Life is Vulnerable

When I see people in the distance, I think it's her.

Just for a split second.

And then I have to take a moment. My mind gets all blurry and for a moment or two I can't quite figure out if I am in El Salvador or Costa Rica.

But then the sounds around me return and the people start moving again and I know I am in Costa Rica.

And it's not her. It's just another young 15 year old, or maybe someone a bit older.

It's like last week I couldn't feel. Or, maybe I didn't let myself. I tried to say the words out loud to a few people, but it didn't make sense to me.

And I kept burying and burying the emotions. Anyways, we're not supposed to show them in public places. Crying, being vulnerable, is for when you are home and alone and somewhere where they can't see you.

As I walked silently: up the stairs to my hostel, down the forested trails, inside the beautiful house of mosaic artwork, my mind was racing. I kept trying to figure it out. The why. The how.

And then I'd see the others and I'd come back to Costa Rica. To the trip. To the talks. To the figuring out of life. All while it is simultaneously being lost.

Sometimes, I wondered if I could've done something. Sometimes, I wished I would've said more.

Sometimes, I understand.

I don't know if that is wrong.

People are talking around me and I hear bits and pieces of their conversation, but I am not listening. My eyes are glued to my feet and suddenly it's happening again and I'm not sure if I am here or there.

I remember vividly the first time you brought me to your house. I didn't know I was going. I was wearing a long skirt and the same pair of slippery, broken sandals I had been wearing for a long time. Your little sister was there and so was my little curly-haired-love who often came with me everywhere. She was carrying a little bottle of juice. I don't know why I remember that.

I didn't know you lived so far away...well, in my eyes- it was a long walk. I couldn't believe you did that everyday to got to school.

We hiked up the mountainside. I was embarrassed, as I frequently lost my footing. You guys walked with ease- even the little ones in their plastic shoes.

I wished I was dressed differently and I was sweaty when I reached the top.

I remember your house. How it looked inside and the view from the back. I remember the fresco your Mom made me. I asked to see your sketch pad. You were a brilliant artist. You showed me your drawings. I loved them, especially the one of a little girl you drew.

We walked to the waterfalls together.

You were one of the first people I met from the place I now call my second home. You always came to our group meetings and even on the long walks to swim in the river.

In big groups, you didn't say much. Like me.

You loved to draw. Just like I do.

I remember how you were a great student. I remember when I taught classes to your school, you were always well-behaved. I liked when you smiled.

I'm still here, though, walking and looking at my feet.

It's weird. There's moments I look up and my surrounds overwhelm me with their natural beauty and fragrances and song. I forget about it all for a moment and I'm back here. You know, where I am right now. Smiling and looking around and appreciating this undeserving gift that the world has laid before me.

And then I glance at my feet and the outside drowns away and I'm vacuumed back up into this place where I can't help but try to crawl inside your mind and understand. And I'm digging and digging and I know I'm not supposed to be here, but I'm not really sure I'm supposed to be out there either.

And in my feet I see your feet. And in my eyes I am your eyes, looking down.

And I hear the quietness of your last footsteps. I see them.

And I don't know if they are landing lightly in peace. In freedom.

And I don't know if they are stepping deliberately. In pain. In sadness.

And I don't know if it's all a mistake.

And it's not my place to do this. I know that.

I just want you to know that I hear you.

I always did.

I could have shown it better. 

I saw you. I always did.

I want to be vulnerable now. And cry. I don't know who I am crying for. For me. Or for you. Or for everyone. For so many people. Even people who didn't even know you. Even people I don't even know well myself.

Now I am crying for different reasons and different people and different situations. It's like all the bandaids that have been covering hurt are falling off. How long have some of those been there?

There is something in these tears, though. Something is washing away. I can feel it leaving me.

And something else is staying behind. And in this moment of vulnerability I feel open and welcoming instead of weak and afraid. I can't explain it. But as I cry, I know this is what I need.

Life is so very vulnerable.

I'm not sure we every really understand that.

Until we become vulnerable, too.

________________________
Que tenga paz. Nunca la olvido.

Making Love

We don't talk about making love. Oh no, not in public.

