Tag: meditation

Living Abroad

A year of living in Costa Rica has a way of changing even the hardest of souls.


We arrived after spending a year traveling the world. From the emerald cliffs of Ireland to the ancient streets of Cyprus, and four unforgettable months wandering Southeast Asia, the world opened itself to us. New cultures. New foods. New languages. More importantly, we witnessed countless ways people live in harmony with their surroundings. It changed us long before we ever set foot in Costa Rica.

Now we find ourselves nestled in a country that is both ferociously wild and profoundly calming.


Living here has slowly melted away layers of stress. I might even say it has rewired our brains—teaching us to slow down, practice patience, and become comfortable doing…nothing at all. Somewhere along the way, the clutter in my mind began to disappear. The anger, the endless noise, the toxic thoughts I carried for far too long have quietly loosened their grip.


In their place are moments of remarkable clarity. Moments of overwhelming gratitude. Moments where the beauty around me brings tears to my eyes and softens my heart. There are times when my thoughts simply disappear, and I’m completely immersed in the present—the calls of the toucans, the chorus of frogs after the rain, the scent of the jungle, the rhythm of the ocean. No distractions. No urgency. Just pure, uncomplicated peace.

Of course, not everything is idyllic.
“Things” can be difficult to find. Convenience isn’t always convenient. Comfort, as we once defined it, isn’t guaranteed. The humidity can be relentless, and life rarely moves according to your schedule.


If your happiness depends on possessions, predictability, and recreating the life you left behind—this may not be the place for you.
But if you’re searching for peace, solitude, vibrant wildlife, lush forests, and a slower, more grounded way of living, Costa Rica just might be the perfect place to begin again.


Leave your worries at the airport.


Leave your stress at the airplane door.


Then take a deep breath…and jump in.


Moving abroad is always a gamble.


Then again, so is staying exactly where you are.


Life offers no guarantees. Death is the only certainty. Between those two truths lies a choice—to remain comfortable or to risk everything for a life that feels more fully lived.

For us, despite the obstacles we never saw coming, it has been the best gamble we’ve ever taken.

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.

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.

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’s Prayer

As this new year dawns,

may we pause –

like the forest at first light –

and remember who we are.

May we recognize the suffering born of hate,

and may we meet it not with more fire,

but with clear seeing, steady breath,

and compassionate action.

Like water shaping stone,

may our kindness be persistent.

Like roots beneath the soil,

may our intentions be quiet and strong.

When fear arises,

may we notice it without feeding it.

When anger appears,

may we allow it to pass like a storm—

felt, but not obeyed.

May we remember that each being—

human, animal, river, mountain, wind—

is bound by the same thin, sacred thread.

To harm one is to harm the whole.

To heal one is to heal the whole.

For those who feel small or powerless,

may we remember the teaching of the seed:

no tree begins as a forest.

One mindful act, one kind word,

one moment of awareness

can change the direction of the world.

May we walk gently on this Earth,

listening to what has been wounded

and responding with care.

May we release what no longer serves—

greed, cruelty, illusion—

and make space for wisdom to grow.

In this turning of the year,

may our minds become clearer,

our hearts more open,

our actions aligned with right intention.

May peace arise naturally,

as the lotus rises from the mud –

untouched by what it grew from,

offering beauty to all.

May all beings be safe.

May all beings be free from suffering.

May all beings live in harmony

Peace to all – Johnna

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. 

Is the Grass Really Greener?

It’s an absolutely stunning morning. A week before Christmas. The sun has risen above the mountains, drying out any hint of dampness left behind by the night’s rain. A slight breeze kisses my cheek, inviting me to awaken to the promise of this day. The soulful cry of the toucans drifts through the cool air, igniting joy in my heart and bringing a smile to my face. The day’s activities have already begun.

It’s been three months since we moved to Costa Rica. Every day brings something new – some good, some not so good – but everything offers a chance to learn. We are slowly settling in, and time slips away so easily here. Some days I sit quietly on the back patio, simply taking it all in. Other days are a flurry of activity – from Tai Chi and volunteering, to ferias and multiple shopping stops to gather what’s needed to prepare wonderful meals. And of course, there are beach days. It’s amazing how much time there is once you’ve stopped. Stopped working. Stopped traveling. Stopped worrying.

We move through phases of bliss and phases of WTF are we doing here?! 

This is a country of mixed messages. There are moments of total chill – when everything flows effortlessly, without a hitch. And then there are the moments marked by a lack of urgency or commitment to show up on time…if at all. The Tico people are wonderful; there is simply no rush. You can plan your entire day and watch as not one thing unfolds as expected. By day’s end, you may realize you’ve waited and waited, yet nothing has gotten done. It’s frustrating – mostly when we compare life here to life in the States. Every choice carries consequences, both good and bad. This choice was ours.

