I Don't Know How To Let You Go

Last night I cried.

I had the most beautiful day. I woke up with the rising ball of fire that heats my room every morning and warms me into the sweet melodies of the song birds. With 2 pups at my heels I walked down to my neighbors' house and milked some cows with a few of my best friends...friends from around the world, who I've known for nine months, but that I've been with for eternity. Friends who pretty soon will wrap their arms around me and smile and look at me and say "goodbye for now" or "adios" or "hasta luego" or "take care" or "see you soon" or some other words that we know are just words that maybe don't mean anything or maybe they do, but only the years will tell.

"Your material body is not you," I have to tell myself. And while it is true, I know I just say it because I have already become attached.

Later in the day, I picked up my graduation gown with my girlfriends. We laughed as we told stories about our time here. I could feel my wide-toothed smile. Inside, it burned.

Then we hiked through a farm that sits behind the natural reserve by our campus. A local farmer taught us about medicinal plants. Native fruits. The hundreds of species of bananas. We climbed over a water hole. We drove his old jeep. We ate some star fruit. We reveled in how ridiculous this place is. A little heaven on Earth that I will never forget. The most sacred of souls from around the world stork-dropped into a blessed little rural community on the mountainside, where all the neighbors smile and say buenos dias. Where pain and hardship, discrimination and social classes, surely exist - but where community prevails. Where desperate, or confused, or bitter hearts burn forests, but where others plant life. Where the tree roots are long and thick and windy and the branches reach up and wide. Where there are more colors than holds a crayon box and more things to see than you look for.

Our farmer friend tells us about a beautiful green bird. How she taps the wasp nest. And then comes her mate and he taps it, too, and then flies away. And there they go taking turns to feed on the wasps until eventually they are all scared away. And there the mama bird goes and lays her nest in the old wasp nest and life is regenerated.

I am still smiling when I get home. Thinking of my beautiful day in both gratitude and gloat.

And the message tone of my phone sounds and I pick it up and press a button and light the screen. And the skin on face goes from taut to heavy and I can feel it hanging down around my eyes and my cheek bones and the sides of my mouth. My heart plummets onto my cold, dirty floor and the phone is a brick too heavy for my hand to hold. And I don't want to read it, but it's too late.

And I cry.

And I cry because I'm selfish.

Because I want more time. Because you are a person who makes me laugh and smile and feel at ease. Because I never had anyone like you in my life before. Because you give me something different. I cannot explain what it is, but when I see you and when you look at me, I feel OK. And when you pick up my hand, I like the soft, gentle touch of your skin on mine and I think I finally know what love is.

And when I come to sit on your lap, you lift your arms and you let me. And you don't tell me how heavy I am until your knees are aching and you push me off, cursing.

And when you yell at me or tell me the coffee is bitter or that I'm "so big" or to "shut up" I smile more because you are honest and real in an "I-don't-give-a-shit" kind of way that is somehow, someway still sweet, and loving.

And when I lay my head on your shoulder you pet my head like I'm a baby and I don't feel embarrassed.

And sometimes you drink beer with me. And sometimes you tell me stories about the old men that you used to live with.

And you always say "hi sweetie" when I call or when you see me.

And you always eat everything on your plate even though you don't like sea food and are particular about your cookies and you're not hungry anyways.

I cry because I am so very selfish. Because I want there to be more moments. I want you to be there when I get home. I want you to make salami pies with me. I want you to tell me stories about your childhood. And I even want to hear the story about when you first drove a car and when my Dad got high with your boss, even though I have heard them a thousand times already. And I want to see you stand proud in front of your white Chrysler or brag about your golf record or arm wrestle me or wash the dishes or sleep in my childhood bed and wake up at 10am and say you always wake up early.

I want you to be there at my wedding. I want you to dance with me. I want you to be proud of me.

I want to have a Grandma.

I want to have you.

And I am selfish. Because you are 95 and you have given me so much already and I want more.

And I'm sad.

Because I have never seen you weak. You are 95 and I have never seen you weak. Not one day in my life. Not when we have lost family members, not when we have struggled time and time again watching our loved ones, young and old, fight disease. Not when you have fought it yourself for the past 2 years.