We learn about it from the movies, from the television, from the magazines. Oh! That is how its supposed to look! Aha! That is what I am supposed to do. Yes. Now I know how to do it...

Since when did there arise a definition for "making love"? Who claimed rights to this expression? When did it become an act that someone could explain or teach, made for others to replicate?

When did it become a thing to do and not an experience to embrace?

I am blessed to be in a place surrounded by brilliant, beautiful, inspiring women. (Side note: there are brilliant, beautiful, inspiring men, too, but in this case I am reflecting on an experience with women). We had the opportunity, recently, to share a bit about our relationships with love.

Today, I felt it. (I even did it). Outright and personal. Public and proud.

My bare skin plunged in deep into a pool of ice cold liquid and my mind turned off and my senses turned on. I could not hear a thing beneath the depths of the transparent pond and if there ever was a time that I was alive it was now. The water hugged me, freely, and together we moved. Where I undulated, she pushed me and where I lay, she held me up. I was alone, as a human being. I was surrounded, as a vehicle of love.  I longed for it not to cease, as I danced beneath her surface- swimming forward and twirling around. I felt beautiful. I felt free. Every inch of me smiled, and as the last bits of air left my lungs, she carried me to above.

I gasped.

And exhaled deep.

The pool water dripped from my lashes.

And I opened my eyes to a new world.

And the sounds around me vibrated louder than ever.

A bird chirping on a tree branch, in search of a worm for her nestlings. A tiny lizard, scurrying atop some dry grass. The wind, tickling the palm trees.

I saw it. And it felt so good.

Nature does it all. day. long.- Recreation. Interaction. Exchange.

Nature is it.- Nectar. Flowers. Animals.

Love is alive everywhere; all around us.

Every moment, love is made.

Everywhere, they (we) are doing it.

It is in you, too. It is your very nature.

Turn off the television. Close the magazine.

Open up to your inner love.

Dive into a pool of water.

Awaken that which makes you feel it.

And then, make love.

As a bumble-bee to a flower. As a snowflake to the tip of your tongue.

Knowing Not To Know

You cannot sleep because the howling is so loud.

It is just after 5:30am; the coldest part of the morning. The sun is hidden behind the dark mountains and the color of the sky is a mix between night and day. It is so quiet. I wrap a thin red blanket around me tightly. It is the same blanket I had on my bed in El Salvador and the feeling of going to sleep alone and waking alone amongst 4 blank walls in a foreign country is one that suits me too well.

If it weren't for the sound of the wind, I'd still be fast asleep. Now, I lay with my body bundled in the fetal position. My mind does not know that the rest of me is still at rest.

The rays of light that push through the gaps in my lace curtains tell me in a white lie that the sun has begun to crawl nearer. The path is clear and she creeps steadily up the backside of the mountains in the exact place where the windmills are turning in the near distance. You can watch intensely, but you will never catch her movement. Yet, in a matter of moments, there she is: Whole. And bright.

The warmth comes quick and strong. I love 5:40am. The contrast between coldness and heat is so vivid. Half the world is awake and half the world is still bundled up. There are certain sounds that only exist at this time of the morning and there are particular energies that vibrate with a secretive bliss.

I forgot to close the curtains last night- the pair that opens onto my balcony.

From my bed I have a clear shot of our green front lawn that is sprouted with trees of various shapes and sizes. The branches all sway together in a rhythmic trance.  My hammock dances on my balcony in front to it's own beat. I love the wind's ability to create wild harmony.

When I notice one barren tree, the energies within me change.

It is a light brown tree that bares not a single leaf and its branches are upright and rigid. It does not move. It does not falter.

A tiny yellow-breasted bird with a night-black head sits on the highest peak of the thin barren tree; a stable heaviness atop a toothpick.

The hammock flutters flagrantly in unknowing directions and the green leaves behind move side to side with the howling wind. The one light brown tree stands steady and the bird is a statue.

I do not know what it means.

But later, I will.

I have learned this about life. Sometimes things happen and we feel something so strong. We do not know clearly the why. We long to, though. And so we cling to it and think and think and think and we get nowhere, but perhaps subconsciously we are falling down a hole made for a rabbit.

