Category: Mother Nature

Pure Pura Vida

It’s another early morning in Costa Rica, only this time on the Caribbean side.

We drove nearly ten hours over two days to get here, winding our way through the pouring rain and over Cerro de la Muerte—one of the many steep, mountainous roads that carve through the country’s interior. It’s a route notorious for mudslides, fallen trees, and deadly crashes. Massive eighteen-wheelers barrel around blind curves, often straddling the center line, leaving little room for oncoming traffic. It is, to put it mildly, a nail-biter.

Still, we arrived safe and sound around four in the afternoon, just before darkness settled in.

Over the last few days, we’ve been exploring Costa Rica’s southern Caribbean coastline. We kayaked along a swollen mangrove river teeming with life, drifting quietly beneath overhanging branches while birds called from the canopy above. After nearly a year of living here, we’ve begun to notice the things most tourists miss. We’ve trekked through rainforests, wandered coastal jungles, and learned that sometimes the greatest lessons come from simply sitting still. Even our own backyard has become a classroom, revealing new creatures and rhythms of life we once overlooked.

Our first night in the condo brought a torrential downpour so intense it sounded as though we had been transported beneath a roaring waterfall. Lying in bed, we were convinced we’d wake to find the first floor submerged beneath muddy floodwaters. But Costa Rica has a remarkable way of absorbing what the sky delivers. By dawn, the water had vanished, as if the earth itself had quietly sorted everything out while we slept.

We’ve spent our days bobbing in the Caribbean Sea. The waves here are gentle, lazily lapping against the shore. The water is warm and welcoming, inviting you to linger a little longer. The beaches themselves are often just a narrow ribbon of sand pressed between the sea and the jungle, which tumbles right to the water’s edge. The guttural chorus of howler monkeys echoes through the trees while macaws and other tropical birds flash overhead in bursts of color and sound.

The Caribbean side of Costa Rica moves to a different rhythm. Influenced by Jamaican and Afro-Caribbean culture, the atmosphere here feels distinct from the rest of the country. Many homes are simple, single-story cement structures with glassless windows, loosely fitting doors, and corrugated tin roofs that magnify the seasonal rains. During a proper rainstorm, conversation becomes nearly impossible. You simply sit in companionable silence while the rain does all the talking.

The people, too, embody a different kind of ease. They are warm, kind, and wonderfully laid-back. Here, pura vida takes on an even deeper meaning. It’s a greeting, a farewell, an expression of gratitude, and a wish for someone to enjoy the moment. Spoken with fervor and accompanied by a genuine smile, it feels less like a phrase and more like a way of being.

Today, a few friends are making the drive to join us, and tomorrow, a couple more will arrive. As I sit here listening to the morning awaken around me, I can’t help but think what a perfect place this is to gather—with good friends, warm seas, and the untamed beauty of Costa Rica’s Caribbean coast all around us.

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.

Miniature Art

My artist finally stirred again—quietly at first, then with intention—and decided it was time to create.

I first made a white-water rafting piece while in Chile, and this one is its miniature companion, brought to life here at home in Costa Rica. It’s not tied to a single memory, but to something we’ve always loved—the pulse of the river, the teamwork, the thrill of moving through wild water together.

The entire scene fits in the palm of my hand—about 6 inches long and 3 inches wide, waves and base included. The raft itself is just 2 by 3 inches, and the paddlers… no bigger than your little toe. Tiny, intricate, and somehow still full of motion.

It took most of the day to complete—hours of careful focus and quiet immersion. There’s something grounding about working so small, about shaping energy and movement into something you can hold.

And in the end–Patagonia

And so we arrive at the quiet terminus of our northward journey—not with a grand finale, but with that soft, reflective stillness that comes when something beautiful has run its course.

What began on the Futaleufú River–unfolded into 875 kilometers of winding roads and wonder along the Carretera Austral, carrying us south to Puerto Río Tranquilo and then gently back north to Puerto Varas. But distance feels like such a small measure now. What we gathered along the way cannot be mapped in kilometers.

There were days when the sun broke through, spilling gold across jagged peaks and glacial rivers so impossibly turquoise they felt imagined. And then there were the rains—the long, steady Patagonian rains that blurred the edges of the world and pulled us inward. Yet even then, especially then, the landscape held its magic. Mist clung to the mountains like breath, waterfalls awakened everywhere at once, and the road ahead felt like a secret slowly revealing itself.

We were not without our small missteps—a tire with its slow leak interrupted our plans—but even that became part of the story. It led us, unexpectedly, into the warmth and generosity of strangers, into shared laughter and gestures that needed no translation. In those moments, Chile revealed itself not just in its landscapes, but in its people.

The road demanded something of us. It was good, yes—but never easy. It asked for patience, attention, humility. And in return, it offered glimpses into a life shaped by resilience. The places we stayed—simple, weathered, full of character—felt like quiet witnesses to generations who carved out existence in this wild and beautiful edge of the world.

