Craving Costa Rica

Whenever it’s hot, I get that jones to be someplace where heat is part of the lure, making the water feel wetter, the breeze more flirtatious, and the mojitos mintier. I’m up for some basking.

A few years ago I deviated from my usual rainforest/cloud forest/volcano love-paths in CR and landed in Liberia for a taste of Flamingo Beach. With higher temps and lower rainfall, the northern regions boast bounties of a plant you never see in most of Costa Rica — cactus. I love wandering the backroads and passing fields of cattle contained by living fences — a tight row of cactus — or planted single-file to serve as guard rails along risky roads.

Playa Flamingo sits on a drop-dead bay with movie star houses, drool-worthy views, and treacherous beach access, but a slow meander down the road brings you to sand that runs right up to the pavement, tree-studded beaches, hammocks, and lunch shacks. Head south a few more miles to Tamarindo for surfing lessons, or beyond the beach to the Tropical Dry Forests of the Guanacaste region, famed for cowboys, ziplines, horseback riding and mud baths.

Dos Equis anyone?

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Crumbs

Some say the purest death
is to be ravaged alive
by beasts.
A final communion with creation
and instinct.
I could give myself to the lions
as red men gave their flesh
with joy to birds of prey, a feast
laid high on offering altars of pine,
their bodies rising
bite by bite to fill
the mouth and longing arms
of God.

If I should die on African soil
at the pawing of tigers or men,
I pray the ants will piggyback my
sunpressed crumbs across
each undulation
of the ancient and barebreasted earth
and leave me soul to soil,
to nurse the hungry wild
and mingle with the stars.

c. Pamela Goode

I Like to Pretend

When do we lose interest in “let’s pretend?” When do we stop allowing ourselves to kerplunk right down in foreign scenarios, dreams, flights of fancy? I know the why (too many disappointments to risk one more), but when is the when? And (egads) why do we allow it?

I’m “away” for the weekend — my favorite place to be. It almost doesn’t even matter where “away” is — but as places go, this one tops many lists. I’m sipping tea on a deck with a rail made of handcut and hand-reassembled mountain laurel branches — a wood and air mosaic if you will. A bird visits for handouts. A mist rolls across the faces of my hosts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, is that an eighth? mountain ranges. Peace.

I like to pretend. What if I lived here? What would I hang on this wall, what mountain tomatoes would be the best to slice for lunch, which fruits in the feeder would bring the most colorful birds? And best of all, with ample time to look, what would I see in the faces of the mountain? What whispers would I hear in the night?

My life opens up when I pretend. I live in beautiful spaces, raw places, dine on the exotic or on the field greens I watched a woman in black gather from an empty lot in Greece. I imagine a new wardrobe: floaty and aqua near the sea, downy knits for the hills, pintucks in muted neutrals for France, accessorized by a long and skinny linen bread bag for markets.

But I can pretend just as well in my own backyard. I love to walk at night past the houses that look so alive, so exciting, with lights ablaze, the colors of various rooms leaping out (hello!), while I admire the addition of this or that piece of art. What if I lived here? Or there? Or, ooh! there!? Drop me down in a new surrounding and I fantasize: how would I be different?

Would the deep rose walls warm me? Would a daily infusion of Greek herbs clear my head? Would these blue mountains ground me, or would my spirit heal from the constant tumbling and resurgence of the sea? Am I fully a product of my current environment? 80 percent? 50 percent? How much of myself do I take with me from place to place, and how much of those places do I bring home?

Is there a dividing line between the life I lead and the life I dream, or do they commingle to make me whole?

God-in-a-Box

Boxed Pastries, Gordes, Provence

Isn’t it lovely how boxing a purchase and adorning it with even the simplest ribbon transforms the contents? Granted, this particular box holds French pastries, and French pastries are pretty closely akin to god-in-a-box. But dress up my single euro baguette like this, and I’m just as happy. Throw in the fact that I can lug home my groceries by a ribbon instead of a plastic bag from Bi-Lo, AND tickle my tootsies on mossy cobblestones instead of blistering asphalt, and I’m good for the day.

Paper, plastic, or bring your own? The issue of waste aside, I’m endlessly charmed by efforts to bring a little magic into the everyday.

This particular magical day was hosted by the local bakery in Gordes, a perched village in the Luberon mountains of Provence, France, on market day. Where I also bought a really cool dress off the street, but that’s another post :)

Why We Wander, Part 2

Glimpse

Why do we wander? I guess the earliest travelers were hunters and gatherers, moving from here to there as a matter of survival. Then the pioneers, who didn’t crest the mountain looking for a better stereo system, but simply to see what lay ahead on this vast and astonishing earth. And the sailors. What did the sailors seek? Spices. Spices! Powdered passion in thimble servings. A taste of other cultures. The beginnings of a global society.