I don't know what it means to see you give up.

And I'm angry.

Because the clock says you are 95 but your mind is still brilliant and your soul is still young and your heart still loves and your body is still healthy and strong and its just this one f*cking thing that is ruining everything. And you don't deserve it. And I don't want you to have pain. And I don't want it to be like this.

And I'm scared.

Because I have never seen you in all white.
Because you wear beautiful clothes and gold jewelry and red lipstick.

Because I have never seen you in a bed in the daytime hours.
You like to walk around and go to town with me and pet Sam and stand in the pool and play Rummy Kub.

Because you don't like doctors. You take care of yourself.

Because you don't like to be sad, or tired, or alone or helpless. You don't like our pity.
You are strong and beautiful and funny and active.

I'm scared.

Because I never imagined this day would come. And you can call me stupid and you can think what you want, but it's too hard to imagine something that you have never even come close to seeing as a reality. And you can think "oh but she's 95" but you don't know her. I'm scared because I thought somehow this day would never come. Or, maybe I thought somehow I would be prepared when it did.

I'm scared and I'm angry and I'm sad and I'm selfish.

Because last summer you played bad mitten with me.
And last week you said you wouldn't come down to visit me in Costa Rica because "you didn't know where the hell that is".

And last night I didn't know where you were.

And I don't know how to find you or keep you or let you go.


--------------------------------------
On June 12 my Grandma will turn 95 years old. She has been fighting cancer for the past two years, diagnosed with a tumor shortly after she lost one of her grand-daughter-in-laws to cancer and helped her great-grandson fight his cancer and my sister fight hers.

After two years of being at home in her son's house, staying healthy and active, my family says it may be too hard on her now.

Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.

And if you have any photos or stories or memories that you would like to share with me, please send them to posa.jaime@gmail.com.

Where Is My Home?

The clouds scream, yet there is no rain.
A yellow-breasted bird dips to the ground. She plucks something with her tiny beak and then lands her yellow-breast silently upon her young.
The ground parts: thirsty.

I stand in front of my window watching.
Something inside me is throbbing.
It feels like it is my heart. But it is somewhere in my stomach.
I'm standing still in front of my window. Watching.
But I want to run.

My hands want to scratch. But my skin is not itchy.
Not from the outside, at least.
My fingernails are homesick for dirt, for painful release.
But I have been taught to be clean.

The sky cracks.
Birds fly.
The land is still. Patient.

I stand inside my "home".
What is this?
These cold flat tiles don't comfort the contours of my feet.
These walls protect me from something I'm not afraid of.
This roof keeps out what I want to let in.

I stand in front of a thin glass pane.
I stand in front of a thin. glass.    pain.

I have been taught how to live "inside here" but I come from "out there".

We learn to build boxes
and fill them with things
we invented with minds
that have been shaped "inside here"
And while our spirt is still out there
we have tricked ourselves to think that somehow
it has stepped inside a box
made of walls that are rigid
confining
constraining
solid
Yet weak.
And. I cannot breathe.

I'm Not Your Reality

I'm really sick of getting close to people.

In the beginning it's all really sweet. It's like a flower garden that has just bloomed. All you see is beautiful colors. Butterflies flapping their wings and crisp green edges.

It's not a lie. I know. This does exist.

It's just that in the beginning we don't notice the weeds that are creeping up from down below, desperately trying to choke the stems. We don't see the speckled marks that taint the beauty of the bright green leaves, the bitten petals of the flowers, and the plague that threatens the entire ecosystem.

I do not know what is better.......

The innocent beauty of the beginning: when you don't see what you have not been shown, and you don't look so clearly either.  And your quietness, and your blindness, and your ignorance are a blissful oblivion...It is perfect and lovely and good, yes. but it is not the whole truth...
There are always weeds. Always. And the worst are the kinds that sit beneath the surface: buried in the soil, strangling the roots with all their might, while the world goes on smiling at the flowers.

Or, is it better to know, To look close. To see the whole truth......

