Somewhere along the way to this place I got lost, I mean, more lost than before.

Somewhere along the way my head turned slightly and my course was shifted.

I’ve been following my clumsy feet for months now, unaware of their drifting direction.

It was just yesterday when I felt a collection of hands gently tilt my face upward: letters, conversations, memories, lectures and friends: these fingers broke my concentrated downward stare. As my eyes were lifted, no longer absorbed in the ground underneath, they slowly began to focus. The blurred shadows turned to concrete shapes and for the first time in many weeks I took stock of my surroundings. And it is here that I realized

Somewhere along the way to this place I got lost, I mean, more lost than before.

Somewhere along the way my head turned slightly and my course was shifted.

This place that I speak of, this place that I now find myself, seems to be a landscape formed of mostly ugly and raw self-interest. And it is in this hard soil that dissatisfaction and loneliness have firmly taken root. These stems thrive in their new surroundings, while it appears joy, passion and purpose are in the process of being slowly strangled. Their leaves look withered and their bodies feel limp to the touch. As I continue to survey this foreign land, I am left mumbling quietly to my self, over and over again, “how did I get here?"

And although I don’t have an exact answer, only some vague ideas, this is unimportant. What matters now is to find my way back. Back to passion, to love, to others, Back to purpose, to service, and hopefully, to joy. As is most often the case: I am trying. I am trying.

So I finally got my act together and took some pictures of the place I currently call home.  Here is the grand tour:

The kitchen/dining room with Krysta cooking something delicious.  You can also peek into the laundry room from this angle, the laundry room that now, thanks to our sweet neighbor friend, holds a fully functioning dryer.

Do an about face and you are looking through our walkway/office into the living room.

Up the stairs now.  Here is Cailah's lovely room, well part of it anyway.

And over to Krysta's room.  Please take note of all the various shades of lavender.

Here is a portion of the view from the aforementioned perch outside of Krysta's window.

And this is my room.  Please notice the cheery wall color and the ridiculous lamp I purchased for $3.  

And try to ignore the makeshift vanity table, I am improvising with these beautiful bins until something better and yet affordable comes along.

This here is my version of the Bird's wall o' bits.  If you look closely you're likely to see your face up there, or something you wrote me, or made me, or gave me.  And if you don't, well then take a picture of yourself, write me something, make something, just send me anything so that I can add it to my wall and think of you daily.

I would also like to note that in addition to our dryer being operational two other exciting changes have occurred around this house in the past couple of weeks.  1.)  Thanks to Mr. Jeff Dixon our upstairs toilet now flushes and fills all on its own.  2.)  And once again as a result of our potbellied, retired and oh so kind neighbor, we can not only shower with hot water, but we can do so while the fridge is still plugged in.  Amazing.  Also amazing, how this neighbor man laughs at my inability to speak or comprehend the Spanish language.  How he laughs heartily and cups my chubby cheeks, just as if I were his 2 year old granddaughter first learning to speak.  

I am currently, at this very moment, sitting on my favorite perch - the seat sized windowsill outside of Krysta’s bedroom window. With my feet resting upon our roof, my back against the window frame, and my eyes scanning the neighborhood and the green mountains encasing it, this sitting and staring has become a ritual.

About a week ago I packed a bag and took myself on a trip to the beach. Manuel Antonio was the place. And here are my thoughts, as recorded in my rambling journal at the end of that first day away, August 26…

Stale sheets and a sticky body. Can sheets be stale? For surely these ones are. Can a body be sticky immediately following a cold shower? I tell you the answer is yes. Stale and Sticky. These are currently my two primary physical sensations. The third being the feel of an occasional breeze that blows in my face and through these pages thanks to the fan at my feet. And fourth, fourth is a full stomach and relaxed muscles. I suppose that is five.

Today I arrived in Manuel Antonio and am currently writing this from my room at Sol y Mar Hostel. Let us start at the beginning shall we? For memories sake. I left my house around 7:30am to catch the bus. Hugging Krysta, (for she is a tactile person) waving to Cailah (for she is not) and locking the gate behind me, I said goodbye. The bus from Desamparados to San Jose was crowded during this morning’s rush hour. And it was hot. I made the fatal mistake of sitting on the sunny side of the bus – and man that ball of fire was relentless. I was dripping sweat and embarrassed as I took a glimpse at the Ticas occupying the bus: with their large earrings and painted faces, none of them even looked warm, not even a little damp. I continued to wipe my brow, neck and upper lip on repeat.

