When Walking, Walk

When Walking, Walk

I pull the door closed, turn the key and walk out onto the dirt road. At the sound of the gate closing, the cow turns his head and look ups me, chewing rather impolitely with a mouth spilling over with grass. I'd probably be offended, if I could not completely relate.

I look down, watching where my feet are going. It's a rocky road and if you don't look, you could twist an ankle. Either that or step in dog, or cow, poo. It's up to you really, if you want to watch where you are going.

It's a very interesting experiment: to walk, while you are walking.

No phone in hand. No earphones in ears. No wingman. Nothing to come between you and the natural world. The everyday world. Nothing to protect you from the catcalls and "buenos dias" of strangers. You actually have to be there, present for it all.

Just you and your feet, You and your eyes and the world before you. Existing.

An ant carries a flower on his back; his ant army waits to receive him on the other end, the vigilantes scrambling in lopsided circles around him, protecting him from insect enemies.

There's the voice of a mother, hidden somewhere behind the walls, calling to her child. You see him sitting outside, his chubby legs and folded skin. He keeps playing with his toy car. The voices of his mother still calling for him. Each in their own world.

Life before you happening in places that you did not even realise. A life and world, present to other people and things that you hardly notice.

You start to see things that you might have missed.
When you become an observer of life, you begin to feel what it is to be alive.

A rock with a paw print pressed into it. The neighbour looking at you from the window.
Kinda creepy. 

And even with your phone turned off and your eyes tuned in, you start to forget that: when walking, Walk.

And you start to think instead. You worry that you will not catch the bus and you start to imagine what your colleagues will say if you get there late. Your heart starts to race. You begin to regret what you ate for breakfast and you feel a little upset with yourself. You start to think about what you need to accomplish this evening when you get home from work...all the dishes you need to clean, and the paperwork you have to turn in.

And in worrying about what happened this morning and projecting what will happened in the future you have become a prisoner to both the past and the future and are blind to the present moment. And you are likely to step in some poo, for that is how the world works. It places the poo there for you to step in because it wants you to wake up.

And before you know it, you were so busy thinking, that you walked past a thousand other people and insects and plants and clouds that were properly creating life in the most authentic way around you, and you missed it all.

And, what if you noticed?

What if you were present for the moment the cloud crossed in front of the sun, allowing you the moment to wipe your brow?

What if you were there to see the voice of the mother, emerge from behind the walls, and pick up her chubby baby and kiss his forehead tenderly?

What if you saw the patience and beauty of the flower, as she opens her petals fearlessly, giving the bees her pollen and receiving their tiny touch? What if you could learn in just one instant, the liberation of vulnerability?

What if you could see the face of the man who walked home again to his family, cramped in a 1 bedroom house, because he wasn't worthy enough of a service he was more than qualified to provide, because he is stereotyped as an immigrant?

What if we all could see this?

What if when walking, we all walked? Practicing being present in the moment that we are in.

What if we could turn off the stories that play in our minds, over and over, time and again,

all
day
long?

What if we could turn them off? And just listen and see things as they are happening right before us?

You know, kind of be with people.
Without deciding who they are or what they are really saying. What if we could just be with them and feel what it is like to be there?

What if we could be grateful for the clouds that give us shade, instead of constantly cursing the world for it's darkness?

My phone rings and instinctually I reach in my bag and answer it.
It is something about work. I have to answer.
That's my story.

And so
with all the phone ringing, and music, work stuff and home stuff, thoughts and stories...well...
life...it sometimes gets in the way

of living. 

It's hard for me.
And I used to be a bit of a perfectionist, so I'd beat myself up a bit.
I meditate. I do yoga. I read sacred texts. Why?!

Why am I still thinking when I am supposed to be walking!?

And so there's a balance we need to be aware of. Being aware is the first step.

Just as waking up is the first thing we must do in the morning, we also must do that in life.
On a daily basis.

Excuse my language but

Wake-the-f*ck-Up.

If you go too long, telling yourself the same story, living the same routine with the same thoughts in your head as you walk the same way,

You just might miss out on all the life that is happening around you.
And when you start to notice it
When you are ready
You just might find that you like living a little bit more.

There is a Ferguson in Costa Rica

We find ourselves again today, broken.
Divided.
Fearing one another.
We are placing people in boxes and categories
Forming pre-conceived notions of who they are and what they do
Because of our self-imposed social rank in society.
We are treating one another different, because of our job titles, our last name, how much money is in our bank account, and

because of the color of our skin. 

I have to remind myself again today
that we are not police officers
we are not unarmed black men
we are not even, spiritual leaders.

We are human beings.

And our actions are inexcusable.

We have begun again to let the stories run our lives. Who they are and the type of things they do.

I am in Costa Rica. And I find myself, too, giving up my power, my rights, my compassion, because I let myself think that someone deserves more than me because of how they are ranked in society.
And I must take responsibility for this thought.

What has happened in Ferguson is happening everywhere. We live in a world where we still have discrimination, racism and widespread injustice. We still see things in terms of hierarchies and power struggles. And, if you can see how the root cause of what happened in Ferguson are the same roots that cause your own internal pain, and the same roots that cause suicides, and rape and even pesticide-induced-illness, you will see how we are all involved and can all be activists.

We find ourselves, our human race, still rooted in the misconception of "separation" and that is what is breeding injustice.

