Well, as quiet as the jungle ever gets, with the sounds of beautiful music drifting through the humid air.
The clouds are building and parting, teasing us with the possibility of rain. Whether it will actually arrive tonight is anyone’s guess.
This morning, we heard the sheet of rain coming off the playa. It’s an unusual sound for the morning hours, and one that caught our attention. Chris and I were sitting with our coffee, talking about plans for the day, when suddenly there it was—a low roar growing louder as the heavy drops swept through the trees and hammered against the broad jungle leaves. For a few moments, the conversation gave way to the rain. Sometimes nature has something to say, and you just listen.
I’m getting pretty good at recognizing the bird calls. A year of using Merlin has helped me tuck those sounds away, one by one, until they’ve become familiar friends. Now I find myself drifting off, listening to each individual voice in the canopy. I can pick them out, recognize their songs, and follow the conversations unfolding all around me. There’s something deeply satisfying about realizing that a place you once heard as a wall of sound has slowly become a world of individual voices.
The end of October is here, and we’re nearing the beginning of the dry season, which usually means tourists begin arriving in numbers. And yet, our house has surprisingly few bookings.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about that. This little home of ours is part of the life we’ve built here, and naturally, we want to share it. But for now, the calendar has more empty spaces than we’d hoped.
Meanwhile, the jungle carries on, completely indifferent to booking calendars and the ebb and flow of tourism.
And I’ll tell you what: it would be nice if it rained this afternoon.
The air is so heavy you can almost feel it resting on your skin. There’s none of the usual stirring that hints at an afternoon storm. No breeze whispering through the palms, no sudden rustling in the canopy, no distant rumble promising relief. Just stillness. Thick, motionless, jungle heat.
Even a walk around the house is enough to send huge droplets of sweat running down my neck and into my eyes. The kind of heat that makes you move a little slower, breathe a little deeper, and question why you thought walking outside was such a good idea in the first place.
And yet, there’s something about days like these.
When the air is still, the floral notes seem to rise from the gardens and the jungle around us. Fragrances that might otherwise go unnoticed drift past, delicate and almost intoxicating. You catch one, then another, and without even realizing it, you begin to breathe more deeply. More slowly.
You stop thinking about what needs to be done. You stop watching the clock. You simply exist in the moment.
The jungle has a way of doing that to you. Of asking you to slow down without ever saying a word. Of reminding you that life doesn’t always have to be measured in accomplishments, plans, or the things we’re waiting to happen.
Sometimes, it’s enough to sit with a cup of coffee, listen to the birds, feel the weight of the humid air, and let the afternoon unfold exactly as it will.
A peace settles over you, and time slows.
And somewhere in that stillness, between the scent of the flowers and the distant calls of the birds, you realize that this life has found its way into you.
Not just the place, but the rhythm of it.
The quiet. The heat. The waiting for rain.
And the beautiful, untamed world that carries on all around us.
I know I’ve said it before, but something has changed. Something deep inside me has shifted, taken root, and begun to grow in ways I’m only now beginning to understand.
Living in Costa Rica, surrounded by the endless, chaotic, magnificent spectacle of nature, has seeped into my very core.
The birds that announce the morning before the sun has even cleared the trees. The iguanas sprawled across warm branches, lizards darting through the undergrowth, insects conducting their nightly symphony, frogs calling out in the darkness, and, of course, the snakes that remind us we are sharing this land with creatures that have been here far longer than we have. And let’s not forget our favorite tree, NatGeo, standing watch over our little piece of paradise.
This isn’t nature viewed through a screen or admired from a comfortable distance. This is nature all around us, all the time. It creeps beneath our doors, climbs our trees, flies through our gardens, and occasionally reminds us that we are not nearly as much in charge as we might like to think.
Here, nature doesn’t ask permission to enter our lives. It simply does.
And somewhere along the way, I began to understand that this was exactly what I needed.
Walking barefoot in the sand, feeling the Pacific wash over my feet, or sinking my toes into the grass in our own backyard has grounded me in ways I am still uncovering. There is something ancient and instinctive about feeling the earth beneath your feet, about being present in a moment that requires nothing of you except that you experience it.
No agenda. No hurry. No need to be anywhere else.