The bacteria, the fungus, the invaders, the parasites: constantly testing the patience, the strength, the beauty, the life of the flora. And you see it all- attacking from every direction. And you want to stop it, but you know its not your place. And you don't want to see it, but once you have opened your eyes wide enough it can never go away. And the worst part is that WE created the pesticides.

I'm really sick of getting close to people.

The bottoms of my feet are calloused and rough. My toe nails are uneven and un-pedicured and often embedded with dirt. My legs are scarred and spotted with freckles. My skin is imperfect and my hands tell the stories of many sunny markets I visited alone in many foreign countries; leaving a past that I couldn't really make sense of behind, only to find that it still exists when I return. These scars won't go away now. Somehow we think we can do that to the emotional ones. But they still emerge from time to time. They still exist somewhere inside me, just like the ones stitched on my skin.

You would only see those things if you looked close. If I let you come near. If you wanted to.

From afar I am photoshopped, painted and decorated.
In your mind you have edited me. In mine, I have created an image. Here, you see me before you, standing like a flower, performing like a butterfly. But, I assure you, you are color blind. We all are. The light that passes through the spectrum only reveals the colors of the rainbow.

So, don't come close. Please. Not right now. My darkness does not amuse you. And I am tired.

I don't want to decorate.

I don't want to be what you want me to be.

Silent. Passive. 

I can't give what you want me to give you.

Affection. Elation. Perfection. 

Not always. Not now.

Not ever.

I will always be a dirty flower.

A clumsy butterfly.

A determined weed.

An insect-bitten petal.

A crooked stem.

I'm really sick of getting close to people.

Because I'll never be the image we have created.

And I will apologize now for painting you a beautiful picture above my dirty canvas.

This is what I have been given. and this is what I have created.

I will never be what you expect me to be.

I am less and I am more.
Terrifying and Strange.
Beautiful and damaged.
Struggling and thriving.

Depending on the sunlight.

I Fell in Love at the Farmer's Market

There are few things in life that are more special than going to the Saturday local farmer's market. There are things that are of equal loveliness, yes: telling your mother you love her, smiling at a stranger, swimming in the ocean, sipping a cup of warm coffee in the winter with a book in your hand... yes. please do more of this.

But don't underestimate the power of the Farmer's Market.

It's not just about the plethora of colors that paint the counter space, the fair prices or the beautiful bundles of nutritious yumminess...it's about the whole experience from when you step outside your door with your re-useable* grocery bag (*if you could have only seen the sea turtle that choked on the plastic bag we saw last week) to when you walk home like a child on Easter with a basket full of wrapped candies.

So, there I was, walking down my street this morning wearing a pair of yellow shorts that have served me loyally for far too many years and sunglasses that covered beads of sweat that were forming on my cheekbones. I was going to walk all the way to town, but I decided that the hour it would take me to get there could better be spent on writing my academic paper that is due tomorrow (ugh). I really didn't have a choice, anyways, I swear, since the next car coming down the road pulled over for me.

I hopped in, grateful for my 10 solid minutes of Vitamin D; also grateful for the roof of shade.

"You going to Ciudad Colon?" I asked the driver in spanish.

"Si," me dijo.

"Will you take me?"

"Yo te llevo al cielo. Donde quieres ir?" He said to me in harmless flirtation. Loosely translated, he told me he'd take me wherever I want to go- he'd take me to heaven. 

I smiled. "Ciudad Colon is fine."

I spent the next 12 minutes learning about his life. He worked in construction and this job had brought him to live in places like the Bahamas, Cuba and various parts of the USA. He laughed, as he told me a few inappropriate stories. He smiled most of the time. He spoke in poetic rhythms and the time passed without ticking. But then his faced changed a little and he told me, for the past 10 years he has not left his country. Now, he saved a bit each year and visits parts of Costa Rica. He tells me this with a different look in his eyes. And it's not the same "those were the days, kinda shameful, a bit mischievous" smile that he wore before. When he talks about his travels in his own country he has a twinkle that spreads from his pupils to the places his lips are curled up in admiration. He is proud, yet humble. Certain, yet endearing.