There is a problem with stereotypes for the conditioned mind that accepts everything that is conveyed to them as the whole truth. Stereotypes can and often hold true. However, they seldom tell the whole story.
They seldom acknowledge the fact that deep beneath the stereotype is

just another human being
longing for something different.
A way to climb out of their stereotype
or story
and live a life that makes them feel more free.

just like you
and me.

just like we all want to feel more free.

What happens to you, person reading this, when you don't feel free? Do you lash out at other people? Do you resent those who have made you feel trapped? Do you search for those who make you feel free and shun those who don't?

Maybe you don't want to be classified with the corrupt corporate greedy men.
Maybe you don't want to be brushed off as a tree-hugger.
Maybe you don't want to be feared for the color of your skin

But you just. don't. know. how to climb out of the box

Because we are trained in our schools, in our advertisements, and in our systems of governments and economies to stay inside our box. You are black. You are white. You are an immigrant. You are a high-class man. You are fancy. You are poor. By staying separated in these boxes, the systems keep us divided. They keep us fearing the 'other'. If you are poor, you fear the fancy. This way, we give up some of our power. This way, those who have led us to believe that they are 'above' can keep us under control. Do you get that? There are no boxes!! We invented them, and then quite willingly, climbed inside! Because somehow, it makes us feel safer. Even though if you wake up...

And you see the school shootings. The suicides. The heart disease. The rapes. The murders. The violence. The depression. The sadness. Right inside "the land of the free." the "UNITED" States of America.

You might just see, that our institutions, as they were created, no longer (if ever) serve us as united human beings.

This part, is now up to us, as collective citizens. We must climb out of the boxes that have been created to control us, and realise that we are capable of controlling ourselves.

And this starts with each and everyone of us.
If we want it, that is.
If we want a world that is better for all of us. We must then, learn and commit to being with one another.

I don't know if this will create a perfect human race. I don't know if a perfect human race is possible. I don't know if we can completely eradicate poverty and disease. Disease in both the physical and mental form.

I do know that we are capable of something more than we are living right now.

And so I ask you, And I ask myself:

Are you really listening?
Looking her in the eyes as she speaks
as a human being
and hearing what it is that she really wants?
Feeling who it is that she really is?

It starts with you. You need to be there with yourself.

Can you sit with yourself, alone, and be at peace with who you are?

And if you can't

Because you, too, have betrayed your wife. Forgotten to love your children. Or were frustrated with the man who couldn't speak your language, so you dismissed him as an "immigrant" and not
Another human being.

Then maybe we can start to see how what has happened in Ferguson 

Has not happened in Ferguson. It has happened everywhere.
It is happening everywhere.

It is happening inside of each and everyone of us.

So, as you read the news, to stay informed
As you share opinions with friends
As you get angry and passionate, frustrated and sad

Please, too, come back to yourself. The only person you really have control over.
And hold yourself accountable
Just as we want to hold the police officers accountable
And we will
Together
Find accountability.

We just need to start with ourselves first. Because that is the way we have the most power.
And we need all of you. To make this change.
To show that we don't stand for injustice
Because it affects all of us.

So, please, do, stay informed
Please do, engage in conversations about why this stuff hurts you
Why you are angry

But before you project the anger onto someone else

Naively believing that if you feel the anger towards the officers, you will change something...

Stop.
And please do, ask yourself
Why this makes you angry. Where is the anger coming? 

And if you sit there long enough with your anger
Perhaps you will begin to get sad.
Because you realise that your anger comes

Because you want more love. 

Because you are sad for the boy who has lost his life. You are sad for his family. You are sad for his community.
You are even sad, too, because you can relate. Because you know what it feels like to be betrayed by the people who you were told were here to protect you. To care for you.

So, yes, we have the right to be angry.
Yes, I am angry.
Everyday, actually.

Now, I must take that anger and harness all of its passion and power and channel it through love. I must love a little bit more so that there is less space for injustice. Because I won't stand for it. I won't let them tell me that I must treat them differently because of the color of their skin or their last name or their uniform.

If they are in front of me, I will sit there with them. I will take off the hood through the lens I wear of stereotypes the world has sold me, and I will look into their eyes. And listen. And if they are hurting, I will ask them why? And if they are happy, I will see if I can feel their happiness.

And if they are in front of me, with their fancy collars and stern demeanour, covering up years of anger and unasked questions. I will look past it all. And I will look into their eyes. And I will ask them, "What are you afraid of? What happened to you when you were a child that made you think this way?"

And if they are in front of me, with their white skin, or dark skin, US passport, or unstamped document, I will let it all fall away, and I will look them in the eyes and I will ask them, "What is it that you need to be able to love your family?"

And if I am in front of me, looking at myself with my white skin, I will ask myself, "What do you need to be able to love yourself? So that you stop hurting others?"

How you can hold yourself more accountable
For living a life deeply grounded in the values you want our police officers to show?

Because I am not perfect.
I am, however, capable of waking up.
And I am responsible only for my own life and the way I live it.

It is not our place to judge. It is not our place to blame.
It is our place to be accountable

And we can join hands and stand up for
not against
*for*
The world and the USA and the people that we believe in
Stand up for what we want it to look like,

not the USA that claims something that it does not show.
We will not live outside of integrity
If our country is to boast it's values, then we will show what that looks like,
not in name, not in theory
In action. 

And we can be angry
And we will hold all those accountable, who do not hold themselves accountable
But first, we must show that we hold ourselves accountable
For our own stories

That is the only way we can join hands together. All those who have awakened. And all those who want to wake up, they just have been too broken by fears and worries and stereotypes, to ask for our help. For our companionships.