We stumbled through Spanish, sometimes clumsily, sometimes triumphantly, and in doing so found connection. We met people who, for a moment, became part of our story. Some will remain only as flickers in memory—a shared meal, a passing conversation, a smile exchanged on the roadside. Others… perhaps we will meet again, somewhere unexpected, as travelers do.

Because that is the quiet truth we carry with us now—the world, vast as it seems, has a way of folding in on itself. Paths cross. Stories intertwine. And somewhere down another road, in another country, a familiar face may appear again like a gift.

And so we leave this stretch of Patagonia not as we arrived, but fuller—of wonder, of gratitude, of moments that will live on in the hidden corners of our minds and as a steady glow in our hearts.

Simply–Patagonia

We didn’t just arrive here—we earned it.

Our southward push along the Carretera Austral has finally brought us to the edge of how far we were willing to go. Not because the road ends, but because something in us said: this is enough… for now. Mile by mile, the signs had been stacking up—subtle at first, then undeniable—whispering that Puerto Río Tranquilo would be our turning point.

And then came yesterday’s drive.

Six hours that didn’t just pass—they pressed into us. 

The kind of hours where you feel small in the most humbling, awe-struck way. We are nothing more than passing specks in a landscape that feels eternal—mountains rising like walls of time, valleys carved by glaciers that were here long before us, rivers born from snowmelt rushing with quiet authority toward the sea.

Everywhere you look, something is falling—water spilling from impossible heights, cascading down cliffs as if the mountains themselves are unraveling. Around each blind curve, another scene steals your breath: trees clinging to landslide scars, their fallen kin scattered below like bones in the valley.

The rivers are unreal—turquoise, pale blue, glowing as if lit from within. They surge and twist, hurling themselves over edges, dissolving into mist that catches the light and becomes fleeting rainbows. Above it all, jagged spires of granite pierce the sky—entire cities of stone reaching upward, their snow-dusted peaks vanishing into thick, wandering clouds.

And then—just when you think the palette couldn’t deepen—autumn arrives. Reds. Golds. Entire hillsides set quietly on fire against the endless green of the forest. Open fields stretch out like a breath between heartbeats… only to be interrupted by mountains that shoot straight into the blue, unapologetic and immense.

And the road?

It doesn’t guide you—it tests you.

Sometimes smooth, often not, it coils through the land like a living thing. One moment you’re gliding, the next you’re gripping the wheel through mud thick enough to swallow tires. Hairpin turns come without warning. Massive trucks and buses take up more than their share of the road, forcing you to trust instinct over sight. And somehow, others fly past at impossible speeds, spraying mud and indifference in every direction.

So yes… this is where we stop.

Not because we can’t go further—but because we’ve seen enough to understand what this place is asking of us.

And still, we’ll turn around and do it all again.

Because that’s the thing about this journey—there’s one way in and out–it gets under your skin.

Along the way, it isn’t just the land that leaves a mark. It’s the people.

Like William and Anna, from Argentina. We met them at a lodge tucked deep along a fjord lake—so remote the outside world simply… disappeared. No signal. No distractions. Just water, mountains, and whoever happened to be there with you.

Dinner wasn’t really a choice—either the formal restaurant or the quieter bar. We chose the bar. That’s where we met Sebastián, the bartender who softened the edges of the place, and where William and Anna waved us over.

What started as shared space turned into shared stories—half English, half Spanish, all laughter. The kind of conversation that feels easy and rare at the same time. And just like that, by morning, they were gone. A fleeting connection, sealed in memory.

Patagonia has a way of doing that—giving you moments you can’t keep, only carry.

And then there’s the heat beneath all this ice.

Hot springs—unexpected, almost surreal in a land that feels carved from cold. The lodge itself existed because of them. Steam rising into crisp air, water pulled from deep within the earth, warmed by the same volcanic forces that shaped this entire region.

Some springs are nothing more than a hollow in the rocks, others feel like hidden sanctuaries—caves, pools, small cascades of warmth. You sink in, and for a moment, the cold, the road, the miles… they all dissolve.

It’s nature’s quiet kindness.

And all along this journey, we keep catching glimpses of other places we’ve known. A waterfall that feels like Iceland. Peaks that echo the Dolomites. Glaciers that pull us back to Alaska. Then suddenly, a stretch of land that could be the American Southwest, or a valley straight out of the Rockies.

It’s as if Patagonia holds fragments of the world—but refuses to be compared to any of it.

Eight hundred seventy-five kilometers. Roads that challenge you. Ferries that carry you. Landscapes that stay with you long after you’ve passed through them.

And now, we pause.

We exhale.

We loosen our grip on the wheel, uncurl fingers that didn’t realize how tightly they were holding on.

And we turn around… to do it all again.

Insanity?

Maybe.

But it feels a lot more like adventure.

It is time

I gaze into the glow of a blank screen,
listening to voices dripping venom,
men in masks spitting hate
as unseen puppeteers tug the strings…
violence dispensed like cheap candy,
their mouths snapping open
like machines built only to wound.

