take to turn the page of a book. I pretend to know what got you to be this way.

I pretend to know the slightest bit of your magnitude when I tell you "thank you", "I love you", "you're the best".
And more often, when I tell you, "I need more", "that's not good enough", "stop"- I pretend to know what you're going through and what you have gone through. And the truth is, I don't. And I'm sorry.

I pretend to know about what you need and want from life.

And I've come to realize that I don't really have any idea.
Because I have never lived the life you lived.
I have never lost a mother. And I have never been a mother.

The truth is,  I rarely consider who it was that you were before I started seeing you as "my" mother and not as the person you are.

Your life was so different than mine and I am curious about it.

And I'd like to change that.
Tell me more about who you are Mom, when you're not being my mother.


Happy Mother's Day
& Happy Birthday

to my mother
an amazing woman
a person I'd like to know more about.

I miss you very much.
I appreciate you more than you know.
I am still learning how to express that.

My Real Job

Dear Familia and Amigos,

(that’s Spanish for family and friends)

When people here in Costa Rica ask me what I did today and I tell them that I had to work a lot, a really common response is, “que dicha”, which is Costa Rican Spanish for “how lucky”. Having work is viewed as a privilege. 

I have been waiting, wandering and walking far for the work that I have found today. It started around 4 years old, when I first realized I was a sister and that with that came a great honor and responsibility to care for one another… and also, to ‘share’ clothes. A few times, I do remember my sisters forgetting what it means to share when I forgot to ask first...but I forgive them. 

In middle school, my parents encouraged me to volunteer at my grandpa’s hospice and I remember finding great joy in helping some of my new older friends eat and listening to them talk. In high school and college, I worked with children who needed extra support in their lives and youth with special abilities. I continued my interest in learning and sharing with people who have a different story than I by traveling, living and working in Bolivia, El Salvador, Costa Rica and a few other places. 

I am 27 years old and living in a small, semi-rural town in Costa Rica, where I have been for the past 2 years now. When I come back to New York, sometimes people ask me “when I am going to start my real life”. This question is always rather perplexing to me, as I have felt very much alive and really living for about 21 years. (I don’t really remember anything before age 4 and well, there were a couple years in college that didn’t quite exemplify ‘real life’ behavior). However, all these years living inside humble homes around the world, spending time with different people, cultures, and age groups and walking in so many shoes has helped shape my perspective on ‘real life’ and ‘real work’. I feel really committed to being a good daughter, friend, and neighbor, as well as a sensible person of service to this world. 

It is with that very succinct intro that I bring myself to my point: I really love and feel privileged to be doing what I am doing today. I ask Costa Rican friends to introduce me to micro-entrepreneurs who are farmers, artists, cheese-makers, fisherman, indigenous basket-weavers, etc. who are dedicated to their traditional livelihood and could use some support. Then, I go meet them and sit with them for a few hours talking about what makes their work important to them. I take pictures and write lots of notes in my field journal. I have met farmers who care for plants and animals as therapy in overcoming years of abuse. I have met artists who encourage reforestation by creating dialogue about rainforests while painting. I have spent time with indigenous leaders who have told me that if people don’t meet them and start to understand the value of their way of life, their entire community and traditions are at risk of extinction. We don't hear these stories a lot. We live in a society of advertisements, mass media and industrialized complexes where we do not get the opportunity to be face to face with one another and know what gives our lives meaning. 

This work is so important to me. 

I am learning about medicinal plants and holistic healing, something that has been of deep interest to me since I began to investigate more and more about sickness, inspired by my sister curing herself of cancer as a child. And also inspired by my parents' commitment to carrots, playing outdoors and avoiding MSG. 

I am learning about community, something that has mattered a lot to me since I realized how fortunate I am to come from a place like Pleasantville. 

I am learning about the importance of connecting and getting to know one another, especially those who may seem very different than us, inspired by living in an 'off-the-grid' home in El Salvador, where many friends of mine lived meal-by-meal. I am learning how to live outside my comfort zone and asking questions instead of believing assumptions. 

I am also using what I have found to be my strengths and my gifts to support people. I love to write, so I am documenting the stories of micro-entrepreneurs who are doing really great things and many people don’t hear about them. Through VAYANDO, I can share these stories with others and help us learn about one another. I love to teach, use my hands, cook and practice holistic healing, so I have become a student-educator. I create and/or participate in experiences with children, youth, adults and older adults where we can share a bit of our stories and learn from one another. I am helping to write a book, doing cooking classes, farming, teaching English and building online profiles; and I sometimes cannot believe it! These are all the things I have wanted to do for a very long time and I couldn’t figure out any of the hows I just knew I had to keep going and I did. 