And especially those, who are not yet ready to wake up, to look injustice in the face and accept that we are the cause of it. We, still, must have that much love, that much grace and power, to keep our hands open and ready to accept them when they come.

Where Do The Old People Go?

I have this obsession with old people.

I totally glorify them.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that my Grandma was super cool. Bad ass. Crazy. Loving. Sweet. Brilliant. Compassionate. Honest. Too honest. Gentle.  Blunt and ruthless. Hysterical. And perfect.

And I want to be like her.

I just love them, old people.

I see them as unlocked treasure chests of jewels...much like the ones buried beneath oceans in pirate movies. I just don't quite understand why more people today aren't searching for them. Old people, that is.

At least in my culture, the tendency is to put them away. Keep them away. We don't have time anymore to take care of them. We don't have patience anymore to help them. We don't have wisdom anymore to learn from them. Why is that? Is it our culture? Is it our economy that doesn't give us the time? Is it our natural human behaviour- have we evolved and developed into this?

I don't have any grandparents anymore. Not ones by blood.
I didn't get the chance to know my father's father or my mother's mother.
I dream about them, though.
And I totally glorify them.

My mother's mother is brilliant and funny and plays tricks with me as we sit on sidewalk stoops in Queens. I'm just a kid and I believe every single thing she tells me and she laughs at my innocence in a kind way.

My father's father is patient. He gives me a pencil and a paper and lets me work at my own pace and style. He just watches. I feel safe and accepted and I remember this feeling. It helps me to create.

I don't have any grandparents, by blood, anymore. So I borrow other people's. Usually, without asking for permission. However, I always return them.

We're talking about old people, people! Don't you get it? They have lived a life much longer than ours. They have made more mistakes. Experienced more adventures, or were too afraid too. They know the lifestyle of our ancestors and the way things were before we invented things that made us forget to ask them. Don't you get it? Everything we need to know, they already do!
And we're losing it.

And they're old! And carefree. They don't have to worry anymore about what people think of them. Kinda like how we started as kids. When did that change? Wouldn't it be nice to live that way again? Care-Free. Not careless. Care-free. Worrying keeps us from being here today, and doesn't change what tomorrow will look like. Don't you want to feel free again? Like when we ran around the playground as kids.

Last week I spent five hours with my neighbours. My Costa Rican grandparents.

Grandma was teaching me how to make tamales. I was fascinated by the wrinkles in her face and I longed to know the stories that formed each one of her perfectly constructed lines. I discovered a few,  as she laughed tying the tamales with 2 of her daughters. I learned through the wrinkles that her family was her joy. I ask myself, what is my joy? Have I connected with it today?

Grandpa was siting on a chair nearby, shirtless. His belly was a sign that he loved sharing food and his eyes lit up when he talked about Christmas. Dec 8 and Dec 24 were always two of his favourite days, and the whole month, in general, makes up some of his happiest days. His mother used to always make him tamales on Dec 8 and 24, and somedays in between, and all the family would get together and share.

He invited me to sit with him and share some coffee.

He tells me how he has been married for over 60 years. "Mi amor," he calls to Grandma. Always, mi amor. He tells me how he loves to dance. And play soccer. He tells me how he got sick and how Grandma, too, got sick and how some things changed. But still, "mi amor".

{The treasure chest is beginning to open and I am in the land of the pirates}

He tells me the history of this community, when it was just 4 houses with unlocked doors.
Now, every house has a fence.

"Orgullo," {pride} has changed everything.

"Not in my house." He tells me. His face becomes stern and ruthless, like that of my Grandmas, and in that instant I love him.

He does not believe in pride. He gets on the bus and he glances over his shoulder, scoping out the woman next to him. He re-enacts this glance for me and I cannot help but smile in sweet admiration and quiet obsession with his uninhibited realness. His total surrender to the moment.

"You can't talk to people anymore," he tells me. "Not if they have a car and you don't. Not if they have a fancy job and you don't."

I get on the bus and I scope out the woman next to me. I see if she's gonna talk. And I ask her where she is going. I learn about her life a little bit. People are interesting, you know? We find something in common. And we laugh a bit. And before she gets off I invite her to come by the house and eat sometime. Better to come around Christmas, that's when the tamales are best.

Grandpa likes to share.
And I like that.

{So much not-sharing these days. Do you notice that?
I remember learning to share in kindergarten; I do. I remember being excited. I was like, "Wow, if I give that kid my play-dough he will smile!" And it worked! And I loved that.

Not so much today. My clothes. My seat on the train. My career advancement. My kid's test scores.
I, too, suffer from a case of the My's.
Everything is competition.
Climbing on top of one another.
Proving how we are better.

To who?

For what?}

Grandpa reminds me of the things I like to remember.

And just as the conversation has gotten historical and a bit heavy. Sentimental and a bit nostalgic. Ruthless and a bit blunt...

He offers me a shot of Rum.

And I accept. Because who wouldn't have a shot of run with a shirtless old-guy at 11am on a Thursday while making tamales?

And If I died in that moment, I could say I died alive.

I want to experience life. I want to be there for these moments. I want to know everyday that I am awake and living.
I have seen too much numbness in my life.
I have lived too many days asleep.

I believe this is what life is really about and everything else that we have created that doesn't allow us to have moments like these is a false reality that we, as humanity, have all begun to follow and accept as the truth.

These moments, sharing stories and food and connecting with people so much older and more wrinkley, wise and carefree, these are moments worth living. At least for me.