Just me, the earth, and the extraordinary privilege of being alive.
There is something to be said for reconnecting with the natural world. Something that reaches beyond the mind and settles into the soul.
When we bought this house in our little village, close to the sea and sand, we both felt it. That inexplicable pull. That quiet knowing that this place was different.
For almost six years, we had roamed. We had lived a life without anchors, without a permanent address that meant home in the traditional sense. We collected experiences instead of possessions, memories instead of roots, and learned to be comfortable with the uncertainty of never quite knowing where we would be next.
And then we found this place.
A little home tucked into the lushness of the jungle, where the air hangs heavy with moisture, the afternoon skies gather into great dark clouds, and the rain comes down with a ferocity that makes you stop whatever you’re doing and simply listen.
Here, we could settle. Nest for a while. Nurture our souls in a place that felt less like a destination and more like a homecoming.
We didn’t know then just how deeply this place would change us.
Since 2019, so much of my journey has been inward. Years spent trying to understand the voices that haunted me, the fractured pieces of a life shaped by things a child should never have had to navigate. Learning to recognize the parts of myself that once kept me safe but eventually became part of a recurring cycle of destruction. Learning that survival mechanisms can outlive the dangers that created them.
It has been hard, painstaking work. Not the sort of transformation that happens in a weekend retreat or arrives wrapped in a tidy little package of enlightenment.
It has been messy. Uncomfortable. Sometimes heartbreaking.
But slowly, I began to find a way to live alongside those parts of myself rather than be ruled by them. To listen without surrendering. To understand without being pulled backward. To integrate what once felt impossible to reconcile.
Today, for the most part, those voices are quiet. They remain somewhere in the background, observers rather than directors, as I learn to experience life as it unfolds instead of reliving the past.
And here, in this wild, untamed corner of the world, something inside me has finally begun to settle.
Perhaps it is the rhythm of the tides, the moon pulling at the ocean, the daily arrival of rain clouds over the mountains. Perhaps it is the way the jungle refuses to be hurried, how everything grows, decays, transforms, and begins again without asking whether the timing is convenient.
Or perhaps it is simply the gift of being fully present in a place that demands your attention.
Because make no mistake. For all its beauty, life in the jungle is anything but tranquil.
From the outside, our life might look like paradise. A little house near the ocean. Tropical breezes, lush green mountains, colorful birds, and the soothing sound of waves rolling onto the shore.
But step into the middle of it, and you’ll discover that paradise is working its ass off just to stay alive.
The heat is relentless. The humidity wraps around you like a warm, wet blanket. Everything grows, crawls, bites, rots, or sprouts again before you’ve had time to catch your breath. The rain can turn a peaceful afternoon into a thundering spectacle of water, wind, and lightning that illuminates the entire sky.
And everywhere, life is fighting for its place.
Butterflies flutter through the garden, delicate wings catching the sunlight, while tiny hummingbirds dart past with astonishing speed, competing for nectar in a world where even the smallest creature must defend its share.
Iguanas bask in the trees, alert to the movements of snakes that are themselves hunting to survive.
Tiny sea turtles emerge from the sand and make their desperate dash toward the ocean, navigating a gauntlet of predators and obstacles before they ever reach the water. Those that make it face a whole new world of dangers, with no guarantees that they will ever return to the beach where their lives began.
Everywhere you look, something is growing, hunting, hiding, reproducing, adapting, or trying desperately not to become someone else’s dinner.
Every living thing is negotiating its existence.
Sunlight. Water. Food. Shelter. A patch of fertile ground. A safe place to ride out another torrential downpour.
There is no guarantee of tomorrow. No promise that being beautiful or small or strong will be enough.
And yet, life persists.
The jungle doesn’t stop to mourn what has been lost. It doesn’t apologize for the storm or question the arrival of another season. It absorbs, adapts, and carries on. Fallen leaves become nourishment. Dead branches make room for new growth. What ends becomes part of what begins.
There is a brutal honesty in that. A kind of beauty that has nothing to do with perfection and everything to do with persistence.
Here, living is dynamic. Challenging. Unpredictable. And profoundly fulfilling.
It reminds me that life was never meant to be static. That peace doesn’t necessarily mean the absence of struggle. Sometimes peace is learning to exist within the struggle without losing yourself to it.
