San Isidro and Beyond!

To San Isidro ... And Beyond!

Somehow in the blissful slipping-into of TicoTime, I managed to lose the business card of the delightfully present, joyful young man who had driven me out from Jimenez to Matapalo, so Ramon, the caretaker arranged for Arturo to pick us up on Thursday morning about 11:00 to take us to the bus station. As with every taxi driver we've met on this trip, not only was Arturo pleasant and knowledgeable, but he also had no usuriousness in his nature. Furthermore, he had a more accurate understanding of the Jimenez bus schedule than the online horario, so we got to the station shortly before the bus left for San Isidro.

The bus from Jimenez, were it straight through, would take about 4 hours, but it was the local, so we stopped often to pick up passengers, only to drop them off a kilometer or two farther along. Shortly after leaving the peninsula, we began paralleling a wide river with occasional little drops that had me regretting not bringing an IK on this trip, until later on, when I found that this river, the Rio Grande de Terraba, had crocs. The Rio Grande runs along the base of a barranca that was part of La Amistad National Park, the wildest and largest natural reserve in Costa Rica, extending all the way across the border into Panama.

130 km and 70 stops later, we were deposited after dark at the end of the line, the plaza of San Isidro, where a bullfighting, cow, and orchid feria was in full swing, making the crossing of the main drag with our bags an adventure in itself. We secured a taxi driven by another good-natured young man who drove us 5 or 6 km up into the mountains to La Princesa, our hotel for the evening.

The view from our patio in the morning was a spectacular vista of the entire valley and mountains beyond, seen through a floral rainbow foreground. The bougainvilleas, especially, with their hyper-naturally rapturous hues had Sandy swooning. Until she saw the daturas. And the roses. And the ginger. And the bird-of-paradise. We wandered the garden, eyeing and identifying exotic birds until the heat reminded us that we were headed to Finca Amrta that morning to begin 3 days of singing for peace and harmony with a group of like-minded people. Another taxi driver took us to the centro to buy goods before heading out into the mountains west of town. He took us down a steep, dusty, rocky drive into the finca, where we were admitted, signed in, and pointed in the direction of the various places to camp. The generosity of others contributed to our good fortune, as we found that they had left to us the most beautiful campsite on the property. It was within a grove comprised of 4 clumps of magnificent green bamboo, up to 12 inches in diameter at the base.

 The spacing was such that we created a small enclosure with our two hammocks, and set up the tent just outside of that. We were some 10 meters from the river, at a spot that had been hand-dammed the prior week by 5 industrious young women from the finca, so that we had a beautiful, pristine swimming hole at our front door. As soon as the hammocks were strung, we shed our clothes and spent the next two hours alternating our revels in the crisp, clear waters with our languid sunning on the boulders alongside.

Prying myself away from the river, I found the singing circle, and began the happy work of learning my first song with the group, Costa Rica Singing Alive. They use a lot of call and response, as well as repetition, gesture, and precise enunciation to help the newbies such as myself to learn the songs. Included within the price package for the weekend were 3 organic meals daily and more infusion of goodwill than a heart can take without bursting into tears or laughter or both.

 Friendship bonds notwithstanding, the culminating event on Sunday evening was the highlight of the weekend. It was a 2 by 2 caterpillar line of hands cradling, supporting, nurturing each person as their turn arose at the head of the line to walk slowly, slowly, slowly, with eyes closed through the line as we all sang a loving, healing song to them, over and over, until they had heard the song sung to them individually at least a dozen times, before ending up embraced in a final hug that allowed the swell in our hearts to subside enough to open our eyes and become part of the singing caterpillar to infuse the next gentle heart coming through.

Planes, Plans, and Polychromatic Paradise

Greetings of joyful salutations to the precious friends and family that read this text. Before I begin to tell of my journey thus far, I want to acknowledge that if I have sent you the blog address that you are important and treasured to me. Each of you in your different ways touches my life and therefore my heart and helps to make me who I am by your individual gifts to me whether they be of example, encouragement, appreciation, or support in so many ways. . The one attribute that is unknowingly shared by all of you is that each of your sparks offers additional fuel to the fire that you help tend… which is the passions of my heart: namely love, but in this context to be mentioned, travel !

The first bit of news is that I am neither in Bali nor Australia as first intended but in the beautiful Golfo Dulce region of southern Costa Rica.

Three days after a very long travel to Bali, David’s father passed on. He was 90. It was a peaceful transition in his own bed surrounded by family. Nevertheless, a funeral follows a death and a good son, which David most assuredly is, heeds the call to attend even when half way across the world. He invited me to continue on in Bali, with the generous heart that he is known for, but I gratefully declined his offer and instead chose to stay by his side.

                           

We arrived in Dallas a day before a most beautiful service replete with military presence and honor. Needless to say, his 90 year-old mother as well as the rest of his family were very happy that we were there to join in the honoring and passing of William Nolen.