Because in that moment I was given my whole life back. I mean, don't know where it went. I just know that sometimes when I'm writing the papers or figuring out how to pay my school debt, I lose it. I lose myself and I lose my life a bit because I forget what it means to be alive.

And in that moment with Grandpa and Grandma making tamales, I remember.

I remember that there is always time for each other. I remember that I want to love my children just like Grandpa and Grandma do. I remember that I want to have a community where we don't need fences to keep others out and keep ourselves in. I remember that I want to make my food with my hands and love the experience of it.

Listening to Grandpa talk open and honestly about his relationship with Grandma, makes me remember that honesty is pure and liberating. Watching him sit there with his belly out and eating with his hand reminds me that being real is beautiful. Not caring what others think is so refreshing.

Sharing a shot at lunch with Grandpa reminds me not to take life so seriously. To be carefree.
Because it helps you to love a little bit more.
Smile a bit more.
Share a bit more.

And we need more of that in this world, don't you think?

Grandma is tying the tamales diligently. Her daughters are picking on each other and laughing. Grandma's granddaughter has my camera and is documenting it all. And they let me be a part of it. And I am so very grateful.

I am making tamales on a Thursday afternoon. I am supposed to be working.
That's what the system requires of me. That's what I have been led to believe.
Sometimes, I like to hit the "pause" button on what I have learned. And think for myself for a minute.

Grandma and Grandpa invited me to make tamales with them today. Do I have time for that? Do I have time for people, for my neighbours? And if the answer is No, then what kind of world do we live in? To not have time for our neighbours. For each other.

The Truth About Why Plants Are Her Babies

"I quit! I'm giving up farming. Sorry. I can't do it anymore." She tells me with a terrifying excitement in her eyes in from of the church at 7am on a Sunday morning.

I stand there in the place we nearly collided, me on my way to soccer practices, her on her way to prayer. She is ranting and I am standing there befuddled, with my cleats in hand.
What is she talking about?
I think to myself as I watch her frazzled and anxious, hobbling, arm-that-holds-the-purse-over-her-shoulder shaking. She glances back at me once more with a look of despair and then hurries to make it to mass.

I slow down.
My rush to make it on-time has left me forgetting to breath and see what appears before me on my walk.

This isn't Rosa* [*This is a true story. The name has been changed]

This isn't her and I know it.
Rosa loves to farm.
Something is wrong.

I let a few days pass.
So the excitement can settle down. So Rosa can relax a bit. So I can get my head on straight.

And then I call her.
Can I come by? I ask her.

She tells me there is no need to come. Her bones are aching and she cannot work on the farm. She is in pain and she cannot bear it anymore.

I tell her that we don't need to work. I just want to bring some bread from the local baker and sit with her and talk. Spend the morning together.
She agrees.

I arrive early.
She jumps up from her seat, trying to hide a little smile.
I can feel a bit of relief as she stands and comes to me.
So many mornings alone.
Now, someone.

She starts the coffee part and rummages to find food, as she almost always does when I enter.
Its only 7am and I know that she has been up since 3am or 4am.

She starts cooking.
I notice her movements are slower than usual. I can feel the pain in her elbows and knees, as if it were my own.

I tell her, "Wow. Look at all your Christmas decorations. It looks so nice."
In my mind, I'm missing the smell of Thanksgiving stuffing.

She turns to me and her eyes meet mine and she smiles.
I can tell she feels happy, proud, grateful. Just for a moment. Then her face changes subtly.

"Yea. It's not an easy time, you know? I like to decorate and all and family comes around. That's nice. It's just that whenever that song comes on, man, do you know that I cannot help but cry? You know that song? The one about the poor boy who lived in between the paper walls?"

"Why do you cry, Rosa?" I ask her. Thinking she is sentimental like me around the holidays. Thinking she misses family who have moved away far. People lost. People worth missing.

She looks back at me and gives me a once-over.
Scanning me like the machines they use at the airport to see if you are safe enough to come over to the other side.

I pass the test.

"Listen Jaime. I am going to be frank."
She starts. Just like this with these words.

"My life has not been easy. And every Christmas this song reminds me of where I came from. I was 9 and it was a Tuesday and I still don't understand."

There's too many details that I don't yet feel comfortable sharing.
And it's too hard to use much of her own words for me still.

But the story is important.

Rosa was sold by her father at the age of 9 into prostitution. Her father needed money and he drank a lot. This isn't justification. This is part of his story. And one day Rosa's father's friend was at her house and he told Rosa, while they were in the kitchen and Rosa was just 9, that "she was going to be his soon".

And Rosa walked outside to tend to the chickens and his voice and his words rang in her mind, but she didn't understand.

And then one day she was taken. To a place she didn't know and forced to live with this old man.
And she ran away and she ran away and her father found her and beat her.

And this happened repeatedly for years and years. Many men. Many escapes. Many beatings.

As her belly began to grow, she thought she was sick.
She didn't know she was pregnant. She didn't understand.
And she was by the pila when she started to give birth, and still she didn't understand.

And her baby was taken from her.
Her first baby was taken from her.

And so were many after her.

Her voice changes and she turns to me again.
She is angry now.
"He ruined my life. And do you know the bastard had the nerve to show up here the day before he died to ask me forgiveness? And I told him, 'You get out of here. You don't ask me for forgiveness. You ask my children for that. You ruined me. You ruined my life.'"

"It was Tuesday and I was 9 years old," she tells me.

She doesn't know how to leave that place.

She is sad again and she keeps cooking.
"I wanted a family. My dream was to take care of a home and a family. Now, I have children all over the place with many different men. They don't even know I am their mother, some of them. My father stole them from me."