I watch the jungle, and I see the same complicated dance that has played out inside me for years. Different parts competing for space. Old defenses responding to perceived danger. The constant work of adapting, finding balance, and learning when to fight and when to simply let things unfold.
And I realize that perhaps healing isn’t about making every part of life quiet.
Perhaps it’s about learning to live with the noise.
To recognize the storms for what they are. To understand that not every uncomfortable moment signals disaster. To trust that we can bend without breaking, change without losing ourselves, and find our footing even when the ground beneath us feels uncertain.
The jungle doesn’t promise an easy life.
Neither does healing.
But both offer something far more meaningful than ease.
They offer the opportunity to be fully alive.
This connection to nature has been with me since I was little. Somewhere along the way, through the years of growing up, surviving, traveling, and trying to make sense of the world, I lost pieces of that connection.
Or perhaps I simply forgot how deeply I needed it.
Now, surrounded by the living, breathing, untamed world of Costa Rica, I feel it again.
In the first birdcall of the morning.
In the earthy smell of wet soil after an afternoon storm.
In the thunder that rolls across the mountains and rattles the windows.
In the frogs that sing through the darkness, the insects that fill the night with their electric chorus, and the impossibly green world that seems to grow before my eyes.
In the feel of warm sand between my toes and the ocean washing away whatever I thought I needed to carry.
I find peace here. Not because life is simple, but because it is real. Because nothing in this jungle pretends to be anything other than what it is.
There is struggle, but there is also beauty.
There is uncertainty, but there is also wonder.
There is loss, but there is always the possibility of new growth.
And there is a profound comfort in knowing that I am not separate from any of it.
I am part of this great, messy, extraordinary web of life. Another living creature finding her place beneath the sun, learning to adapt, learning to grow, learning to simply be.
Maybe that’s what this natural progression has been all along.
Not becoming someone new, but returning to something I always knew.
That peace can be found in the simplest things.
That healing can happen in ways we don’t always recognize.
That we don’t have to control every moment to feel safe within it.
And that sometimes, the greatest gift we can give ourselves is the freedom to put our feet on the earth, open our senses to the world around us, and remember that we belong here, too.
Not as observers.
Not as visitors passing through.
But as living, breathing participants in this magnificent, relentless, ever-changing world.
The jungle doesn’t just surround me anymore. It lives in me.
And somewhere between the tides, the storms, the creatures, the chaos, and the quiet moments in our little backyard, I think I’ve finally found a little more of myself.
Grounded.
Calm.
Comforted.
And more ALIVE than I have felt in a very long time.
A beautiful space with Sofia written everywhere—on every knickknack, every detail, every corner. The walls were painted as vivid and colorful as her personality. An incredible moon hung high above you as you entered the space, like a beacon calling you in.
Girlfriend, there ain’t no simply walking into this space.
It’s a full-on experience.
Scattered throughout the colors and textures were Tibetan bowls, crystal bowls, and various other tools akin to her craft. Everywhere you looked there was something else to discover. Another layer of mystery hiding in corners where only spiders would normally hang out.
I had come to take a dip in the deep end of the pool.
I was there for my first full-on facial.
But not some typical, boring facial.
Oh no.
This one, I could feel, was about to be otherworldly.
The treatment room is surrounded by glass, so you’re receiving treatments in the middle of the jungle—but with the comfort of conditioned air. A storm had been brewing all weekend, and I could feel the atmospheric pressure changing as the heavy clouds rolled in.
Sofia began explaining the process, giving me just enough of a taste of what was to come without spoiling the sauce.
Then she began setting the atmosphere.
She arranged her potions and tools of the trade while I sat back and took in the delicious aromas beginning to fill the air.
And then…
It began.
Now, I have to say, there is something absolutely amazing about having someone spread oils and potions across your face as though they possess cardinal knowledge of every curve of your nose and jawline.
You begin to drift.
Somewhere along the way, you find yourself on another plane of consciousness.
And this is where my mind becomes untethered and the imagination of many ages begins to set in.
First came this little miniature hair-trimmer-feeling thing.
Immediately, my mind saw Sofia up there on my face mowing all the rogue hairs from my head.