My life is abundant. I am full of love and work and life. If I die tomorrow, I would truly die happy. I really don’t want to though, I kinda wanna keep going for awhile.

Ideally, I will be able to keep going for a bit. As a startup, experimenting with something new, something we really believe in and something that challenges the typical travel model and typical way we are used to seeing and doing things, we need support from open-minded and open-hearted people. It would mean a lot to me if you could check out this video that will show you a glimpse into my life and what my work is about. Read a bit more about our new approach to travel and to getting to know one another. If you can contribute financially, it would help me continue to be able to do this work in Costa Rica. It would help me continue to create profiles for micro-entrepreneurs so that eventually our business model will run sustainably. If you believe in what we are doing and want to spread the movement, please share with your family, friends and networks!

Finally, I really, really, really love hearing from you, so pretty please send me a note when you can.

I believe in the good things coming. A favorite line from a favorite band, Nahko Bear & Medicine for the People. And by that I mean for all of us; for humanity and for our planet. 

Thank you for reading. I appreciate it.

Loves of amor.

(thats Spanish for love).

~Jaime

Click here to support and/or to share our campaign.

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Not The Person I Need

I don't need a person who loves me because I'm comfortable in my own skin.

I don't need a person who loves me because I can write nice things, paint pictures and play with children. I don't need a person who loves me because I am a returned Peace Corps Volunteer. I don't need a person who loves me because I care about what I eat and who grows my food.

I don't need a person who loves me because I know how to kick a soccer ball and see the world upside down.

I don't need a person who loves me because I have a nice smile, long eye lashes and pretty hair.

I don't need a person who loves me because I know how to laugh hard, curse freely and sing horribly.

I don't need a person who loves me for doing the things that come naturally to me. The things that are easy for me. The things that were gifted to me without me asking. The things that make me smile.

I don't need a person to love me for who they think that I am. Or for who they have fashioned me to be in their mind. Who they interpret me to be. Who they hope that I one day, some day will be.
I need a person who loves me for who I am today. Right at this moment.
I need a person who loves me for the real, complete, imperfect human being that I really, really am.

I need a person who loves me because, sometimes, my skin itches and I want to climb out of it. Desperately. I need a person who loves me because, sometimes, my skin feels too thick and I can't breathe or make sense of anything and I just need to be alone. I don't want to be touched, sometimes. I don't want to be seen, sometimes. And I need someone who can respect that. Because it is part of my truth. It is part of what I was given or it was something I learned that I am trying to unlearn.

I need a person who loves me because sometimes I want you to see all of it; all of my skin. The beautiful parts and the ugly. The smoothness and the scars. I want it to fascinate you and make you wonder.
And sometimes, I want you to see it just as skin. An organ that helps me filter the outside world from the in.
And sometimes I want you to see it as a beautiful landscape. Rolling with valleys and hills, something worth carefully exploring and I want you to take the time to explore it.

I need a person who revels in both my solitude and my sharing.

I need a person who loves me because sometimes I write ugly things, cannot paint and don't have my own children. I need someone who gets that this is part of my reality that I don't often talk about because it scares me.
I need a person who loves me because I am still learning to make sense of my role as a Peace Corps Volunteer; That not all of it is what you think it is.
I need a person who loves me because sometimes I don't care about what I eat and how it was grown. I just fucking eat.
I need a person who loves me because I make mistakes. I take chances. I put myself out there. I realize I'm wrong. I want to make it better. I want to be better. I need someone who knows that.

And I sometimes don't realize I'm wrong. And I need someone who gives me time. And helps me get there. And forgives me. And then helps us both remember not to stay in that place of shame, guilt and resentment.
And sometimes, to know that there is no right or wrong, just a place where we can meet again and remember why it is worth loving.
This is the type of person I need. Someone who gets that.

I need a person who loves me because I still don't know how to dance and sometimes I forget about my yoga practice. I need a person who inspires me to try new things, step outside my comfort zone and yet not forget about what I love. I need a person who wants me to do both.

I need someone who loves me because my outer beauty is decaying and this is natural. And they understand the wrinkles and marks and changes are signs of a life worth lived. A life I gave my all to. I chose to walk dirt roads in bare feet with the sun on my face because I chose to experience life over self-preservation. I chose to feel fully. I chose going confidently after my dreams instead of using common sense and I need someone who understands that my body is a reflection of that. And I need someone who gets this and loves this, truly, not just because it sounds nice now that you see it written on paper.