I cannot always let go...

Yet, I find that often, when I do, I feel a sense of peaceful serenity.

When I spend less time trying to make sense of it all, the senses, in return, become more receptive to the things that the world needs me to see and know.

And then, silently, the bird opens her wings and sails off. And I think I see the light brown tree sway with her departure.

If You Think My Life Is As Pretty As These Sunsets

Dec. 19, 2013

It is easy to feel energies. I just woke up. I am barely awake. I'm lying in bed at sunrise and I feel more alone than ever. The day has not even started.

I slide the lock to the left, open the door to my apartment and step warily onto my balcony. It is easy to feel the emptiness that surrounds. I cross the corridor that overlooks the unused pool and walk down a few stairs. I look to my left. The doors are closed and the curtains are pulled tight. 

The trees sway lightly with the breeze.

Just enough to show that they are alive. Not enough to create sound.

It is quiet.

My heart beats slow.

But loud. 

I look around. The sky is painted with early morning colors. The yard is a green wave of fresh rolling hills. The windmills are spinning atop mountains in the distance. 

I smile sincerely and warmly.

But it fades quickly.

The guayaba tree is bare. 

There is no reason to cross the green hills to walk to school.

And no music is playing from any of my apartment-mates' rooms. 

I turn around and walk back up the stairs.

I make a pot of coffee that I bought from Don Pupo, a local farmer in the area. As it brews, I smell his finca. I open the fridge and reach for some things to make a smoothie, but the combinations don't make sense to me. 

Oh well.

Did I say that? 

I know those 2 words. My Mom says them.

I close the refrigerator door, grab my towel and walk into my bathroom.

I leave my clothes in a lump on the floor. They pile limp and carelessly.

I pull the shower curtain across and the metal rings screech as they slide across the rod. 

Is that sound my only companion? 

It rips at my heart. 

Dec. 23, 2013

The numbers say something to me, but I can't make sense of them.

19…22…23….

The calendar says it is Christmas time.

I close my eyes and I try to feel the crisp weather on my skin. I breathe in deep and try to smell apple crisp in the oven. I begin to hum and try to recreate Winter Wonderland. 

But there are no sleigh bills ringing. 

The air is warm and humid and the ground below me is laid with sand and not snow. 

The sound of the sea is beautiful, but it is a lull that drowns my heart and it is not the sound of my sisters' voices that dances in my soul. 

There is nothing easy about traveling. My life is in a backpack and I have to choose what it holds. 

There are things I left behind that I long for, that I wish I packed… yet I know there is never enough room for the things I need most. 

I wake up and the bed is not my own. I've come to know these sheets, but I know deep down it is just a lie to make it more comfortable. She knows, too, as she cradles me. She knows this is just temporary. That I will not stay for long and soon she will host another body from another foreign land and they, too, will lie together. 

I fumble with the lock to a unfamiliar door and I step outside. 

The first instant is overwhelming. The smell of the salty sea, the sound of waves crashing, the colors that reach far beyond a rainbow. 

I smile sincerely in deep gratitude. 

What have I done for Mother Earth to love me so much? Every day she opens up a gift that is much too beautiful for mankind to capture, and she hands it to us. It is deep greens and vibrant reds. It is the smell of lilies. It is the sound of birds singing and the touch of fresh snow. It is sunsets and sunrises. Do I give this gift back? Or do I just keep taking? 

I reach back inside and grab a sheet off my bed. Still in my night clothes, I come outside and climb into the hammock, wrapping the sheet around me and I wait for the colors to come across the horizon. 

There is nothing easy about traveling.

There is nothing easy about the choices I have made.

There is nothing easy about being me. 

Cradled in my hammock. Alone. Silent. I look out at the horizon and wonder many things. My past flashes before me. My future is a mystery. My present is painted with dark smudges that I don't remember holding the brush to and I often try to erase them, but they don't go anywhere and I often tell myself to just accept them, but I don't want to. And it hurts. 

But if I just lift my head up in my hammock, I can see the colors as they start to creep out from beneath the clouds. 

'Cause I can hold onto those dark smudges (and sometimes I do) and they can start to grow and take over the whole picture and before I know it I can't see any colors at all. 