Of course, that’s not what was happening.
And as far as I can tell, I’m not missing any facial hair.
Then came a brisk period of sweating as a bath of aromas, sacred oils, and mysterious potions were applied.
I pictured myself outside in the humid jungle air, surrounded by fragrant flowers, with bees buzzing around my face and ears.
Minutes slid by unnoticed.
My mind was anywhere but in that room.
The treatments continued for what seemed like hours, each one more amazing and transformational than the last.
And then…
The mask.
Already tripping somewhere on another plane, a cool goo was slowly applied across my entire face.
Including my eyes.
The application was slow.
Purposeful.
Almost ceremonial.
And then the rain came.
Hard.
Like it does here.
Unable to open my eyes, I realized Sofia had disappeared.
Or at least I couldn’t find her.
So my mind went looking.
And all it found was sound.
A low, soulful ringing.
A gong that seemed to go on forever.
Then another.
And suddenly, I was somewhere else entirely.
The next thing I knew, I was in a funeral pyre.
A death mask was being made for my loved ones.
The sounds of some ancient ceremony rang out around me.
Then the rains came.
But not only outside in the jungle.
Inside as well.
The bowls continued ringing around me, surrounding me.
And somewhere in that strange place, I had this realization:
We don’t escape our pain in death.
Okay…
My knee started hurting.
And apparently that pain had found its way into my hallucination.
Then I felt hands again.
Real hands.
Massaging my forehead and hairline.
Slowly, the mask was removed.
And I landed.
Back on the table where I had been for the past hour.
There was another treatment—some kind of blue light and warmth that was simply divine.
A spritz.
A spray.
And after having completely left my body…
I was told, in the gentlest voice, that it was over.
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.
Another early morning. The torrential rains last night have cut down the humidity, for now. The birds are crying out to the world, its time to get up, in a cacophony of squeaks, chirps, screeches and sweet songs. The sun is climbing steadily up the backside of the jungle covered mountain in the background and the clouds are parting for her like sentient soldiers spreading a veil. A few pockets of mist cling to the verdant trees, adding eerie apparitions floating through the trees like water flowing around rocks in a river. There’s a hint of jasmine in the air.
The days are filled with a flurry of activity early, as the humans try to beat the heat and humidity of the coming day. We scurry about, doing chores, getting those last staples at the stores, running off to work, cleaning up whatever the rains brought down from the trees last night.
It’s a symbiotic relationship one develops with nature when living in Costa Rica. The fertile ground will grow anything and the jungle throws down a lot of things. Even we humans add to the growth with a seed tossed out while on a walk, an upset garbage can can be full of seeds from the copious amount of fruits and veggies we eat. Fresh and organic. There’s not much concern about spots and imperfections on our fruits, no dyes added to the fish or poultry. Beef is not a big thing here nor is cheese. Cheese, in all forms is a delicacy. Beef can run from tough to sublime depending on the region.
Fruits and veggies grow like weeds here. It’s not uncommon to find squash plants growing on the side of the road or in a vacant field that has become a natural compost. Fruit trees are ‘fruitful’ and multiply if left unchecked. Most of these accidental plants become food for the vast variety of wildlife here. Birds, amphibians, mammals small and large, and the insects, all enjoy the bounty.
Costa Rica is wild and wonderful. It’s harsh and gentle. It’s teaming with life. The vibe is one of calmness and a natural rhythm, a stasis between man and nature. A constant battle between water and land, plants and the tiny space one carves out to call home. A hidden world in the lush tropical forests and a world of wonderment. Someplace that we feel alive, small, and acknowledge the heavy weight of being a steward in a country with so much untamed beauty.
Since the 26th of July, Chris and I have been house and pet sitting in Yator, Granada, Spain. It’s a sleepy little town with only one tiny cafe on the main street. The town is in an area called Camino Montenegro.
We agreed to do a pet/house sit for a German expat who owns a little farm up on the mountain outside of Yator. It’s a tiered farm with several raised gardens of all the normal vegetables, fruit trees, including pomegranate, apple, cherry, lime and figs. There’s a patch of just tomato plants and a vine garden of peas, beans, assorted squash, melons and cucumbers. There is also 30 or more olive trees, heavy with fruit, and two large Spanish Almond trees full of nuts.