I need someone who loves me, still, when I scream and get frustrated. When I'm rude and impatient. When I'm forgetful and careless. Because the truth is, those things are a part of me. More things I learned that I am working at unlearning. Slowly. I need someone who can take a deep breath and a step back. Or a little sigh and a step forward. I need someone who knows when to give me space and when to take me in their arms. I need someone who forgives. And understands that I, too, am learning everyday about forgiveness.

I don't need a person who loves me in my glory.
That's easy.
I need a person who sees my shame, my pain, my anger, my sadness
as parts of me that want to grow
And loves me in this.
Whole.

I don't want easy.
I want real.

I want you first to know that I am whole and complete;
these thorns are a part of me,
and while I will open,
so will I close;

You are not here to be my petals
you do not complete me

You are here to water me
And I am here to give you breath.

Please Take Back My Diplomas

I'd like to return my diplomas.
I'll keep the teachers who got to know my name
and asked me about my family when they saw me at the Farmer's Market.
I'll keep those questions they asked me
and the silence they left me with to ponder the answers in my own time.
I'l keep the look in their eyes
when they looked into my eyes encouraging me to dig deeper.
I'll keep all that.

I'd just like to return the papers,
the certifications, the titles, the diplomas,
the material stuff
signed by someone out there
who doesn't even really know me.
Thank you for your signature. Thank you for your validation.
I'd like to give it back to you

Because I would like to remember how to validate myself.

The truth is
I am not a Masters.
In anything.
So I'd like to stop feeling like I have to pretend to be
because that is what my degree says.
I applied for this. I worked hard for this. I wanted this. Yes.

It's just now I feel a bit silly, you know. There are farmers and field workers and medicine men who are way better suited to be called Masters.

I'll keep the critical analyses.
I'll keep the literature that I was encouraged to examine.
I'll keep the places we visited and the interactions that reminded me we are people
not corporations.
I'll keep the relationships with professors
who cursed and challenged the mass media and the "norm";
I'll keep all those who were authentic with me.

I'll keep the students
who were friends and also teachers
And I'll even keep those who were angry and who judged me
I'll keep the honesty

I'd just like to return the diploma,
the papers, the certifications that led me to believe I needed someone out there
to give me a stamp of approval.

I'd like to know how to give myself a stamp of approval.

I'd like to return the concept that I need an expert, an elite, an external higher body
to legitimize my worth

I'd like to return these titles
that are cluttering my name
my being
my state of existence.

Because every time someone tells me their title or signs their emails with a fancy signature
I do the same in return
And I'm tired of being a title
I want to be a me.
And if that's enough for you
I am sure that eventually you will find out I am deeply in love with the planet
and fascinated by our ecosystems
I will die researching what makes the world go round
What puts a smile on people's faces
What keeps us from getting ill
What heals us

I have sought it out in formal education, in degrees, in certified programs- yes
And also through talking to children and car drivers and farmers and mothers
And grandpas. And even in sitting and watching the birds pick worms of the trees.
And I don't have any papers for that.
Telling the world those things are good enough.

I don't have a paper stamped with a fancy emblem or signed with a fancy signature
telling me or my employers or my neighbours or my government
That listening to my elders is a necessary part of life
That admiring nature is a commendable activity
And that knowing how to appreciate a mother
Has a much higher value than knowing how to appreciate capital.

So I'd like to return the papers
and everything that comes from the outside
validating my intelligence, my place in this world,
my self.

Until I am comfortable recognising and appreciating myself as I am
And until I can see that you appreciate me as such
I'd prefer not to pretend I am anything else.

A Lifetime After the Cow Moo'd

A cow moos loud and I jump out of bed, realising I overslept. Did a Moo just wake me up? I think to myself, still pretty sleepy as I catch the time (6:42am) and I turn on the water.

I do the normal morning things and then step outside just after 7:00am, step over cow poop and step onto the corner. I wait for a ride. It doesn't take long.

It's a young guy. He remembers me. I don't remember him. I don't like when that happens. He doesn't seem to mind.

He asks me a lot of questions. About things besides where I am from and what I study at UPEACE. I like that. I'm tired of those questions. He asks me why I shaved part of my head. He asks me why I have stitches above my eye. He laughs at my responses. I don't think he's judging me. I just think he's laughing. I appreciate his authenticity.