She keeps going with the story. It is long and it goes back a lot to when she was 9 and then it skips forward. There are details that are hard for me to hear, but I still there sideways in my chair listening and watching her pace around the kitchen. I am mostly silent. I try not to look like I am in the pain that I am in. I want to be strong for her. I want to be patient and loving and understanding. I want to be whatever she needs me to be in that moment.

So I just sit and watch. Occasionally nodding in a way that she knows it is okay to tell me. That I can listen and not judge.

When she is ready, she slows down.

I say something, understanding that she needs a relief.
She wanted to get it all out and now she did and now she needs a break.

So I say something, nothing of importance, just to clear the space.

And she sits down with me with two place and I smile genuinely.
I'm hungry.

We eat slowly and not talking much except about little things like the weather today and how much local chickens cost.

I understand more now why her joints hurt.
I understand more now why she told me that, "the animals and the plants are her babies."
I understand more now why it is Christmas time and she says she wants to quit farming.

She doesn't want to quit farming.
She wants to move on from her past.

After we finished eating and Rosa was washing the dishes, she said to me, "Do you know I only really get hungry when someone is here with me? It's so nice to share this meal with someone."

Why am I sharing this story?

I asked myself this, as the story churned inside of me for days.

We live in a world of disconnect.
No, let me correct. We have created a world of disconnect.
We are very much connected. To our roots, our histories: ranging from our own Grandparents to our distance indigenous relatives. We are even connected to the Earth. We all love to feel things with our hand and experience exhilaration and freedom- these are part of the natural order of the natural world.
We have just forgotten and have become distracted from the world we have created.
An artificial one that is build out of inanimate objects and cold materials.

We are also very much connected to each other.
We are compelled to help those in need. The smile of someone else is contagious. And we all know that life is better when shared.

We are just so damn distracted.

I love Farmer's Markets because I get to interact with people in a way that makes me feel real. Not all farmers create or live organically. And not all of them treat me the way I want to be treated. This is not reflective of farmers or markets...this is reflective of the human race and the world we have created. The difference between the farmers markets and the not-so-super-markets is that you have the opportunity to remember your connection...to your food and to your food producers and to each other. You also have choice. You have part of your freedoms and rights back. You don't have those in society. Corporate greed and false advertising tells you what you need and tricks you into buying something that is really something else. At the farmers market, you can ask questions. You can determine if you believe the producer or not. You can learn again, about trust. About real people.

Honestly, I wonder if this frightens some of us. We have gotten so used to force-feeding: literally and figuratively. Information is shoved down our throats from the media, marketers, education system, bosses, friends, parents...we haven't stopped to think for ourselves in a long awhile.

It's hard. I know. I'm not blaming you. Or them.
This is the world we have created!
We have access to everything and anything we want and because of this we have become confused over what exactly it is that we need and want.

And so, to come back to Rosa, I share her story because it is real.

She loves to farm. Her plants and her animals are her babies.

And when we finished breakfast that day and walked out to the garden, I noticed how the pigment in her face changed. I noticed how she walked with more ease as we neared the oregano and basil plants.

And she saw it too. Because when we came back inside she said, "You know, I don't feel the pain when I'm out there in the garden?"

Would you buy from her?
Would you buy her veggies?

Not because you pity her or feel bad for her. No. That is not the reason I am sharing this story.

I buy my stuff from Rosa because she is a real person. Who cares about what she does.
She loves to farm. She loves to take care of things.
She needs to make money, too, but she would do it anyway even if she didn't need money.

And I like to have the choice to support this if I want to.
I like to choose to support people.
People who care about what they do.

Wouldn't it be awesome if we had more of that? People caring about what they do?

With all of their heart.
Wouldn't you like to support them in their passion?

Maybe it's just me. I don't know sometimes.

If I am crazy or not. I don't know!

But, I've stopped caring about the answer to that question.
And I've stopped caring about what others may think about me and how I choose to live.

And I've started living by what feels right to me in my heart.

Please don't feel bad about Rosa's story.
Don't support her out of pity or grief.
She doesn't need that.
That won't help her.

She has had a hard life, like most of us.

What she needs, what we all need, is trust and faith in real people. Real people doing the real things that make their heart sing. This is what we need to invest our time and money and souls into.
This is the real world.
Connecting.

To and with the realness that is the joy and passion and meaning in our hearts.

Don't Call Me A Tourist

Please don't call me a tourist.
I understand why you do. It's a term everyone uses. Everyday.
I understand that my accent is a bit different than yours. I understand that my Passport is stamped differently. I understand that you were born here and I was born there.
Just, please don't call me a tourist.
I understand that I do activities that a tourist would do.
I still get excited over a plate of gallo pinto and I am still mesmerised by the blue-ness of your water.
I understand that much of how I behave is classified as tourism.
I pay different prices for park entrances and I gaze at monkeys and sloths and canopies with the eye-twinkle of an amateur.

I just think that maybe we have got it all wrong.
And the more you call me a tourist,
The more I become one.

When was it that we stopped being nomads?
And became tourists?

When was it that we stopped being care-takers of the land?
And became conquerers?

When was it that we stopped being us?
And became you and I?

Please don't call me a tourist
Because I didn't come here to tour this world.
I was born here from it.

I didn't come here to see and take.
I was birthed to experience.

If I call myself a tourist, I separate.
Me from you. My land from your land.
When I call myself a tourist, I feel that I am not home.
I feel that I am searching. That I do not belong.