Arriving in San Jose I made my way to the Coca Cola bus station. Through the park, right, left on central, and to the end of the walking path. Many blocks later I see the anticipated McDonalds, now do I turn right before or after this McDonalds? Hmm…unclear. I decide before is the better option. I walk awhile, searching for some massive or neon sign with block letters spelling out C-o-c-a C-o-l-a. This does not appear. Just as I begin to feel I am wandering aimlessly I see some buses. Good. Head that way. And just as my hope had appeared it was immediately lost. Now I am officially done for. The bus station is more like a central market. And really I do love me some good market perusing, but not when the product I am looking for is a bus that leaves in minutes. I walk up and down the street to no avail, I then turn into the market, a labyrinth of stores, sellers and stalls, I pop out on the other side. I am lost. And once again I am sweating. As I shuffle in circles all I can hear are the calls of men as I pass and the voice in my head reciting the guidebook, “The Coca Cola bus terminal is one of the most dangerous parts of San Jose, located in the red light district.” Desperate, I ask someone (my language of choice some strange sort of spanglish) she points, I drag my feet, ask another, I turn right, and ask another…Finally. Found it. Buy my ticket, make it on the bus, and thank goodness. I am on my way.

Approximately four hours later (spent dozing, reading, enjoying the lush green passing by my open window) I am in Quepos. Taxi to Sol y Mar, and I have arrived. The owner of the hostel, a tiny Tica who immediately calls me friend, shows me my room and gets me orientated. At this point there is no electricity, which equals no fan, which equals stifling. So I take a cold shower, get on the ol' swimsuit and catch the bus to the beach.

my hostel room.

I didn’t go out to the Peninsula, didn’t go into the national park. No, no that’s saved for tomorrow. Today I just went to the public beach and sat myself down. For hours I read my book. Drank my water. Ate my apple. Enjoyed the interspersed rainfall. Played in the warm waves. And walked along the shoreline.

yes, that is a sloth.

and this is manuel antonio.

When the sun started to sink I explored the market and made my way back to the bus stop. After another cold and welcomed shower I once again headed back to the bus stop. I saw a restaurant along the ride home that looked inviting – outdoor seating overlooking the jungle of trees and the ocean. Why not treat myself? As I sat waiting for the bus, and waiting for the bus, and waiting for the bus, my confidence began to wane. Minute after minute it withered until when the bus finally did arrive most of my excitement had died. Wilted, my head hung down low as I gave into feelings of embarrassment. Feeling foolish for being alone I had the urge to turn around and hide in my room for the night. Luckily my resolve and my hunger made me push through. I went to the restaurant, called El Avion, and it was incredible. Once I got over myself and simply let my self-consciousness go, the tension melted and I began to enjoy myself. So after a glass of wine, some seared tuna steak, a cup of delicious Costa Rican coffee and three waiter friends later, I was feeling pretty great. So glad I forced myself to dine alone. To make it a dinner that counts – soaking in my surroundings and lingering over coffee. The waiters invited me to some club as I was leaving, “It’s ladies night,” “You’ll be taken care of,” “See you there!” I laughed as one tried to wave goodbye and ran (literally ran) into a table – causing an uproar from his friends.

Back to the bus stop. I read Isabel Allende while waiting. As I struggled to unlock my door back at the hostel, tiny Tica called out “Como Esta?” “Locked out” I replied. She laughed, “Oh Muchacha…” and came over to give me a tutorial on locking and unlocking doors. After inquiring about my plans for the evening I told her I was staying in, at which point she responded, “No! You should go out, it’s ladies night!” “I know,” I laughed, “But I don’t want to go alone.” “I don’t either,” she instantly replied, “we’ll go together, not to get drunk, no no I don’t do that, either do you, just for some beer.” I wish you could see how beautiful and earnest this woman was, how sincere she was in her offer. It kind of broke my heart to tell her no. Perhaps if I had a friend with me I would have gone, or perhaps if I were my carefree friend Victoria Whaley I would have said yes. But for now, I feel quite content with the shape my day has taken. Yes. A discoteca may have simply pushed me over the edge.

Goodnight.