Or, I can keep seeing and I keep painting. Because sometimes the colors are there before me and sometimes it is I that creates them, but either way, they are there. And I know that is true. And I know the colors and I co-exist and co-create together. Sometimes, you just don't see them and sometimes you forget and sometimes, maybe, you just let the dark smudges take over. 

There is nothing easy about traveling. 

I can't lie about the beauty that I have come to see by taking my feet to faraway places. I can't lie about the blessings that the world has given to me. I can't lie about the wealth I have accumulated through the meals, and smiles and conversations and stories that I have shared with people across the planet. 

But, it is not easy. 

Sometimes, I paint a picture that it is…easy…

That it's all beautiful…

Through my photos.

My messages.

My one-sided-story posts. 

Because maybe that's what I need to do. For me. 

Because I don't need to tell you that you can't have up without down. Good without bad. Right without wrong. 

But it serves me no good to focus on the dark smudges.

Because the truth is, when you travel, you can feel really, really freaking alone...

And it's exhausting. And my clothes are old and stained and I usually wear them multiple times without washing them, so maybe they kinda smell. And I don't have the freedom to always choose the best food and sometimes I really just want organic almond milk and raw honey and blueberries and I have to eat greasy rice and beans. And my legs are covered in mosquito bites and you can tell me not to scratch them but I will because it feels so freaking good and I know that I will get an infection, but I will do it anyways and the hospitals suck in faraway places but I have to go there anyways and its my own fault. 

And those are just the small things. 

And the big ones are much more painful. 

The big ones are the dark smudges on my painting and I think only my good friends and family knows what they look like and how impossible they are to erase. 

But that's my painting.

And, I'd rather tell you about the colors. 

Because maybe you'll start to paint with me.

And I know that when we can see the colors of the world we can create more. And that is what I have learned to do for me and my own wellbeing. And you don't have to do it and you don't have to like it, but for me it works.

And if you think my painting is perfect that I am sorry for misleading you. 

We are all human beings and each one of us has a story that most of the world probably does not know about. 

I ask for help every morning to treat everyone with kindness. No matter how they treat me. Because I don't know their story. And they don't know mine. 

But, I can look for the colors (that exist in everyone and everywhere). And that makes it easier. And I feel less alone. And, I can smile. And, sometimes, I make them smile too.

If you think my life is as easy as these sunsets, it's not. But I choose to paint the colors I see because it makes life a bit easier. 

Inside A Prison Cell

I’m not sure I want to see it, but I stand there engulfed.

I know I am in a chicken farm, but I feel I am witnessing a holocaust as I stare down the long corridor.

I am the only free person in this room.

Yet, I am trapped.

And it is shameful. 

And it hurts. 

In a space of about 8 square inches, sometimes up to 4 chicken are crammed. Squeezed together. For their entire lifespan. The will never walk on the grass that is their home. 

These barracks are their jail cells. 

Shackles for crimes they never committed. 

6,000 of them.

This is a small-scale farm. They are antibiotic free. Their owner is trying the best she can, in her own eyes.

I met her. And she is sweet. And she works hard. And I sympathize with her. 

I cannot begin to imagine the magnitude of what goes on in the US Industrial Farms...

Individually, each chicken is unique and evokes a sweetness. If you stand close, they look up at you. 

There are so many questions. There is such confusion. There are feelings.

I am not sure if it is my mind or theirs that is speaking.

Small-Scale Chicken Farm
Santa Ana, Costa Rica, Dec. 10 2013

They walk but a few steps.

They scream in each other’s ears.

They peck at each other’s feathers.

I’ve seen it in the documentaries. I’ve read about it in the books.

This is the first time I am living it.

I peer down the long corridor and I fear if I stay too much longer they will need to call for help.

The smell burns.

Or maybe it’s the sight.

I think maybe the sound of their monotonous calls is even worse than the way they look at me.

I want it to stop.

But I stand there and the movie plays backwards in my head.

This is our reality. We created this. You and I. And every time we buy an egg or grab a bag of packaged chicken without reading the label we are giving them the power to do this.

Sometimes, though, you cannot even trust the label anymore.