His experiences abroad were both beautiful and painful, but it was clear that they served him well. He loved sharing beers with folk in one place, but he couldn't make friends with anyone in another. "Buenos dias," I told them on the elevator, and I smiled. (He is telling me this story)." But they didn't say anything back. Nothing. No one wanted to be my friend." "What it all boils down to, is love". He told me in a rather serious voice. If you don't live with a place of love in here, and he touches his chest, then you've got nothing. "I like it here, in my country. I don't need as much stuff, but I can always find love and happiness..."

I believe in energies. And the second I stepped foot inside the farmer's market, the aura of love embraced me. It was like I traveled on a wavelength from the car ride to the town center...

You could feel it from the people- the patrons and the producers. You could feel it from the pineapples, the pejibayes and the papayas.   You could taste it in the coconut water that quenched every cell of your body and see it in the tomatoes that pressed against each other in different shapes, colors and sizes.

"How can I serve you, pretty lady? Aqui, the women run things," says a guy standing before some baskets of greens.

The lady from the indigenous community reaches across her table and hands me a bag of chia seeds, saying "God bless you," as I walk away.

"Can I peel you a pejibaye? Ah, I love them, they taste so good," says a man who doesn't seem to care if I buy his product or not...but I do- A whole bag full. And together we smile as we shared that tasty little fruit.

I arrive back home, at my little apartment that overlooks a dry, crispy lawn that is patiently waiting for the start of a rainy winter. I dump my jewels and gems onto the counter and I cannot wait to food combine.

I make a beautiful purple smoothie. I boil a beet. I toss a fresh green salad topped with pink radishes and yellow mango. I take a sip. It runs through me. I smile.

Life is good.

*Mind yourself, though, if you do take my advice. If you, too, wanna sip on some sweetness, and are heading out to the market......

It doesn't always work this way....

If you're rushing out the door, if you're crammed for time, if you have a "farmer's market agenda" and are feeling anxious, grumpy, or stressed- put down the organic kale and step. away.

You must go with love. Go with patience, excitement, gratitude and open-mindedness; and I promise you the people and the produce will give you all that and more in return.

The world's a scary place. I'm not gonna lie. It's F*d up- I'm not gonna sugar coat it. Our food system is so backwards that we've drained the soil of the nutrients that we need for our health and the future health of our planet. We exploit the field workers and hide stuff from the consumers. We have taken rights away from our citizens in the name of royalties for our corporations.

I know it all too well and nearly every article I read for my Master's degree gives me heartburn.
Not kidding.

But, I believe in love.

I don't believe in businesses and corporations, in NGOs or governments, in schools or textbooks.

I believe in people.

I believe in the feeling I get when someone smiles at me. I believe in the sensations I experience when a child takes my hand. I believe in the beating of my heart at a warm embrace.

I believe in realness.

When the farmer tells me "no, mi amor, it is not organic." I respect that.

I like having a choice. I like when things don't come in packages or plastic bags. I like variety. I like shapes. I like sizes. I like color.

I like a bit of dirt.

That's real.

I like a bit of wilderness.

That's me.

I like interaction. I like walking. I like talking. I like sharing. I like the free parsley when I buy a bunch of romaine. I like when farmers call me "preciosa" and tell me "for you, its only 200 colones", even though I know he gave the same price to everyone.

These are people.

This is love.

And while my heart aches to solve the bigger issues: to bring justice to our people, to redistribute land and rights, to give back what we have taken away, to reveal what has been hidden...

...My mind tires from trying to figure out how to get there.

So, the Farmer's Market is my freedom. Because without trying, without premeditated inputs, my heart organically opens and my lips effortlessly part and the soul that loves to dance within me finds dance partners here easily. And if there is something I could dedicate my life to, then this would be it. Because I believe in what is organic and if I can help create more space for our human souls to dance together, then that is enough.

Never underestimate the power of a few committed people to change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has. - Margaret Meade. 

We are human beings: We are natural lovers, turned on by connection.

We don't need more corporations: boxes that tell us we must fit inside: We must separate ourselves. We must conform.

We need more farmer's markets: spaces that allow us to dance around freely. Space that allows for interaction. Space that encourages us to breathe at our own rhythm.

We need more lovers.

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.