I ask if I have met him before. He says sure. He tells me he drives a motorcycle. I've probably ridden on the back of it. Helmets.

I think maybe I met him at one of the University parties. No. He tells me. I have a son and I'd rather stay home with him than go to the parties. Anyways, I don't have habits like that, to drink and smoke. He says if I want to go to the beach sometime that's better.

I think he's being honest. I don't think he's hitting on me.
He's just talking. And being nice.
I could be wrong.
It's not my place to judge.

I trust in energy.
It feels okay.

He has a nice smile when I tell him thank you and to take care.

I have a lot of time now. The Moo woke me up early.
I thought it woke me up late.
Maybe it woke me up right on time.

I sit down by the park. I have a book in my bag. Anyways, I just sit. There's enough entertainment in watching the people go by and listening to the kids playing in the park behind me. The sun feels warmer as I consciously take it in, closing my eyes and letting it feed me. It feels that way. As if its feeding me.

When I open my eyes, my friend is beside me. He's a bit older than me. A whole bit. Last time I saw him he rode by my house on a horse. The time before that he was doing yard work around the house I used to live at.  Always a smile. Always a hello. Never a not.

I've always had a bit of a thing for him. I think it's his dedication. The integrity with which he lives and works and talks and acts. His awareness and commitment; his hard-working nature, yet the lightheartedness with which he takes the things he does. Life is not all about work. You need to make time for the things you love. You don't know when you're time will be up. You need to live, now.

I don't know how it happens but we're sharing adventures. We're talking with our hands and we're wrapped up in each others eyes. He is alone and hitchhiking to the Caribbean coast. He just has a backpack. He is young again and he doesn't tell his mother where he is going. He doesn't have a cell phone. He arrives at the beach and lives there for 2 months. He buries his backpack in the sand when he goes out because they will steal it. His friends are the poachers and the beach roamers. They are the men who drink and the women who stay home.  He may have eaten some eggs in his time there, too. He says with heavy heart, in honesty, he was hungry. It's not right, but hey.

They were good people, you know? The poachers. Well, maybe not good, but they treated me nice, you know? If I didn't have anything to eat a black fisherman give me some fish. A beach man would climb a coco tree and give me coconuts. Even sometimes, rice! The neighbours would give me some rice as I walked by. We were all poor you know? I had nothing but it was nice. Que vacilon. 

Then he's down in the south pacific. He goes to work on the African palm oil plantations. He's too young, though, and they won't give him work. Anyways, he plays games on the zip lines that carry the fruits to the trucks. They get mad. It's not what he came for. He doesn't last there long. He has no money to leave so his friend and him walk almost 100 km.

He nods his head, leaving my gaze and looking out into the distance. It looks like he's looking across the street nearby, but I think he's looking down a 100 km road.

I didn't learn a lot of education from schools. I just learned stuff on the streets and on the beach and from people. And I learned to respect people. And I learned to respect food. 
I respect food. Some people don't, you know? I respect food. I respect food.

He repeats this line and he looks at me again. This time with quite a serious conviction in his eyes.
His words sink into me and find their place alongside my own. My own words are the same, in a different language; but the same- I respect food.

I know it's not the time for me to say it. It's not the time for my story. I trust in energy.
I don't need to say anything to know that he does, too.

Suddenly, a car pulls up for him and we're both smiling and in the middle of a conversation about education and he jumps, grabs me and hugs me and says that it was "demasiada buena la conversacion para el" in a tone that resonates through my head the rest of the day. And we never finished that conversation; it felt like a movie that we were just in the middle of...

It was just too good of a conversation for me.

Did he say that?
Or did I?

And he leaves in the car. And then my phone rings; its 8:15am and I answer. And the day begins.
A lifetime after the cow moo'd.

Sunday Morning

I heard the squeaking just as I was rounding the corner. A big brown wooden rocking chair going back and forth at 8:35am on a Sunday morning. "Buuuueenasss!" He said to me from behind little glasses that perched on the tip of his nose. His shirt was off, as always, and he was rocking, belly out, heart open, in the sun.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek, a smile from my own inner belly, and pulled open the screen door to his left.

The room was full of faces of different shades and shapes, but all with the same eyes. Great Grandma was in the kitchen making tortillas. One of her daughters was by the sink washing dishes and the rest of the boys were scattered around the room. Grandpa came in slowly behind me, cane in hand, as he found his was to the sofa. He plopped down and pressed on the tele. The sound of that home-video show where animals do funny things played in the background of the brothers' conversations.

