Tag: reflection

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.

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.

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