Sometimes, it takes work to learn.

Sometimes, there is no easy or no ‘good’ solution.

Because our system has allowed this to be the only way.

...Maybe not.

There are free-range chickens.

Can’t they all be this way? I’m not so sure anymore... 

Land tenure.

Soil fertility.

Markets.

Access.

Urbanization.

Competition.

Corporate Control.

How did we get here?

We are so

Modernized.

Industrialized.

Developed.

Advanced.

We are human beings. We think we are so powerful. We assume control over every path we walk.

I can’t help but feel we’ve made a mistake.

I can’t help but wonder how this is a sign of and advanced, developed human race.

 6,000 chickens in 1 room
Santa Ana, Costa Rica, 2013

Yet, we are powerful.

So why don’t we use it for something good?

Because there are farmers, like this man from Costa Rica, who works really, really freaking hard to produce good food. He recycles all his plastics. He buys only what he needs. He has an organic compost of his home waste. He uses worms. He sells locally.

Don Geraldo and Nina Liliam, Sarapique, Costa Rica

He uses only organic fertilizers. He builds his own tools. He talks to his plants. 

And he smiles, a lot. 

And, yes, his prices are a bit higher.

And I am happy about it. Because it means his food has nutrients.

It means, I don’t have to worry about a factory.

A factory that has become synonymous with both our animal and plant "food".

The solutions are still hard to envision.

But I will continue to dream.

Because I do not believe in settling for a world where our basic necessity of life challenges our entire ecosystem and livelihoods.

We are powerful, compassionate, strong human beings.

Let us start acting that way.

In a way that makes us proud.

Kids Yoga, El Rodeo, Costa Rica

Run Free

The curtains blow flagrantly across my room and the bright rising sun pulls down my bed sheets with both the force of its visual energy and warmth of its fiery soul. There are mornings where it is easier to get out of bed than others. 

This breeze is my best friend.

There’s an open mason jar of warm water on my counter. I lift it and peer inside, checking for gecko ordure. Looks safe. I used to like fresh, crisp, ice cold agua. Now I welcome the gentle stream of warm vitality that moistens my dry morning throat.

Seven gulps.

Exhalation.

Sigh.

Cleansed. Awakened. Alive.  

I get glimpses of the garden, the turquoise pool water, the humming-bird-bush, with every flutter of the curtains as the breeze tantalizes my five senses.

My pink sneakers lay begging like a dog besides my door frame.

Sparkly clean.

Mud and thatch washed away from recent hikes.

4-months-virgin to a heart-pounding run.

I look at them and I feel.

Bitter the cold of autumn in New York. Sweet the sensations of Fall on my skin.

My mouth waters.

Pounding the music in my ears. Asking my feet to be light on the pavement.

I bound down the sidewalks.

The headlights of cars are my friends.

The cracks in the pavement are stories.

The breeze in my face is love. Encouragement. Tantalization.

The curtain blows up again and reaches for me.

The map on my wall says I’m in Costa Rica.

The colors in my front yard tell me it doesn’t matter what you call it.

I come to the curtains. I put on a good song. The music awakens me a bit more and I feel my desires come alive.

I pull on the sweet memories of my past and I tie the laces of miles of freedom together and I stand tall.

I hit play and I walk out.

For a mile or two I run to the music of 2006. My iPod stays trapped in time. It easily transports me. I can be here or there in an instant. Time is an elusion. Maps create lines which insinuate destinations. Boundaries. Separations. Limitations.

A few minutes in my sneakers and I realize it’s all a lie.

I can be anywhere I want to be. 

I can be anyone I want to be.

“If one of us aint free then we all to blame.”

Keep running.

I am in Gainesville, Florida. Passing the alligator infested ponds. The O’Dome. The Swamp. The Orange-and-Blue. I am young and easily swayed to choose a path that has been laid before me. I don't stop to wonder if it is the one I want to choose. 

I am running uphill in Rye, New York. The purple “Team in Training” shirts surround me. There are survivors, fighters. There are friends who let go. My sister is somewhere. Her hair falls long when she removes her swim cap that reads “Leukemia & Lymphoma”. A cap that just looks like the turban she wore at five when there was no hair to create warmth. Protection. Immunity. Life force. Freedom. 