After about a week there David decided to stay in Dallas for a few weeks to help his mother, and I decided it was time to join Sophia in Costa Rica. She was scheduled to start at Naropa, a small college in Boulder, in January but decided to extend her time here and defer her start there until the fall.

Even though we’ve been here together for weeks now, I’m still astonished at how our paths have brought us once again to Costa Rica and more exactly to joining our friends at Guaria de Osa  for ceremony with the Secoya elders whom we’ve been working with for the last few years.

Our experience there with ceremony, with friends, and with the elders from the upper Amazon in Ecuador has once again generously provided us with a great renewal. In many various and wonderful ways our bodies, minds, and souls have been renewed, deepened, healed, and expanded. Our hearts are further along toward claiming the full experience of divine love and joy that is our birthright.

Each day unfolds with a greater awareness to the many miracles that are always in front of us when our eyes are open to truly seeing. The lush vividness of the jungle here beckons full attention. From the red regality of the scarlet macaws to the acrobatic antics of the spider and capuchin monkeys, there are vibrant and iridescent colors to behold. Hummingbirds of many varieties, each with their own hues are abundant. The flowers, oh the flowers, above and below! Many such as ylang ylang with scents that demand to be noticed and, in my opinion, deeply breathed in and cherished, are everywhere. The shades of blue waves that dance with a billion rainbows in the sunlight in this part of warm water Pacific Ocean becomes a dark background at night to reflect the moon’s light and the plankton. Colors, colors, colors.

Now to the sounds. The first are the roosters, 3:30 a.m. sharp. Fortunately, they’re slow to wake and only call out a cock-a-doodle yawn sporadically before their more serious early morning vibrato. Next, also while it’s still dark, come the howler monkeys. They generally live further up into the jungle so are seen less often than the spiders and capuchins but make their presence known by their vociferous howls. Next is the moment for which I greet with a child’s eager excitement, the birds’ gift of melodic early morning prayer songs. My god, this music is like a long-awaited expression of a very specific tone that I need to be truly whole. My practice is to open my hearing as wide as it will go and to be vigilant with the wanderings of my mind. The longing to drink with a parched thirst each drop of nectar that is the sweetness of their chorus helps me to simply breathe, be present, embrace, enjoy, and give thanks to the new day. Waves lapping and cicadas chirping are always in the background. Sounds.

Tastes.  FRESH COCONUT WATER !!! Given to us from above by the capuchins, whose efforts to slurp its amazing delights, often result in dropping the cocos to the ground where we scoop them up.

And now ?

David joined Sophia and me shortly after our arrival at Casa Dulce, an incredibly perfect place that we’ve rented for the week. I look out from our hammock-strung balcony past the gardens to the ocean. David and I awoke in the open-air upstairs loft to the sight and sound of the ocean, two agoutis, a small mammal that inhabits this place and, of course, our love together, with Sophia, and all that we cherish and hold sacred, nourished by the early morning bird song.

In Love with Joy,

Sandy

                            

The Gaze of Others

We choose words carefully, each of us.  Or the words choose us.  Each of us a word for the day.  Mine?  superlativo.  Sandy’s?  alumbrar.  Sophia’s?  tornasalado.  We toss a salad of phrases mixing in these new words.  Las diosas lead me through kundalini yoga on a stone tile platform six inches below water level in the palm-shaded pool.  I am distracted by monkeys, wondering (I, not they) whether they might be the elusive howlers that we hear near and far before dawn, announcing their unseen traverse through the treetops.  Toucans touch Sandy’s eyes only.

A hunchbacked agouti startles into flat-spined posture, motionless.  The birds and animals who live here meet our gaze for long moments, scan and translate our relaxed movements into something recognizably undaunting, seem to accept us into the neighborhood, then continue with their searches: the agouti scouring the lawn, the spider monkeys levering and jumping and flying towards small orange fruits, the capuchins slurping coco water through a gnawed crater.  Each gazes upon me and continues, except the black hawk. 

Sensing the hawk’s presence, I turn to find him perched solidly on a low branch eight feet away, willing my gaze into his own.  We hold there, converting moments into currents of energy.  I introduce my camera to the willing hawk.  He stares into the large new eye and is unafraid.  Noiseless photos shift to video, and as I stoop to get a different angle, he flexes legs and lifts wings.  But stays there as I slowly regain vertical.  He gifts me a long hop to a nearby branch, so I return the favor by moving on.  On my return path, I catch a glimpse of fleet movement, a skitter through the leaves, heavy wings lifting small burdens for dinner.  Later I look upward from my hammock to find him watching and assessing once again.  “Do I have the power to conjure another mouse if I rise out of the hammock and edge around the yard?” he perhaps wonders.  He is assimilating me into his life, I am sure. 

