Month: May 2026

De-press-on-Me

Today I find myself sitting outside with a heavy heart and a tightness in my chest. I can’t quite put my finger on where it came from. Maybe the moon and Venus have aligned. Maybe it’s some special full moon stirring things beneath the surface. Or maybe it’s none of those things at all. Whatever the reason, the feeling is real. It sits with weight.

I find myself staring up into my favorite tree in the backyard, hoping a pair of macaws or a couple of toucans might drop in and distract me for a while. My eyes wander through the thick branches searching for an iguana stretched across a limb or a black squirrel darting through the leaves. Instead, there is only the steady buzz of cicadas and the gentle sound of water spilling into the pool.

I know this feeling. I’ve met it before.

But I refuse to give it ground. I refuse to feed it. Let it pass like the clouds drifting overhead. Still, days like this are part of being human. They arrive uninvited and bring questions with them. Questions about decisions made and roads not taken. Glimpses into an uncertain future. Thoughts of a world increasingly shaped by greed, power, and men willing to gamble with lives they will never know.

The idea that nuclear weapons still exist—that civilization hangs, in some small way, on the judgment of a handful of leaders—feels absurd when you stop long enough to think about it. Yet here we are. An entire planet carrying a quiet undercurrent of fear, whether we admit it or not.

Costa Rica does a remarkable job of buffering me from all of that. Nature has a way of softening the sharp edges of the world. The jungle, the rain, the endless shades of green—they remind me that life continues despite our chaos.

But some days the world still finds a way in.

It seeps through the cracks and settles in my mind, bringing with it a deep ache and a fear not for myself, but for all living things trying to make their way through this brief existence.

So I sit here beneath my tree, my eyes tracing its sprawling branches and endless palette of greens. Once again, I wait for a visitor—a macaw, a toucan, an iguana, anything at all. Some small reminder that the world is still beautiful.

And as I sit and wait, even the cicadas have fallen silent.

Morning

A sliver of moon hangs in the inky black sky, like a sentinel awaiting its queen.

The mirror still water shines back its likeness in a wavy white streak.

A dark orange glow appears on the horizon, outlining the dark mountains painting them with a warm grey. 

As if to welcome in the rising sun, the moon sinks lower and the dawning light comes up to meet it in a fond embrace. 

More colors, the likes of which leaves a mind to wonder how this can be so. 

Pinks, yellows, greens, purples and blues all surround the land, making the water match the pastel and vivid pallet of the awakening sky. 

A small splash and a ripple spreads out in the four directions distorting the colors into a wave of rainbow light. 

The colors grow steadily more muted as the suns creeps closer to the horizon until her first tiny glimmer then a burst of warm light as she grabs the shimmery rope of light reflecting on the water and pulls herself free of her nightly bondage. 

All is quiet…tranquil…I am awash in the warm glow. 

I shake off the chill of night and bask in the morning light, welcoming the day. 

And the rain sets in–

There’s something about sitting just beyond the reach of the rain—close enough to feel its breath, far enough to stay dry. The sky opens without hesitation, releasing sheets of water so thick they blur the jungle into a faded watercolor painting, soft greens melting into gray. The mountains disappear first, then the trees, until the world beyond the porch becomes only shadow and movement.

The sound is hypnotic. Not the gentle tapping of a passing shower, but the deep, steady roar of rainy season rain. Massive drops crash against the broad ridged jungle leaves, each one answering back with its own hollow percussion. Together they create a white noise so complete it drowns out every wandering thought. The world narrows to rain, thunder, breath.

Lightning flashes suddenly, turning the jungle silver for a heartbeat before darkness folds back over everything again. Then comes the thunder—low, rolling, powerful—traveling across the hills and fading toward the unseen ocean in the distance.

Cool downdrafts push through the storm like nature’s own air conditioner, carrying mist that drifts across my skin in soft waves. Goosebumps rise on my arms as the damp air wraps around me, a welcome relief after months of relentless heat and dust. Everything smells alive again—wet earth, soaked wood, crushed leaves, the sharp green scent of the jungle waking up thirsty and grateful.

And with every steady pulse of rain, something inside me quiets.

The storm doesn’t demand attention. It lulls. It pulls me into a trance-like stillness where time slows beneath the rhythm of falling water and flashing skies. No urgency. No noise beyond nature itself. Just the methodical heartbeat of rain returning to the earth.

Welcome back, old friend.