She knows what it means to live. I wonder if she knows how often I still run with her. Because of her.

I am in Vietnam and we are crossing a bridge. Training for a race of which we’ll never make it to. Lost passports. What border? What boundaries?

I am in El Salvador. It hurts. The dust in my eyes. The piropos. The stray dogs, begging for a piece of flesh. A peace. Acknowledgement. Nourishment of any form. It's not just the dogs that I run from. Run with. Running. 

My music shuts off. I look down over my left shoulder. Battery low.

I look up. Jue Pucha. Que belleza. 

I hear. I feel. I smile. I breathe. I taste.

What a world before me. It is so f*cking beautiful. Do you see it?

I am in Costa Rica.

Maybe.

If I want to be. 

I see a beak. I recognize those colors. He flies into another tree and I follow him with my eyes. He invites me. His movements mimic my morning curtains. Side to side. Asking you to come, but leaving the choice up to you. Giving you a taste of what is out there. Inviting, but not begging.

“Follow me,” he says. But don’t hold on too long.

I love his beak in all it’s colors. I watch it. Side-to-side.

Suddenly, the beak multiples. One-by-one. Each leading me to the next.

A tree of tucans. Sitting on branches. Singing about life. Or maybe sorrows.

Songs of love. Or maybe sadness.

“What a joy it is to be alive. To get another chance.”

One by one they take off. I count them. 8.

8 tucans.

I am mesmerized. 

The world, the breeze, the colors, the sounds of the world are a violin that I don’t know how to play anymore.

But it sounds just as sweet.

Everyday is a new song.

I let go of the birds and I smile and my eyes well up and I laugh at myself.

I turn around and begin the journey home.

The leaves of trees rustle. I feel snakes by the roadside, crawling with venom. Peaceful by nature, poisonous when provoked.

I see the windmills turning silently atop the mountains that I call my neighbors.

Empty houses sit behind gated walls and I wonder what lies on the table inside.

Sometimes I kick a rock, avoid a dip in the road.

I hear my breath and the clapping sound of the soles of my feet dancing on the soul of the Earth.

I smile again. Not just in my mind. But deep in my heart and childlishly on my face.

The run home is faster than the run away.

“None but ourselves can free our minds.”

"Laying in Fall"
New York. 2012. 

Life Beneath Geckos

A tiny piece of poop lands on my keyboard. I look up at the gecko on my ceiling and I smile.

Sometimes, even the sh*ttiest things can be a blessing.

A week alone in my Costa Rican apartment focused on writing a paper and I am having flashbacks of a former life. In my former life, I live alone. I am the only US citizen; the only "outsider" in a new culture and community. My bathing area is outdoors and while I absolutely love the cold, invigorating bucket baths underneath the mango tree, I still feel uncomfortable showing my breasts to the world. I did not do that regularly at home. I walk outside to use my outhouse, something I formerly considered private and rather secretive, and nowI feel 1000 eyes look at me over fences in deep analysis. Children, farmers, even the cows are considering, "What will she do in there? Does she use toilet paper?" I scamper back inside, careful to avoid eye contact, shameful of my contribution to environmental degradation in the form of six sheets of Scott. I arrive back inside my lonely home, painfully aware of my state of confinement and the symbolic separation of my four grey walls. I am alone.

But that was a former life.

I am in Costa Rica now and geckos are pooping on my laptop.

I am not alone. My friends are right next door and below me and it is a bit easier to feel connected in this life. I love my new friends. I feel we all new each other before. Our souls are deeply intertwined. You can tell by the way they say things I am feeling, before my slow and limited mind gets to articulate itself properly. You can tell by the way our smiles are so epidemically contagious.

I wonder why I felt so alone in my former life. Surely, something was pooping on my laptop there, too.

Why and when and where and how do we lose this connection with each other? Does it happen overtime? Are we born with it? How do we awaken it again?