Raucous macaws are supplanted by hoots and roars from the waveset in the golfo where a surf class, for any new move or stance gained, shouts approvals carried on the mosquitoless breeze, cooled as it sails atop the cobalt to cerulean water, blowing in from the east shore where purportedly a two-mile long wave construes itself somewhere near Punta Banco.  This day, this Valentine’s Day continues its languorous, lovely stroll toward its amorous conclusion. The love of nature teaches us much about the nature of love.

Awareness of Home

Awareness of Home                      

Just before leaving Dallas for Costa Rica, I treated myself to a new pair of lightweight Nikon binoculars which, like most things in our lives, has turned into both a blessing and a curse.  Of course, some curses are so benign as to be ALMOST benevolent, and such is the case with the binoculars.  The scarlet macaw in the distant tree becomes a red leaf.  The whale cruising slowly along halfway to the other side of the gulf becomes a wayward log.  Such is the occasional disappointment that reality brings to imagination.

But the blessings, ah the blessings of clarity from these far-seeing glasses completely outweigh those minor hiccups of the imagination.  An indistinct object on a limb becomes a nuanced study in avian behavior, the view through the lens affording the capability to denote the difference between a look of curiosity or a wariness, a readiness to fly, a preference for a certain type of hopping, a quickness of purpose.  Birdwatching is such an acceptable form of voyeurism, even including the scatological aspects.  I mean, there’s absolutely no reason to be embarrassed and look away as the sergeant bird lifts its tail to defecate, eh?  Or to disguise a fascination with observing the upside-down mating habits of macaws?

On a day such as today, after a night of frenzied, frenetic homage to the local DJ at Martino’s Buena Esperanza bar, observing the world at close-hand from the comfort of a reclining sling chair on a shady porch is a welcome activity that has so little emphasis on the “active”. My day is focused on two distinct goals, the first being the aforementioned immobilized observing.  The second goal is interwoven within the first in that I am continuing to explore the pura vida concept that time and goal-orientation become relatively meaningless when appreciating the awareness and harmony of the now.  It is the Tico mantra, their salutation and leave-taking, their daily grail.  By now, my gentle, intelligent reader, you are expressing your …. delight?...confusion?  in catching the obvious contradiction.  How can my goal be to eschew goal-orientation?  What an oxymoronic endeavor, with the emphasis on “moronic”!  Of course it is!  But we start with baby steps for every undertaking, and give ourselves credit for the small incremental change in our learning. 

So here I recline, beside the resident basilisk lizard, allowing the hawk to observe me observing him, allowing this place of fierce sun and verdant beauty to become, briefly, my home.  These days, for me, it is the most important aspect of what I do to change the way that I relate to the world in a joyful way:  I try to make wherever I am my home, a baby-step in discovering that home is within my heart; therefore, I am only as far away from home as I choose to believe in my imagination.  Maybe Nikon will soon make a pair of binoculars that will allow me to peer inside there as well.  To become a voyeur of my own behavior, thereby remembering more often how closely my own resembles that of everyone and everything else.  I am home.

Hero and Fool

The hero and the fool awoke together in my bed this morning, a chill, misty gale blowing down through the cloud forest of the Parque Quetzal of central Costa Rica.  Somehow they had each been summoned by the echoes of my lover’s voice warning that we should get to high ground as the ice caps melt.  Today was the day of which she had foretold, had premonisced.  And I had no way to find her.  No means of communication from here to wherever she and her daughter had decided to land within the maelstrom. 

As he served breakfast, Don Bernardo confirmed my suspicions, “This is not the normal weather.  It is rainy and cold throughout the entire nation.  The hills, the cities, the coastlines, all are rainy and cold.  No es normal.”

What to do then? 

The hero calmly started formulating a plan as he arranged the minimal amount of gear to assemble in order to travel lightly and swiftly.  Or maybe that was the fool who was readying himself to travel.   For his lover knew where he was and would try to make it up the mountain, surely, to safety and to his waiting arms.  If.  If she could.

And if she couldn’t?  Which would go in search of her, the hero or the fool? 

The fool must rely on luck for his good fortune.  But during time of ultimate catastrophe, isn’t luck the equal of determination and fortitude?  Was luck forged in a cooler fire than courage? 

Would that there actually were two of me, one to leave behind to embrace her when she arrives, to enfold her in my relief, to nuzzle down into her hair and breathe in the tranquility of having no parts missing, of the whole, the entirety ready to face whatever comes, together.  The other to wave goodbye, briefly and sternly, to myself that was staying behind, resolved of footstep, heading towards the unknown trail, but steadfast in the image of finding a hint, a scent of where she had been.  Closing in, approaching her essence, sure of finding her before the tragedy befell.

After breakfast, the hero and the fool both etherized and the daily me remained, holed up with a head cold, swaddled in blankets within my unheated cabana.  My lover is out there somewhere along the coast, but I’m sure she needs no rescue.  I am here for healing and cleansing before she and I somehow wend our way to that point and place where one of us arrives and is waiting, smiling when the other comes into view.