I forget that my home is this Earth.
The mountains and the rivers, the air and the sunlight
The smiles
The food
The embraces
This is all my own. My home.

It is all mine. All ours.
Belonging. Yet, not permanent.

It is not ours to keep. None of it.
Just to experience. Just to embrace the essence. Embody it and carry it with you, passing it on to all those people and places you encounter along the way.

We are nomads.

And we have forgotten our very nature.

We have built communities... that have turned into civilisations...that have turned into societies....

Societies
Separating us.
Settling us.

And we have forgotten that the soles of our feet love to sink into the soil.
That our hands love to know the textures of the trees.
And our skin longs to be wrapped in the waters
And kissed by the winds.

We have forgotten that as we walk
We arrive with each step
To a new place that our bodies long to know
Where our souls already belong
We just need some time to become familiar and comfortable.

And there are things there that will help us to understand
Connect again
To this new place
An old home

And we must remember.
With patience and an open-mind.
Choosing love over fear.
Opening our ears and our hearts
To listening and accepting
What this new place has to share with us. Living beings that come in unique shapes and colors and sizes. Cultured by the environment they grew from.

We must remember, as we arrive
not as tourists
As nomads
not as conquerers
As caretakers

Of the same Earth. Of the same land.
That gives us the necessities to live. Oxygen. Heat. Wind.
And also pleasure. enjoyment. Love.

We must remember, as we arrive from a place that shaped us a bit differently
That we still walk with the same feet upon the same Earth
And we must ask ourselves

What makes us human together?
All temporary inhabitants of this planet
All sharing the space together

We have all taken
Our whole lives
Take from the Earth its fruits
We have harvested it
We have drawn lines
That have determined what is mine. What is yours. Where you can go. Where I can go.
We have gone so far as to called some of Earth's babies
Illegal.

Because we have forgotten
That at one point we all walked this place together.
Nowhere was mine
Except in my mind.

And now we are remembering
The wisdom that we all carry inside of us is waking up
As we begin to move again
From the settlements
That are beginning to suffocate us

We are picking up and going. Longing to share. Learn. Discover. Awaken.

Just
Please don't think like a tourist

Be humble, as you arrive, as a nomad slowly and patiently gets to know the land and its people
Its landscapes and life forms

Be respectful of the new place you go.
Yes.
Understand that you know nothing when you get there
Yes.
Be careful. And open-minded.
Stay curious. Ask questions.
Because you have forgotten.
Because you were settled and shaped and separated
So that you could "develop"

And now
You are ready to remember

You are already home.
You are a nomad.
You are me.
Learning to adapt.
Ready to understand.
Willing to accept.
Longing to love.

Don't be afraid.
The people and places look different.
Be open to love.
And you will see how much is the same.

Don't come to take.
It is already yours.
Come to experience. And it will forever be with you.

The path of tourists: "out-of-towners, travelling or visiting a place for pleasure"

This is how we have come to interact with our Earth
Our Mother
As out-of-towners

And it is time that we remember that we are home.
Everyday. Everywhere.
No one is illegal. No one is a tourist.
These are inventions of our human society.

We all belong
Here

And everyday
Every where
With all living beings of all forms with whom we interact,
It is our right
And our responsibility
To love, respect, listen, receive, give, and care
With our deepest desires for good
And highest intentions for integrity
Just as our Mother Earth has always provided

And instilled within us
This right and responsibility to love
As nomads, living with the Earth, caring for her and her inhabitants
As she so willingly does for us.

Don't you think it is time we remembered?

Gunshot Rings

Would you die for a gorilla?

There's conflict in the Congo. And one man is willing to lose his life as he stands by the side of the gorillas whom he calls his family at Virunga National Park.

You can see it in his eyes that he is not lying.
I know that feeling.

There are certain people that I can look at and I know that I would give my life for them. It doesn't scare me. I can look at them an imagine leaving this world for them and it does not cause me to lose peace. My parents. My sisters. My Grandma. Children.

I have had experiences in my life where death has crossed my mind.
On bus rides in El Salvador.
On mountain hikes in Thailand.
In taxis in Vietnam.
On dark nights in New York.

I have felt before, a sense of calm, in the anticipation of possible loss.
Of my physical being.

I have looked into the barrel of a gun.
And I have run.
The echoing gunshot still rings in my mind.
Only, in my mind.

It's like a reminder
now.

The sense of calm comes from knowing
That I am living how I would like to live.
I hear the ringing and I say to myself,
"Wake up! You have forgotten to message your mother today."

I don't want to die.
No. I very much love this living.

I don't know if I could die for a gorilla. Like this beautiful man in the Congo.
He can. Because he knows that is what he was placed on this Earth to do.
Be one with the gorillas.

Do you know?
Do you know what you were placed on this Earth to do?
Do you ask yourself?

You can do it now, if you haven't done it before.
Just don't do it if it feels like a chore. If it makes you nervous. If you are searching and searching and searching for an answer.
There is no answer.

There's just a feeling.
A knowing feeling.
A hug from your spouse. A touch from the tiny hand of your baby. The wind on your face by the ocean. A cuddle with a good book. The wrapping of your fingers around a pencil.

Get to know the things that make your heart sing.
Or eyes light up.
Or breath become noticed.

This is where you find why you have been placed on this Earth.

You have forgotten.
As I sometimes do.
And you have run away.
As I sometimes do.

Would you like to come back? To this place where you belong?

Deadlines. School papers. Clean the kitchen. Teach a class. Call the doctor. Write the email.

