I'm Not Good At This

I'm not good at this.

And suddenly nothing I ever said or cared about or practiced really matters to me at all.

I don't do the things I'm supposed to. I don't drink enough water and I know it. I haven't gotten enough exercise. I'm behind on papers. I eat anything. Meat included. I cannot snap my fingers and be happy. It's not easy. I don't know why I ever made it sound like it is. I'm bitter at the sound of my own advice.

I don't make salads. I cannot meditate. I gave up reading books because I forget the words in front of me in a matter or minutes. I have not opened my emails in days. I miss phone calls and don't return them. My sink is full of dishes. My suitcase is still empty and Friday is just seconds away.
I don't do the things I'm supposed to.

The things I'm supposed to do.

What is it that I'm supposed to do?

I need to be there. And yet I am here.
To get there I must board a plane. I must pack. I must close bank accounts and exchange money. I must say goodbye and wish people well. I must figure out what is next.

I need to do these things. Now.

But I don't.

I just don't do them.

I cry. I think about you a lot. I write. I think about friends here. I watch them pack. I watch them leave. Disappear. I smile with them. We share food. We have some wine. We laugh. It feels good. For a few moments. My mind goes back to you. To other places. To that time you held my hand in church and rubbed my fingers to make them long and skinny. That was years ago.  I haven't gone to church since 2006 or something. We all had dinner last night as the group of Asian Peace Builders got ready to head to the Philippines.  Such a warm group of people. So many big smiles and beautiful eyes. I like to imagine where they will be tomorrow. And next year and 10 years from now. We relive memories of classes together. Of my dogs wandering down the school halls. We hug and smile. I'm okay for a bit. More than okay. I'm happy. Proud. Loved. My mind travels back to you. You're telling me you don't want to make the salami pie but you are rolling the dough. You tell me you don't remember how many eggs but you are cracking them. We watch the video I recorded of you later and you love it. You smile and laugh at yourself. You watch it a few times. You curse a lot.

Is it true you won't be there anymore? You won't do this? You won't come to my house? I won't wait by the door to let you in as you pull up in your white Chrysler? You won't wear your gold jewelry? You won't complain about the coffee? Who will I sit with at Christmas? Who will sleep in my childhood bed? Who will be my Grandma?

I come home.
I said home. I mean my place in Costa Rica. My little room overlooking a big green yard. The windmills to the left. The sunsets to the right.
I come home.
But I don't pack.

I take a few things off the walls. I'm supposed to do this.
Things I drew in the past few months. Quotes I like. Photos of places I imagine myself in the future.
I cry a little bit more. There's a photo of you in every room.
I don't care about these things.
Not right now. Will I care soon? When will that be?
Have you ever lost interest in a dream?

I don't dream. Not in the past couple of weeks. I see sunsets. But they're just colors.
I want better things for the world. For the people suffering. For the injustices. But, honestly, I stopped trying to believe I can help. I cannot imagine how to do so. Will I remember, one day? Will I know, sometime soon, what it is that I was placed on this planet to do?

I lay in my hammock. A lot.
Sometimes, this is what it feels like I'm supposed to do.

I see the same things I have been watching since August of last year.

Yellow breasted birds that land on the power line in front of my balcony and occasionally glance in my direction before flying off over the pool or the mountain or landing in front of another person in another place.

A little nest perched in the guayaba tree is finally fully of tiny beaks and I watch them poke up and down and I watch their mother come by with little wormy gifts.

There's a big iguana that rattles the tin roof in my neighbor's house, which makes the dogs go crazy. Three of them now. But one's just visiting. Trying to find a new home for the other two. It hurts. I don't want to leave them. They know it, too. They're extra cuddly today.

The clouds are coming in. It will rain soon.

The day is almost over. I could have sworn I just woke up.

I walked this morning. Up to one of my favorite trees. A maze of branches and roots and vines and leaves and weeds and nests and soil and bugs. Dirty things that all of a sudden I like more than the pretty ones. A mess of a tree. Not knowing where one thing starts and another ends. I climb it. I rub its rough bark with the palm of my hands. With my fingertips. I hold on to thin vines that I think will be weak, but they are strong. I stand on branches. I look up. Sometimes, you can learn so much from just watching. From trusting. From trying. From not being afraid. From getting dirty. My mind travels back to the Magnolia tree that used to be in the front yard of my house in New York. My older sister and I are climbing it. She falls off. The tree dies one year. No more bright pink and white flowers. My Dad cuts it down. It's just a stump now. Grandma is riding a big wheel down our front hill in the blue, red, yellow sweater that she always wears. We're all laughing.