In the here and now, we Americans have so little reason to leave home. We have access not only to everything we need, but to everything we desire, usually in a dazzling array of options and special features — shoved under our noses and offered in alarmingly painless terms. Not only does the greater world seem to offer less than we can purchase or peruse from a comfortable chair, but travel becomes increasingly ominous with each passing day. Once upon a time, we were wary of flat tires and elusive ATMs. Now it’s the subway bomb, terrorists on the airlines, road rage, and children with guns. We’ve reached an age where there is perhaps more to paralyze us than to summon us hither.

Yet still we roam.

We roam the easy Caribbeans and the quaintly peculiar villages of Europe. We roam nerve-jangling world capitals and the endless, still expanse of the Arctic. We search for ourselves on solitary mountaintops and wander the far reaches of soil and sea for clues to mysteries we can’t even name. We travel because we are curious and insatiable, or even because we’re bored and want an effortless sideshow. We travel for perspective. We travel the easy ways and the hard ways, sometimes spending every last time for the privilege of lugging a backpack for weeks and sleeping on hotel rooftops. We travel to fancy ourselves among the beautiful people. We travel to look into the eyes of the hungry. I’m guessing the early nomadic tribes carried super-dominant genes, and I’m grateful.

Wildflowers on the Ruins

If Maine taught me the shape of a sunflower, Greece knocked me speechless with her version of the human spirit. I spent three weeks alone there determined to search the ancient temple and palace ruins for a renewed sense of the divine. I found more than I could have dreamed in terms of spirit, art, and the ancient footsteps of a race seeking God, but what haunts me still are the 20th century faces that greeted me daily in a tongue so foreign that I had to turn away from language to communicate. Instead, I sought clues in faces lined like palms and eyes that raised in reflection of intellectual activity and lowered with the surge of emotion. I felt the touch of those who were lonely, those who protected, those who loved. Each person I happened upon became to me not  purveyor of words or information, but the full embodiment of a life, a race, a country, a part of our common world — an alternative portrait of humanity. And in this meeting I was granted a supreme privilege and responsibility — the chance to witness a life, up close and personal — and it was as if I had been given a glimpse of God.

And maybe that’s exactly what did happen, simply for the price of looking — of seeing.

But there’s more at stake than my learning to see and the reaping of personal wisdom, no matter how well or how poorly I use it. There is a deeper knowing that resonates not in our brains, but deep enough in our blood and our bones to move us to action. Hear this story. Live this story. Spread this story. I think that’s why sirens call us to sea and strangers extend a hand. They are scattering seeds They are carving little openings through which we can grow.

Someone is calling me. Someone I do not know, someone I will never really know in the sense that I’ve known carpool moms or deskmates, but her story will live in me and help make us both whole, if only I will hear it.

Who am I to do this? Who am I to receive the rumblings of a spirit intent on being heard? I am no more and no less than a space just large enough to receive; a consciousness just large enough to bear witness.

I believe that every story deserves to be told, that every life was created to be held and considered in the thoughts and dreams and gut and action of a stranger. I believe that at this point in my life, I am summoned hither, not to preach or teach or heal or anything grand, but simply to shed my insulation and to see and to know — what? That this is a life. It is as dear as mine. It is as turbulent as mine. It is as brief and as eternal as mine. We are as different, and as alike, as any two lives can be. Any two lives.

For me, it’s all in the seeing. It’s all in the learning to notice and appreciate what is not me. Ego denial and other-affirming. An embrace of all I haven’t yet known, both in others and in myself. A recognition of who I am in all my global incarnations. It is a home leaving. It is a home coming.

The Little Blue Boat

When I was a girl,
my father gave me a little
blue boat.

It was deep and fully broad enough
to hold two laughing girls
with eight knees and elbows altogether.

There was a rope for towing
out on courses charted by our dreams
and pointing fingers,
or grabbing back
if any current dared to lead his girls astray.

We sat and bobbled,
my sister and I,
in pink puckered suits and salty hair,
in the bottom of the little blue boat,
our toes and fingers grazing on the waves,
alert for treasure
or a moment’s cooling.

And my father pulled the boat
from wave to wave,
ocean to ocean,
sea to sea,
and dream to dream,
urging the bow in every direction on the sea and sky
while we squealed and giggled and pointed out
our pleasures.

And when he had shown us both the
way
to every corner
of the round and endless earth,

he dropped the line and waded in
to shore,

leaving us each
a
paddle.

c. Pamela Goode