Each morning we water all the trees and gardens, by hand, plus the ornamental plants on all three levels. In the cool morning air, hangs the scent of honeysuckle from the numerous honeysuckle vines covering the red dirt. Growing wild throughout the property are the herbs, rosemary and oregano, and the raised gardens have basil, parsley and chives. Basically, we have all the food we could ever need or want from the land. Watering of all these delicacys is done by gravity fed hoses at several stations throughout the property and takes about and hour and a half with both of us watering.
The water we drink comes from a spring located even further up the hill and 3 times a week we must turn on the feed to fill the water tank with fresh spring water. The tank is about 14 feet square by 14 feet deep. With the watering, showers and daily consumption, we take the tank down about 2 feet a day. The water is cold and clear and tastes delicious without the chemical additives in normal tap water.
One thing that has always been hard for us, since we’ve been in the road, has been getting vegetables into our diet. They are bulky and took up a lot of room when we lived in the van, and traveling around Europe for the last 3+ months, we’ve been at the mercy of the restaurants to get our veggies. Mostly we get potatoes or something that resembles squash, always over cooked or fried, and never fresh.
For the last 3 weeks, we have been eating fresh from the gardens, trying out new roasted veggies, beets, carrots and leeks. We’ve been making home-made salsa from the tomatoes we grow and the purchase of peppers and onions from women set up on street corners, selling the excess from their gardens, harvested that same day. Cooking meats with the herbs we grow and making delicious side dishes with the variety of squashes we grow. We’ve been making fresh salads with the lettuce, carrots and cucumbers we grow. It is very rewarding.
It is such a huge thing to know where our food is coming from, how fresh it is, that it is grown without chemicals and picked by our own hands. There’s something to be said for that, which never really crossed my mind until now.
Do you know where your food comes from? There are horrifying documentaries on how our food is grown, the process and effect of GMOs, fertilizers and other chemicals used to produce bigger yields and to keep the pests away. The impact we are having on the land, water and our bodies. I guess it took us slowing down here, putting in the effort and love it takes growing our own truly organic food, and being enlightened by these documentaries, to really understand and come to value this little humble farm.
Our next few months will be spent in Montenegro and perhaps Bosnia, both countries pride themselves on their clean food, clean air and clean water. I hope that we have learned a lesson and will begin to appreciate locally sourced food, grown with love, sweat and clean practices. Perhaps our carbon footprint will get even smaller which for us, is something we are proud of.
What a glorious day indeed! The Irish coastline of Kerry, a fiord on the southeast side of the island surrounded by the Atlantic, is a magnificent combination of history and lore, blight and famine, conquest and survival. The peninsula is very isolated 179km of narrow, windy roads that takes off out of the small town of Killarney, Ireland. The drive takes approximately 3.5 hours without making any stops.
After our driving experience, we opted into taking a tour so Chris could admire the scenery, and not be so stressed. Turns out this was a fabulous idea and our driver gave us driving tips. He was a 68 year old from the O’Sullivan clan who had personal history living out on the peninsula as a boy. He drove milk trucks from village to village and had quite a reputation. As with all your drivers, he was a wealth of knowledge, singing, reciting poems and passing on the history.
I guess what struck us the most was the incredible shades of green. The incredible contrasts of the yellow Gorse bush or Furze. It is said that Furze bushes, like all other thorny bushes in Ireland such as hawthorn and white thorn, belong to the Sidhe, and often guard their portals to magical realms. It is a magical bush looked over by the fairies of the land. Folklore has it, that if a bride cuts a sprig and puts it in her bride bouquet, she will have all the luck of the Irish.
The Irish Black-faced sheep are also scattered around the towering hill sides. The only way to bring in the sheep from these craggy hillsides is with a sheepdog. I spent about 45 minutes watching one of these small, sure footed dogs in action with his shepherd. Amazing agility and speed, controlled mostly by different whistle tweets from as far as a quarter of a mile. I thought about Gandaulf for a moment and how he loved the chase.