The gunshot rings.
"Your neighbour invited you to lunch. Go and sit with him. He needs you."

I drop everything and I go.
Because something in my heart says it is where I am needed most.

And at lunch, when I see his smile, and listen to him talk
I know that if I go
in this moment
I will be okay.
Because I am already where I belong.

I haven't found a way to make this living sustainable yet
Sustainable in the world that we have created today
Where I have to pay for things with currency
And not things that I create with my own 2 hands
Like food or art
or real things full of meaning
that I would rather put the time into making
that I believe can serve people.

If I could
I would pay people with my smile and my ears
I would clean their kitchens
And organize their cabinets
I would draw them pictures
And make them cards
I would play with their children
And cook them dinner

The world we have created today makes this hard
Institutions ask for papers and taxes and currency
That I don't have
That you need

I spend too much time having lunch with my neighbours
Giving unpaid classes at the school
With my hands in the soil
Writing stories on my heart

I need these things because they give me life
I need to make sure I am living

Gunshot rings.

What were you placed on this Earth to do?

I am doing it.
A little more each day.
Sometimes, not enough.
Maybe, not always the right things.

I need to know that I am alive
This is why I do the things I do

So that when the gunshot rings
I know that Mother Earth will take me
Peacefully back to where I belong.
Where I already am.

I Don't Believe in Chores

There used to be a time when I ran and it felt like a chore.

I don't believe in chores anymore.
I believe in duties.

I used to whine and complain to myself as I pulled on my shorts and searched for my sports bra. I listened to my uneven breathing with angst as I watched my feet slam into the pavement.
I should run.
I must run.
They said I have to.
These were the voices that spoke in my mind.
But I really didn't know. Who? Who was making me run.
And Why?  Why was I running?

Chores.
Doing things because "we're supposed to".

Says who?

You don't have to do anything you don't want to. Not a thing.
Who says so, anyways?
Why should you do it?

If you don't want to do it. Don't!

Even if your mother or father or teacher asks you. You don't have to do anything!

The thing is, when things started to feel like a chore, like you should do it... for someone else or for some reason that doesn't really excite you or empower you, you automatically reject it. You start to feel resentment...and you actually haven't even considered the activity, so much as just reacted to the phrase "you must do exercise."

So, I don't believe in chores.

I do, however, believe in duties.

I clean the house because I know I am so damn fortunate to have a roof over my head. And so I put music on and I clean it with joy.

When I go to New York, I do the dishes because I know that not all mothers still make a home for their daughters and mine does and so the dishes are the least I can do.

I make my bed in the morning and as I fold the sheets I give thanks to the warmth that I feel beneath them every night.

So, you don't have to do anything. But wouldn't it be nice if you did more? Wouldn't it be nice if you considered all that your parents did to give you everything you have? Your own room. Perhaps a college education.

Wouldn't it be nice if you loved your body a little bit more? All that is does for you. Heart beating. Stomach digesting. Kidneys detoxing. All that crap we've created in the environment and food and water- our body doing its best to fight it all for us. Wouldn't it be nice if we did a bit more for it?

You don't have to do anything, but what if you did more?

Wouldn't it be nice if you looked at your teacher in the eyes while she was speaking to show that you respected her time?

It doesn't feel like a chore anymore when I run.

It feels like a gift.
It feels like I'm dancing on the pavement.

I sing in my head. Or maybe out loud. I go into such a trance that I don't even know where I am or where I am going. And. It's awesome.

Tonight, the full moon followed me on my run. It hid behind clouds and then emerged again. It formed halos and rainbows, shadows and symmetries. It was bright and bold and brilliant. Like someone once taught me to be.

And yet every day I falter.
I don't know where I'm going or what I am doing.
I'm just doing what I can and being the way life has made me.

Everyday I learn something new that shapes my perspective. Everyday I forget. I ask questions. I learn again.
Everyday I remember.
Everyday I try to do my best...and somedays...I really suck at it.
But I'm really lucky because I have amazing people in my life. Hands that help me that I must not forget about, like my friend recently wrote me in a Birthday poem.

I have a beautiful brother from Rwanda who taught me about forgiveness.
And so I am learning how to forgive myself.

I have a goddess friend from the USA who taught me how to love my body and my femininity,
And so I am learning how to embrace what I have been given.

And I have a family in Thailand who taught me about duties
And so I am learning how to celebrate my ability to run, clean and care for beings and things.

Today the Moon followed me.
As I ran in a sweet meditation.
Illuminating my shadow.
Reminding me to be humble, for I am made of Earth.
Smiling at me and my nobility, knowing I am also made of his stars.
It reminded me of all that I have to be grateful for. My body and its ability to move. My self and my commitments. And most importantly, the people who have made me who I am and brought me where I am today.

You don't have to do anything you don't want to.

And if you don't do it, know what you stand for.
And if you do do it, darling do it like hell.

Revel in it.
Dance in it. Sing to it.
Flow. Jam. Taste.
Feel it.
Really do it.

And then you'll see there's no such thing as chores.
It's just called living.
And its all your choice how you wanna do it.

Why Do I Always Feel A Little Uncomfortable On My Birthday?

What is a Birthday?

A Birth-Day.
A day of birth.

A time to celebrate birth, itself.
Birth: the creation of life.
A new baby. A miracle. A joy.
The joy of life.

Yes. This is worth celebrating!

Celebrating.
How?
Who?
Me?

I did not bring myself into this world.
Not alone. Not one bit.
A very tiny piece of my birth was my own doing.

What did I do, on November 4, 1987?