I'm back in my hammock. Thinking about you. Watching the tiny bird beaks. Listening to neighbors talk in the distance. Writing. This feels like what I'm supposed to do.

Who makes these things? The rules of life.
What is it that I'm not good at?

Order. Routine. Numbness.
Balance. Acceptance. Non-attachment.
Discipline. Dedication. Duty.

How does one get good at such things?

Practice. everyday.

And then it is lost. In an instant.

For we are always trying to get somewhere.
Do more. Have more. Be more.

An illusion of the mind.

All we have is this very moment.

Am I wasting it? As I sit here. Un-packed. Un-bathed. Un-anything.

I can't feel right now.
I see it all. The birds. The tiny beaks. The playing dogs. The beautiful skies.
And I don't feel that sense of admiration. Inspiration. Beauty. Bliss. That which I used to know.
What is it that I'm supposed to do?
Because I can't remember. And I can't feel it.

Not until the next wave of chest-shaking cries come along.
Emanating from the gaping hole in my chest when I feel that you have stopped breathing.

Exactly one week ago today I came from the airport and into your room.
And you held me.
And you, too, cried in a chest-shaking way.
And you told me you loved me. With your eyes closed. An empty stomach. A dry mouth.
A pain that would have been too much for anyone else to bare.
But you kept fighting.

I'm not good at this.

It just takes time.
It's what everyone says.
It's what I know myself.

Time.
It's hardly ever a friend.



__________________________

Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
It's frisky, and a theatre for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightening is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.

But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white feet of the trees
whose mouths are open.
Doesn't the wind, turning circles, invent the dance?
Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
until at last, now they shine
in your own yard?

Don't call this world an explanation,
or even an education.

When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking

to the center of everything: the seed, the eggs, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
little love-ring,

as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?

-Rumi

I Can Feel You Leaving

I can feel you leaving.
I can feel it because I left my house without my rings on today. My bracelets were there and I heard them clanging against each other as I walked, but when I fidgeted my fingers, like I usually do, they were bare. And I felt naked.

I can feel you leaving.
I can feel it because the sweet orchestra music today was both serene and somber. Too somber. And as I sat there trying to keep it serene, with my eyes welling up, the rest of the room faded and the blank stares of unfamiliar faces around me hurt.  A lot. And I wanted to pick up my bag and walk out, but I wasn't sure where I would go. And I was scared.

I can feel you leaving.
I can feel it because I can't remember how to cook. I don't taste when it's too salty. I don't remember to lower the flame. I don't care about the presentation. I eat without thinking. Without chewing. Without tasting. My stomach doesn't know if it's empty. Or full.

I can feel you leaving.
Because I cried today. In public. And I didn't care. I did. But I didn't. I kept crying even though I pretended I was starting to feel better.
And I yelled. And I hit. Because I wanted to make the pain that was beating me up inside get out.

I can feel you leaving.
Because I am not here myself.
I watch myself from afar. Sometimes close by. I stand in front of myself. I watch my lips move. I hear myself say the words. And I hate the sound of my voice. I hate how silly I sound. I tell myself to stop talking. Or, I choose the "right" words to say. in advance.  in preparation.
It's not me. I know it's not. I watch myself from the other side of my face and I know it's not me because the words are not coming from within they are coming from a contrived place that I have tried so hard to climb out of.
And it's you. Leaving me. Lost.
I'm lost without you.




Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's not that you're leaving me. Maybe I'm trying too hard to hold on to the wrong things. Maybe I'm clinging and grasping and squeezing and forcing things. And I'm suffocating you.

Maybe you are trying to tell me it's okay. Maybe you want me to know that you are ready.

Maybe it's just me. This is you. This is me. You're there. This is your time. This is my time. And I'm not ready for either.

In my mind I have made it beautiful and easy and perfect and sweet. And that's not how it was ever meant to me. It's not possible. And I thought that if I tried hard enough I could make it that way. But I can't.

So. It's not you leaving me.
That's not what I feel.

What I feel is pain. Hurt. Sorrow. Sadness. Anger. Frustration. Love.
Love.
Love.
Love.

The immensity of your love is killing me.

It's not leaving.
It's permeating my every cell.
And I just. Can't. Contain myself.

And I need the hugs. The kisses. The hand holds. The rubs. The grabs.
Even though they make me cry.
I need them because they help release the love that is overflowing in me.
From you.
They help me share it with the world.
Because it is too much for me.

I can feel you.
Loving me.

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.