I "helped" Grams make some tortillas, and by "helped" I mean delayed the eating experience quite a bit longer. Anyways, the brothers found it amusing.

They are all grown men, 35 years and above. One by one they took turns kissing their mother and here and there she came over and placed her hands on their shoulders as they told me stories about washing clothes in the river and gathering limes from the forest.

I ate with my hands, just as I like it and I did my best not to feel nostalgic for El Salvador, even though I couldn't help it. It is something I carry with me everywhere.

I asked questions and they responded. They talked over each other and spilled rice and beans. They licked fingers and laughed with their mouths full. I did, too.
We couldn't help it.

They asked me questions and I told too many details. Four grown men, a big sister, great grandma and grandpa, a grandchild for a few minutes, a neighbor or two, and me, eating tortillas and reminiscing about a life that we relive through stories and comida.

"That is how you keep it alive. My children didn't know their ancestor but I tell them stories over dinner over and over. And now I hear them telling the stories, as if they knew my grandparents. That is how you keep your family alive." One of the brothers told me and I smiled whole-heartedly.

The door squeaked open and shut. And little by little the room got quieter. Until all you could hear was the sound of Grandpa's tele and Grandma washing the dishes. And I got up and I hugged her, and her back felt like my Grandma's back and I didn't want to cry so I didn't tell her how much this morning meant to me. And I walked over and I kissed him on the cheek and he giggled and I walked out the screen door and passed the empty brown wooden rocking chair. And I headed home.

For the rest of my life, everywhere I go, I will find the tortilla-makers. The rocking chair rockers.
I will seek out the Sunday family breakfast eaters. The big children story tellers.
The time forgetters.
The door-openers.
The givers: wise with love, humble with humanity.

Based on Not a True Story

Based on Not a True Story

I was sitting at my computer when I realized
that I think too much. and too fast.
that I have ideas that the world doesn't want.
That I simultaneously wanna research the fundamental causes of hunger
while painting landscapes, blasting old school rap and standing on my hands.
So I sat there staring at the screen that color-blinded my eyes and crumpled my hands
and I realized that my brain was broken.
Yes.
Bipolar: having or relating to two poles or extremities.
"a sharply bipolar division of affluent and underclass"
Yes. It is I who is bipolar. I am two!
I do not fit into this One Society.
All equal
All free
All One. We hear about it everywhere! I am reading it on my computer screen. Can't you see it? The Oneness?!
It is so apparent in our laws and policies
how we distribute our food and treat our citizens
It is my brain that is broken!
So, I quickly went to the doctor. And he confirmed what I already knew to be true: I am bipolar. I have intellect on one side. And emotions on the other. And I relate strongly to both.
Bipolar.
Good news. The pills helped. Instantly. They shut down the right side of my brain.
No more emotions.
No more art. music. or hand standing.
No more challenges.
For me
Nor for the Society that says we are all Equal. and Free!
So now, I fit right in!
And I can follow along. Being just as they want me to be.
Quiet. and obedient. and free.
And hey, it's easier for me, now, too. No more challenges. No more hardships. No more exploring both the power of the mind and the heart of my emotions. No more experiencing the highs of bathing naked in a waterfall and the lows of watching your neighbor starve while you have a full belly. Just, One-polar. Knowing one side and not the other. Because it is too difficult for humans to understand both.
we are meant to be numb to this
it makes it easier for all of us
that's why I went to the doctor to fix my brain so that I didn't have to experience it anymore
so I didn't have to fight it
so I didn't have to know a broken heart.
I just follow along a path
I dont have to worry about where I am going.
this is our reality
based on not a true story.
Footnote: This is also literally not a true story.

I Think She Was a Human

I think she was a human. Just like me.

She covered her arms in dark stains and painted her hair a different color every week. She put piercings in weird places and dressed so that you stopped to look at her. She was surrounded by eyes and ears. She sung beautiful songs from the depths of her soul. And often her arms were exposed and her bones looked fragile and she looked cold. Still, she sang a song so powerful you could feel her truth. And if you denied it, deep down you knew it was only because you have been denying yourself for so long.

I think she was a human, just like me.

She used drugs and alcohol. She stayed up all night and slept through the days. It didn't matter if it was Tuesday or Thursday or what it would be tomorrow. She smoked and sipped the days away. Still, she sang.

I think she was a human, just like me.

She wanted to share things, so she sang. She wanted to feel, so she sang. She wanted to be awake, so she sang.