Then there are the funnies. It’s a bright, sunny day and the power blinks on and off several times within a couple of hours. It’s pouring rain – the power blinks again. This week there’s a leak in this water main line or that one, so sorry, the water will be off for a few hours – not for lack of water, mind you, there’s plenty of that. Huge green Iguanas choose our back deck for make-out sessions, then cool off in the pool afterward. Tiny spiders float endlessly from thing to thing, leaving us to walk through their strands face-first. Each morning I dust every piece of outdoor furniture, trying to stay ahead of yesterday’s web trails. Geckos poop all over everything leaving little mouse poos with white dots looking like an explanation point – guess they are making a statement. And of course, there’s the ongoing adventure of asking and answering in Spanish. 

The list goes on.

It’s the dry season now.

We shall see how green the grass stays.

As the holiday season begins –

This Thanksgiving, we embrace gratitude for the calm we’ve built and compassion for those missing loved ones. Together, we honor the enduring bonds that transcend distance.

This year, Thanksgiving feels different.

It feels heavier… and somehow, more sacred.

Because while Chris and I wake up each morning surrounded by peace — free from the grinding stress that once sat on our shoulders — we know that so many others are carrying a very different weight right now.

A weight made of fear, of sudden goodbyes, of families torn apart by harsh policies and heartless raids. There are empty chairs at tables today not because of distance or choice, but because loved ones were taken, uprooted, scattered. Entire families are living with a quiet ache that never seems to lift.

Yet in the middle of all that heartbreak… there is still gratitude.

Chris and I are deeply, humbly thankful for the life we’ve been able to build here in Costa Rica — for the calm, the safety, the space to breathe again. And we’re just as grateful for the people who keep our hearts stitched together across countries: the friends who have become family here, and the loved ones in the States whose connection remains a steady, grounding presence.

We’re thankful for every message, every visit, every shared laugh across borders — reminders that love doesn’t weaken with distance; it grows stronger, more intentional, more cherished.

So today we’re holding two truths side by side: Gratitude for the peace we have… and compassion for those spending this holiday with pieces missing.

To everyone feeling that empty space at the table, that tug of worry, that longing for someone who should be here — you are not invisible. You are carried in the hearts of many.

May the days ahead bring comfort where there has been fear, hope where there has been loss, and reunions where there have been far too many separations.

My love and heartfelt wishes for a reflective holiday season.

Rain and Rejuvenation

I’m sitting here on my patio watching the rain come down—again. We’ve had a ton of rain since Hurricane Melissa first appeared as a blip in the Caribbean. It must be true that October is the rainiest month in Costa Rica. We’ve had over twenty inches of rain this week, and more is falling.

And let me tell you—it knows how to rain here. It’s never just a “passing shower.” Back in Utah, we’d call these “gully washers.” For example, our pool’s water level usually sits about six inches below the lip, but last night, after just two hours of rain, it reached the overflow drain. For the next four hours, the drain couldn’t keep up, so I had to pull the cover off to let the water escape before it spilled over. Our pool is about eighteen feet long and twelve feet wide. I’m no mathematician, but that’s a lot of water.

Why did I mention Melissa?

Part of learning to live in a new country is learning its weather. We don’t have regular TV here, so most of our information and alerts come through WhatsApp. I saw a question recently posed to a local meteorologist: “If the hurricane is in the Caribbean, why is the Pacific coast getting high tide surges and flooding—while it’s sunny on the Caribbean side?”

Here’s where it gets a little nerdy. A hurricane is a living, breathing, seething wonder of nature. It pulls energy from all around it—even thousands of miles away. Just off the Pacific coast of Central America sits the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ), which holds an immense amount of humidity—a marine layer of warm, moist air. The hurricane literally pulls that ITCZ over the nearby countries, where it becomes supercharged by local weather patterns. The result? Torrential rain that can last all day.

During a “normal” rain, you can feel the humidity rising. The air gets heavy and oppressive. It’s no wonder everything here grows so fast, so big, and so green.

This week, we’ve also begun a new path toward better health—a change in diet, shifting old habits, and replacing them with more holistic practices. We’ve started giving back to our small community by volunteering and joining in the local energy and vibe. We’ve taken up Tai Chi, sound healing, and slow forms of yoga and breathing.

Today, I attended a “Morning Melt: Cacao and Devotional Singing Ceremony” at a local shop here in Uvita. There’s always some class or workshop on wellness, spirituality, or healing happening here. It’s about getting well—not just treating symptoms.

We eat fresh produce from the farmers market, grass-fed meats, and organic everything. We know where our food comes from—nothing is trucked in from far away. If it’s in season, we get it fresh. It all adds up to our main reason for moving here.

Here, in Costa Rica, we just might become young and spry again.

Costa Rican Wild

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.