Receive.

Receive.
Yes. This is the way I most contributed on my day of birth.
From the umbilical cord.
From the womb.
From the hands of my father and breast of my mother.

From the world- the air that I breathed in. The energies in the room. The love. The attention. The cuddles.

Receive.
The eager curiosity from my new sister. Looking at me. Wondering.
Who is this new baby? What does her presence mean in my life?

I am a by-product of years of recreation that reach back to great grandmothers and great grandfathers that I never knew in physical form.

I am the energies of the Sun and Moon, spinning in the cosmos and manifesting in my tears and laughter and pain.

I am the elements of the world: water and fire, Earth and wind, gaining momentum and dissipating throughout the hours of the day; dancing to find a balance that is often lost. And then found again. Constant rediscovery. Grounds for more celebration.

A never-ending dance.
A flow.
A rhythm.

A music.
I am this, too. I am a smile that is given to me by the hummingbirds that visit my window on early mornings. I am the serenity of the cows that look at me as they graze in the fields across from my shelter. I am the ecstasy of the silence beneath the ocean.

I am the voice of my Grandma, in her accent and fowl language. I am the calf muscles of my father and metabolism of my mother. I am the confidence of my older sister, the creativity of my next sister, and the humbleness of my baby sister. I am the longing to love people of my dog. I am the gratitude of the lady who has let me live in her apartment for 3 months. I am the broken pieces of heart from past lovers that have created more space to be filled with more love from more people and so I am also an expanding heart. I am the poverty of the children I lived with in El Salvador without access to clean water. I am the dedication and perseverance of their single mothers. I am the culprits in corporate America. I am the forgiveness of Mother Teresa. I am the commitment and fearlessness of doing better of Martin Luther King.

I am.

Everything.

And simultaneously, I am nothing, without you.
Without all of this.

It is "my" birthday.
It is the day of my birth.
It appears that way in our world. Yes. I agree.
And I am happy to celebrate.

Because life is definitely worth celebrating.

Every day, life is worth celebrating.
Every day, someone is born.

So everyday, we take the time to celebrate someone.
"Our" birth days.

And so in essence, we are celebrating all of us.
Together.
Everyday.

Let us remember that.

In all the ways we interact. And exchange. Give and receive. We have made each other who we are.
So let's celebrate, together.

Not me.
Us.

This will mean so much to me.
Another reminder,
of how we are all connected.

This is the truth about birth.

Remembering
How and who and what
Gives us life.

Doing our best not to take it for granted. Noticing the moments.
Fully living. Fully loving.
Celebrating.
Togetherness.

I Haven't Accepted That You're Gone

It's been 5 months.
I haven't accepted that you're gone. No. I haven't. When the idea comes to mind, I push it away. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head from side to side until the thought goes away to someplace else temporarily. It's not really working, I know. But it's become a bad habit.

You're not really gone.
It's just that I haven't seen you awhile. I'm just away again. I'm in Costa Rica or Thailand or El Salvador or wherever the fuck it is that I've gone this time instead of choosing to be with you or Dad or Mom or Danielle or Christina or Amanda or Sam or my friends. And you're still at Uncle Joe's house in Long Island.

You're probably cooking in the basement and drinking bitter coffee. And whistling. You're a really good whistler. You're good at so many things. Everything really. ...
And you'll be coming to our house soon. You'll be sitting on my couch and I'll be coming home, too. I'll try not to bother you about biting your nails. And I'll beg you to come for a walk with me and you will curse and say no and refuse over and over and pretend you're annoyed. And eventually you'll get up and come and probably end up skipping down the sidewalk. And you'll talk to all the strangers we pass and you'll make jokes and laugh and you'll say how nice the walk is.

I have your necklace. The one you wore that day at Aunt Linda's barbecue.
I really love it. And I pick it up when I see it and I hold it in my hand. And I can see your hand holding it when you took it off from around your neck and looked at it deeply the way I look at each of my pieces that hold sentimental value and memories.

You didn't buy things.
You collected beautiful pieces that gave you inspiration and made you wonder.
I like that you taught me that without telling me directly. You just taught me through your ways and the look in your eyes when you talked about your porcelain dog or the painting on your wall in your house in Florida or the necklace.
Those things made you wonder.
My life is about wonder.
Thank you, Grandma.

So I have your necklace, don't worry. I hardly put it on, I have to tell you. I do the thing again. The squeezing of my eyes shut and shaking of my head while I hold it in my hand. Because if I put it on that means that you're not wearing it. And I don't like that thought.

You had it on that day at the barbecue. And everyone was admiring it. And I told you how much I liked it, too. We were sitting on the bench next to each other and you were in a bit of pain from the tumor and you mentioned it a few times, but then you'd come back to the conversation and making people laugh. And so you said "oh, you like it that much? Here, take it."

And you took the necklace off and handed it to me for a minute or too. And then you looked at it again and said to me matter-of-factly, "You know what. I'm still alive. I'm still gonna wear it. Give it back."

And I loved this about you. You wanted to live. You enjoyed it. All the moments. It always came back to laughter. Boldness. Brilliance. And laughter. You knew how to work hard and enjoy life, too. Always. And you weren't afraid to say whatever the hell was on your mind.

Not a lot of people live like that Gram, you know that?

Will you promise to always remind me how to be like this?

Promise to remind me to live like you did. The working hard. The enjoying life. The laughter. The "not trying to please the whole freaking world". Just being open and honest and saying whats on your mind. And loving. A lot. Along the way.

Remind me often.