I feel grateful for my former life and I feel grateful for where I walk today. I think I was very close to have fallen into a deep sleep, easily, but I now I feel so awake. I cannot lie, though. It is easier to sleep. Sometimes, I do get back in bed. Sometimes, I even pull the covers up and I ask for my former life. They say "the more you see, the less you know". It is true. And it is scary. But it is also really beautiful, too. You know you cannot have one without the other, right? I have to remind myself of that often. And if I start to forget, or if I want to crawl back underneath the covers, something is sure to poop on me. And I know that is a sign- no matter how challenging it gets- I am on the right path.

I am so in love with the people here. (I love you people, too, out there).

Sometimes, when I look into someone's eyes, I can instantly feel and connect with their soul. I have flashes of stories and I thank the world for conspiring to place our physical bodies before each other.

My cells began to dance during lunch yesterday. I cannot really explain the feeling any better than that. You know, when you get all tingly inside and you just want to smile forever and ever?

My friend and I were sitting across a table from each other eating lunch. There were people all around us chatting, searching for a place to sit or shoo-ing the dogs out of the school cafeteria. But I was walking in Kenya.

The story was long and beautiful and I was there for every minute of it. I wished for a moment, to share it with the world. I longed to capture it all in writing or words, but I wondered how much of the genuine love from his mouth would have been lost or distorted through my own interpretation. That is when I just let it all go and realized it was just meant for me to appreciate in that moment.

But I want to share one bit with you because maybe it will encourage you to experience the dancing of your cells. Sometimes, you know, we get so caught up with these externalities that we forget to feel. And I, myself, too suffer from this silly little thing called a mind- which is quite useless (if you think about it) without heart. But then again, that requires thinking about it, so forget it.

Feel.

The most poignant memories of my life all come with feelings. Those are the things we remember. The breeze on my face and the misty splashing of salt water on my feet as I dangle on the front of my father's boat. The impossible resistance to laughter as I stand beneath a waterfall with my friends. The tears that drained my soul when I missed my family. Feeling reminds us what is more important about living.

So, my friend is there, sitting across from me, telling me more stories about his life in Kenya. He talks about how blessed he feels to be where we are today at UPEACE. He talks about his childhood growing up in a nomadic community, then working in Nairobi, then here in Costa Rica. He works hard for his children back at home. He cares deeply for people all over the world. He wants to help ease inter-tribal violence in his home town. He has started an organization. He works in an international community full of people with unique perspectives. He faces deep challenges on a daily basis. But he talks in a slow and peaceful and loving manner. His words are easy to appreciate, full of passion and emotion. There is a little bit of sadness, some frustration, but more love and faith and compassion than anything else. His journey has been a long one.

He stops for a minute and his face becomes reflective. He looks at me and says, "You know, my mother is 84. She has maybe never left our home town. She has never been to Nairobi. And she is happy!" He smiles wide and I cannot help but join in the laughter because I feel the love emitted from his soul and there are either tears in his eyes or I see the reflection of my own.

Sometimes, the more we see, we wish we hadn't seen.

The world can be a scary and intimidating place. The more we dream the more we get outside of our comfort zone and the more we realize is not as we have been taught. We question everything, we begin to doubt and then wonder.

It is not important how far you go or how big you dream, necessarily. It is how you live each day...each moment of your life. I think it is important to be conscious of our choices, yes, but I think it is more important to be in tune with our values. Then it becomes a more natural way of living. We live more from our heart and our mind is there for guidance.

How do we know our values? I think we feel them in our gut or our cells or our heart- somewhere inside of us. We feel them during great moments or great challenges. We even feel them when a gecko poops on our laptop.

Last week I feared loneliness and today I feel love. This is part of life's journey. I try to cling, often, to the feeling of happiness, but sometimes it eludes me. And why shouldn't it? For I could never know one without the other: The paradox of life that our silly minds sometimes try to decipher.

I feel grateful for the abundance of love and interconnectedness that is shown to me everyday. Without it, I would feel alone and I know that is the biggest deception and worst hunger of the world.

I ask for more support in the ability to see love in the most trying times. Because I know it is always there.

Now, where have you gone little gecko?

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Thank you old friends, new friends, family and geckos who continue to love and support me along my mysterious journey. You know who you are and I have you each in my mind and more importantly in my heart.