And the world, as she knew it, was afraid of her aliveness, because it had gotten so used to numbness. So they judged her for her stains; for her outward way of being. They mocked her for her clothing. They questioned her about her songs.
Her songs.

All day they all watched. In conformity. Complacency. In chaos. In cubicles. In tight cubbies that children learn to place their paper bag lunch boxes. Orderly. They watched.

She. She was not orderly. She was wild and unruly. She put her ugliness on her arms, while we put ours in our bellies and then wish them away and they stay.
She put her ugliness in her songs. So that she could feel it and see it. In a world that taught her to hide it.

She wanted freedom.
She thought.

She didn't know.

Doesn't everybody in this world?

Not allowed to be dirty. Not allowed to be down.
Not allowed to step outside the box.
of freedom.

She drank more and used more and sang less.
Her song stayed trapped in her soul and when it tried to come out she smothered her ugliness in thick, grey smoke. She smothered her ugliness until she couldn't sense it anymore.

And then, she wasn't anymore
ugly
or here.

I think she was a human
just like me.

New York Encounters

There is a group of 4 men wearing construction uniforms up ahead. They are gathered together on the side of the road talking loudly. I keep walking with my head lifted and I look at them in the eyes as I am about to pass by. "Hi! How are you?" One of them says to me joyfully and I smile and answer back. "Happy New Year to you," he says and I continue smiling until I make it to 6th Avenue, laughing at myself a bit. You judgemental b*tch. Not everything is what we think it is going to be.

It is freezing outside and I come up with a list of productive things that I can do without having to leave the comfort of my four walls. My friend comes to meet me later to go to the film centre. He recommends that we walk and at first instant I think that he is crazy. In that case, I grab my hat and gloves. As we walk, a full moon hovers low in the sky in front of us. A bitter wind whips at my face and dances with the strands of hairs that are not zippered up in my jacket. It's cold and I can feel it. And I am happy inside and happy that we decided to walk.

I get off the train at 125th street and walk around for a bit. Harlem is different than other parts of the city. I like it. I like the culture. I like that I haven't been here before and now I am. I stop and talk to the guy from Mali who is selling hand-made soap and incense. He's friendly and not overly pushy with his sales so I stay awhile and we laugh about random things like the bottle of oils that is labeled "Michelle Obama". Harlem is different than the lower east side, just as the village is different than the upper west side. The people are different, too. They are different inside the city and different outside the city and different than in Costa Rica. The things we talk about and the way we laugh doesn't feel so different.

My friend holds a guitar in his hands and he's playing music and my hands are frozen. I smile as I watch the people passing by stop and glance in his direction. I am fascinated by the scene in front of me. Some people come by and ask questions and give money and others just keep going. I like the faces of the people who stop and let the music touch them.

A lady gets on the train and tells me that she is pleased to see someone reading a real book and not the kindle. I agree with my words and my heart. My shoulder and back disagree.  We talk for a long time about modern society. She is from Trinidad. I feel that she is angry at me for some reason. By the way she looks at me and the way she holds her hands and how she interrupts me when I speak. I am not sure if she is angry at me. This may just be what I think.

I go to a Food and Farmer's Forum by myself and I meet a farmer. I love the way he speaks about what he does and I don't need him to tell me that he does not know how to separate his work from his life from his way of living and I appreciate this. I stay after to speak with him and we get a coffee together. The next week he invites me to a gathering at his friends house. When I get there, I do not know anybody and then we have a beer and start cooking together. I make the tortillas. The place is warm and full of good energy and I don't feel out of place at all. Later, all the guys and a really beautiful girl start making music together on drums and guitars and I wish that moments like these could last forever.

I see my old friends from high school and it is not hard to fall right back into wherever we were when I last left. They make me smile and laugh and we can talk about deep things or light things, serious issues or things that don't matter and I feel safe to know that I will always have these people in my life. They start to dance to the music that is played in the bar and I watch and smile and soon it is time for me to go home and I walk alone to the subway and at first I am not sure about going alone, and then I remember how much I love it. And I sit there on the subway and I toggle between people-watching and reading. I love to watch the people. {especially in New York}. I wonder if it bothers them when I watch and I hope I am not too obvious. The lady in front of me smiles. I think she can read my mind.

New York is a dreadfully busy and beautiful place.
A place that I have left for long periods of time.
A place that scares the shit out of me.
A place that brings me home.
A place that lights a fire in me.
A place that keeps me feeling. A place that keeps me alive.