Tag: Peace

A Trip to Sofia’s Spa

A Trip to Sofia’s

How do I begin?

I went to Sofia’s new salon in Ojochal.

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.

And just like that…

I had returned from my trip to Sofia’s.

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.

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.

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

No More!

Listen
the streets are humming with a truth too loud to bury.
A rising drumbeat
from the soles of the people
who finally say:

No.
More.

We won’t carry this poison in our lungs anymore.
We won’t swallow injustice like it’s the cost of living.

We rise
linked arm to arm,
heart to heart
a single force moving forward,
a single flame refusing to go out.

A force for peace.
A force for fairness.
A force that whispers equality
and roars it, too.

No more heavy hand of the man.
No more blood running down streets
where children should be playing.
No more brothers of color
treated as less than sacred.
No more stolen bodies, stolen futures,
stolen names.

No more.
Say it until the sky memorizes us.

We stand
unbowed,
unbroken,
a force to be reckoned with.

We refuse your threats.
We refuse your silence.
We refuse to pretend
we don’t see the wound
when the whole nation is bleeding.

In silence we gather
but never in fear.
Non-violent,
but never weak.
Our voice carries the weight
of those who were never allowed to speak.

Your guns are your courage
you cowards.
Your masks are your shields
thin fabric to hide the fear
of a world waking up.

Because we are growing.
We are rising.
We are finding strength in each other
in unity,
in compassion,
in the simple truth
that love is the greatest rebellion.

Strength for the weak.
A voice for the unheard.
A wall against tyranny.

This country may be divided,
but the people
the people are finding their power.

And together,
with our feet planted in the earth,
with fire in our throats,
we speak the words
that no regime can smother:

NO MORE.

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

When is Enough…Enough?!?

It feels as though the world’s leaders have lost their minds. As if they’ve slipped into a dangerous game of power and ego, moving pieces across a board without regard for the lives beneath their hands. And the rest of us, “we the people”, are left standing in fear and disbelief, asking the same question over and over again: What on earth is happening inside their heads?

It is not the powerful who pay the price for this madness. It is the people of every nation…the families, the neighbors, the children – who carry the weight of political insanity and unchecked greed. Not greed for what is rightfully theirs, but hunger for what belongs to everyone else. Somewhere along the way, the balance tipped. The power of the people was quietly traded for the power of the power-hungry. And now we are left wondering: when did this happen… and when will enough finally be enough?

The death toll rises across the globe. Once, as US Americans, we watched distant horrors unfold on foreign soil, believing – naively, that they could never reach us. Now that violence has been carried to our own doorsteps. We the people are no longer observers. We are witnesses. We are participants. And it is time…long past time – to pull our heads from the sand. There can be no more looking away. No more pretending this is someone else’s problem. It is time to wake up, to smell the gunpowder and tear gas, and to say with one voice: enough is enough!

The message we’re fed is muddled and poisonous…voices everywhere, shouting over one another, spewing hate, distraction, and recycled lies. A fog of smoke and mirrors meant to confuse, divide, and exhaust us. And still, astonishingly, so many cling to it. But others are stirring. Others are seeing clearly. Others are standing up and whispering, then speaking, then shouting: this is not okay.

I hear the sorrow in the voices of friends and family left behind to gather the pieces of shattered lives day after day. I see their courage as they stand for what they believe in, even when the deck is cruelly stacked against them. I feel it when my own family must walk into a grocery store accompanying a neighbor, afraid to go alone. That fear brings me to tears. This was once a peaceful place to call home. 

When did it become acceptable to plant terror in the soil of a society? When did killing in cold blood become normalized? When did mass violence stop shocking us?

We now watch armed, masked men fire into crowds. We see chemical agents – once banned by the world, now used on citizens. And then we hear the lies, smooth and shameless, poured from the mouths of leaders as the moral fabric of the United States frays before our eyes. It is shameful.

Some days my faith wavers. My resolve feels thin. The obstacles loom so large they seem impossible to climb. And yet…somewhere deep inside – my heart steadies itself and keeps beating. Because even surrounded by madness, truth still exists. Because even drowned out by noise, compassion still speaks. The lies and the truth are both on full display now, painted in living color. And we are being asked, urgently, to choose.

Our lives are already being disrupted. Maybe not by bombs falling from the sky, not yet…but by fear, division, and the slow erosion of safety and trust. The tipping point is no longer ahead of us. It is here. We can choose to stand, peacefully, courageously, together – or we can hide and hope the storm passes us by. History has shown us where silence leads.

This moment is calling us back to ourselves. Back to humanity. Back to the understanding that power has always belonged to the people when they remember who they are. Not through violence, but through unity. Not through hate, but through truth. Not through fear, but through love that refuses to be extinguished.

So I ask again…not in despair, but in determination:
When is enough, enough?

I believe the answer is rising, quietly but unmistakably, from the hearts of people everywhere.