And yet
beyond that darkness,
the people gather.
They rise in quiet reverence,
a hush that holds more power
than any shouted threat.

I watch the monks
reach the end of their long walk,
a pilgrimage carved in bare feet and prayer,
a walk for peace
that has brushed against thousands of hearts
and left them trembling awake.

We stand with them…
hands clasped,
souls yearning,
hoping their gentle wisdom
might shift the tides,
open the eyes long sealed by fear,
send a wave of love
sweeping across a land
torn open by ignorance
and stitched with lies.

Our nation’s cloth
hangs shredded in the wind.
And still…
we hold the edges,
refusing to let it all come apart.

It is time to turn the page
before the snake slithers out
and consumes the fragile hope
we’ve just lifted from the hat.

Can hope rise above this?
Can peace be nurtured
in soil scorched by division?
Can its roots dig deep enough
to cradle the lost
as they stumble after false prophets
into the yawning abyss?

Can we survive this season?
Rebuild what was broken?
Learn again to love our neighbor
without trembling in our own doorway?

Can we silence the tidal wave of lies,
the loud, empty rhetoric
that poisons minds
and sells fear
to those desperate to belong
even if belonging means
bowing to power,
forsaking truth,
forgetting the dignity
of honest labor
and the humility of shared struggle?

Yes.
But only if we choose it.
Only if we step forward now…
not in rage,
but in courage.

Only if we admit
that change is not coming
unless we become it.

It is time.

Time to rise.
Time to rebuild.
Time to reclaim the heart
that beats beneath this fractured nation
and remind it
softly, fiercely
what it was made for:

Love.
Peace.
And one another.

May all beings suffering find and end to that suffering and peace. ☮️🕊️🙏🏼 J

Torn at Many Levels

The breeze gently caresses my face. The sound of the waves rolling softly onto the shore soothes me. A tree behind me in the jungle hums with cicadas. The tide is rising toward the full moon high, and soon we will move to higher ground. Soft music plays in the background. 

My day began with deep yoga meditation and a sound bath. 

I take a slow breath of clean, warm, salty air, leaving a faint taste of salt on my lips. My new friends are enjoying the surf. It feels blissful, almost trance-like.

This is my day of peace, and I offer any merit I gain simply by being kind, sharing it with all beings who are suffering.

I enter the sea, grateful for its coolness. The waves rise and crest in a foamy froth. The sun dances across the choppy water, stretching as far as I can see. I breathe and submerge beneath a crashing wave. Energy moves through my body as I rise again and breathe. Salt stings my eyes, and the current seems to flow out through my feet. The rhythm repeats, again and again.

I notice the contrast between heat and coolness and reflect on my own state of mind — peace alongside worry, tenderness beside ache. For a moment, I hold a gentle prayer for the safety of those who live for what is right, who serve not only themselves but others. My heart breathes toward their pain, their sacrifice, their suffering — with compassion and quiet hope.🕊️J

A New Year — Setting Intention

I always thought that each New Year’s  Resolution I set would bring a new me. What exactly that looked like, I really never knew because I only ever did part of the footwork needed to become that “new me”. 

We left on the road now almost exactly 5.5 years ago. The New Year 2026 will be that milestone. In that time, I really feel like a lot of healing has occurred. I loved the traveling, it was dynamic and filled with so many experiences that kindled growth. Mostly, I believe that the oxidation of all parts of the body, caused by stress, was the hardest to undo and repair. It rears its ugly head in so many ways, both mentally and physically.  

So much has happened over this time of travel that would probably never have happened if we had stayed put in our comfort level. Not to say we are not spontaneous, and – in the minds of family and friends – probably a bit too reckless at times but we are growing a bit more reserved. I’ve said it before that travel allows the mind to become pliable again. Allows the body to be pushed to its limits and a bit beyond. It teaches you to get out of your self-centeredness and become more selfless. 

We’ve now been living in Costa Rica for 9 months and in our own place for 4 months. That’s the longest we’ve stayed put in one place since we left in 2020. I guess we set our first intention in life together back when we said someday we would live here. That intention set in motion all the preparations since have led up to the moment we bought our home here. In 1993, we first came to Costa Rica and fell in love with this tiny but vast country. 

With a place to become grounded once again, but with the gift of leisure now ours, this year we can not just make a New Year’s resolution, but set our intentions for the new year. More than I’m going to quit this or that, lose weight or eat better. More than empty words and promises that soon die away as the stress of life settles back in after giving it our best efforts. Ah – therein lies the difference. 

Setting intentions can now include seeing how we can achieve these in our new life. It can be not a self-defeating promise but an action-packed movement towards an outcome. We can work on our bodies and our minds by utilizing this leisure time gift as if it were the gift of life itself. We can set ourselves up to succeed and achieve with few hindrances. We have the tools and guidance available all around us here, and have tapped into the knowledge that exists here. In the humans, the nature, and the natural forces of the coming time of change in our universe. If there was ever a year to do it – this is the year.