We had a local lunch at “the most beautiful lookout in all of Ireland in fair weather”, or so the sign said. I had my first lamb stew and Chris had the shepherd pie. The view was indeed spectacular of the bay and the mountainous islands as the fog held light to the peeks. A statue of Mary standing on a serpent stood in the middle of a stone ring looking down on us with outstretched hands and a soft welcoming gaze. I felt blessed once more to be having this adventure.
Today began our Ireland trip. Our jet lag is finally waining and we are getting down to a new circadian rhythm. Overall we are getting into the groove of travel again after quite a long 6 month hiatus.
We grabbed a taxi into the little town of Blarney, on the southern coast just a few miles north of Cork. The history of Ireland is steeped in powerful lords and many wars. The landscape is dotted with castles and villages surrounding these monolithic towers of rock, most all older than the first settlements in the US. Even the woolen mill was older than my first “historic registry” home in Utah.
I will be the first to admit that I am an ignorant American. Hells sake, I don’t even know how to physically dial a non-US phone number. At least I am not ashamed to ask and our campground host, Rebecca, was a pleasant young woman who was more than eager to educate me. Better to ask than pretend you know something you don’t.
Our visit to the lovely little town of Blarney, was like stepping back in time. The town is based around a castle built in the 1400’s. It remained in the family for centuries. In the 1800’s the Blarney Home was built. The castle is the home of the “blarney stone” given by the witch of the lake to one of the sons who rescued her from the lake. He was afflicted with a stutter and following the witches directions implicitly, he found the stone and kissed it as instructed. His life then changed as he became a fluent speaker and was given “the gift of gab” as it is said to do. Even until this day, the lines to ascend the castle stairs to the top floor where the Blarney Stone is at rest, just to give it a kiss, is at least an hour long.
The gardens surrounding the Blarney Mansion and castle, were in full display. The variety of flora and fauna planted was in full bloom. The magnificent colors were amazing. I didn’t know so many colors existed in nature. Anything from brilliant reds to flesh peach and salmon orange. Purple flowers, buttercup, and wild garlic filled the air with fragrance.
The most harrowing part of the day was the 2.5km walk back to the Caravan Park (campground). The road started out with a sidewalk, but quickly became a narrow road full of blind turns and no way to get off the road if two cars should pass by at once. The sides of the road was 3-4’ high thick growth which included its fair share of stinging nettle, which is normally found in riverbanks at home. By the time I realized what it was, Chris and I had both inadvertently come in contact with its viscous little hairs.
We finally made it back in one piece and toasted our 7 miles of walking in one day. The day ended with showers, laundry and a recap of our day.
It’s been a month since we said farewell to Gandaulf. I still have moments in the day when my eyes fill with tears and the words get stuck in throat. Times when all I want is to feel his thick, soft fur between my fingers, and smell his musky odor. At night I swear sometimes he is still there at the bottom of the bed snoring. Of course I sit with the feelings, let the tears fall and, like the clouds in a blue sky, it passes and I am left in the present moment…to move on.
Playing in the water was a favorite past time
We continue to sell off all our possessions and donated 4 big boxes of women’s clothing to the women’s shelter and odds and ends to the DI. Our shed is becoming more and more vacant everyday. Getting rid of “stuff” is fun, freeing and terrifying all at the same time. What I want to get rid of, Chris thinks we might need someday and sometime visa versa. No matter we settle and the item stays or goes and we move on to the next.
We have started our trial packs. It takes almost as many clothes to be gone for a week long vacation as it does to pack for a year. Save a nice outfit for the occasional fancy dinner or cafe hopping, a few more necessities for hiking or swimming, and an extra pair of shoes…they make a thing called a washer and dryer, so…just like at home, you still need to stop for a domestic goddess day.
The farewells continue almost daily. I have hooked up with some healers that are concocting some plant medicines for me to continue my journey of good mental health and a balance of mind and body. It’s been almost six months since I went cold turkey on anti-depressants and entered the world of good, wholesome plant based medicines. The journey has had its ups and downs, but I am a whole new person, not better, just changed and more energized and grounded.
Between this change and my spiritual endeavors, I have broken through the ancient fortress built around my heart and mind, and found a strong, safe foundation to build a new life on. Yes I have many small tears left on my heart, but I am free from this old baggage and free to build a new adventure in loving kindness and peace.
