Semana Santa began this week in Costa Rica. That’s Easter Week to us Gringos. What does it mean? School’s out; people flock to the beach; government offices shut down: and it’s quiet in the city. Thursday and Friday are - to borrow another religion’s terminology - kind of like the Catholic version of a high holiday. Friday is more revered than even Easter Sunday. When I first moved here, rumor had it if you even drove your car on Friday or Saturday, you’d get a stone thrown at your car. It’s become a little more commercial here and a few grocery stores are even open on Thursday and Friday. The Passion of Christ is recreated in a march in almost every town in the country. Complete with Roman soldiers, cross, and angles.

Since holidays mean I’ve got kids at home - all day long! - I get-a-crackin’ at unfinished projects piling up in my house. I’ll be unpacking that drill to realign the laundry room shelves and hang the artwork that’s sitting in my garage on my very bare living room wall.

But hanging that painting on the wall alone would look like a letter all alone on a piece of paper: it needed a few more to complete the sentence. So, I found a little end table to go under the painting; I traded a chair in my daughter’s office and bought her a new purple one. I bought a pillow to hide the fact that the chair was a $16 knock off of a "Stark-like" modern look. A vase here; baskets to hide Addison’s toys there; and then there was the light.

I’d seen this light when I picked up the small end table. A knew it was meant to be in my home. And when I find something reasonably priced - which usually means under $20 - I grab it. Costa Rica is overrun with cheap stuff from China. It then leaps to mid-ranged stuff you’d find in Target, but for an overpriced and less-than-desirable selection. One stop shopping is not the norm. Running from store to store to find things is the way it works here, at least if you’re a bargain hunter.

We put up the light. Heck, it all looked so good, I tacked another piece of art I had I in the closet. The kids and I ran back to cheap-barn-like store just before it closed last night to grab that perfect other perfect vase for the corner ($6.00!!) and another box-like end table to hide Addison’s balls (he’s got a lot of them). We struck out on the rug at the Mall. So, I’ll have to run to yet another store.

But that light. Oh my gosh do I Iove this light. It looks like Mother Earth has recreated herself in my living room. The kids and I sat in the living room after our hunting and gathering. Coco danced to Rachel Z; Addison put little cards into all the empty boxes; and I watched all this beauty unfold in the night.

We hopped in the car and went to visit a friend yesterday. While we were there, these guys pulled up to the house and asked if anyone would like their car washed. What a bonus! Children play; mom’s talk; car washed - all in one shot. The task master in me was thrilled.

Car washing is a bit of an art in Costa Rica. Almost everyone has clean cars. Since there’s no salt on the roads, most cars retain a pretty good look for many years. How some rickety old trucks spewing out black smoke or those wobbly Datson’s with the taped together trunk pass inspection leaves me only to wonder what goes on during those RTVE* visits. Cars are so expensive here - usually at least 1/3 to 1/2 more than what you’d pay in the States, so most people take really good care of the vehicles they’ve got. Usually, my security guard makes a few extra colones by washing our cars. But, since he’s out of town, I jumped at the chance to get the sand and goo off so I could load the kids into the car without getting my clothes full of it too.

After a couple of hours, Addison was getting tired, so I packed the group up; got them strapped in their seats; started the car. I put the car in drive. It didn’t move. I’ve had the transmission go out on cars before and it is a dreadful thing - very expensive. Then when I put it in Park, it made a horrific clicking noise as if the motor was edging off the axle and about to fall on the ground. In less than ten seconds, I saw myself car-less, schlepping kids and car seats in taxis while I waited for weeks to get the transmission fixed. I saw money flying out the window.

I looked at the shiny, finely detailed black leather of the car and noticed the 4×4 knobby thing. It looked like it was in a different spot than usual because while driving, I can store all sorts of coins in front of it. Now, there was no spot for change. At that moment, my friend’s father came up to the window. Coco unclipped her seat-belt and tried to entertain Addison. There are three buttons with a diagram and a red dot on them. I had no idea what those buttons are for and in five years I’ve driven this car car around Costa Rica. I don’t like touching buttons I don’t understand. What if that clicking sound got worse? What if I make it worse? My car is in the “it’s-coming-up-on-twenty-years-old-and-we-need-to- keep-it-running” category. Though I haven’t resorted yet to duct tape, I am careful with this old girl my daughter has named Black Bear.

I called my “soon-to-be-ex” and he had no idea what to do. He added a little bit at the end, which further added to my angst: if you drive it in the wrong 4×4 mode, you could break (I forget what he called it) and it’s about an $8000 repair. Great. I was on my own. I took out the manuel; it was in Spanish; it’s a German car. I walked over to my friend’s father - I’m not sure why I gravitate to men in these situations - but I needed someone to bounce off. My friends and I double checked our Spanish. The G must have been a word in German because it didn’t match with the description. The N we all nailed as Neutral - must be the same in all three languages. And the S didn’t mean stop because it was correct 4×4 gear to drive in.

I pushed the knob hard and got it shifted to S. The clicking sound went away, we waved, buckled up, and head for home. Now I know what that knobby thing that held my coins is for; I had a good morning with friends; the kids played; and I drove home with a clean car. Check it all off the list - and more.

*RTVE is the name of the inspection all cars have to go through every year in Costa Rica.

Coco walked out on me while we were watching the Decorating Channel. I was resting my back, which is still crooked and bent out of shape. She returned with two large books: A.A. Milne the Complete Collection of Winnie the Pooh and All About Animals. I bought those books dreaming about all the hours we’d spend reading and giggling over Tigger, Pooh, and Piglet. But at that moment, I wanted to see how the remodeled kitchen was going to turn out and then maybe sneak a bit of Oprah.

Coco sat on the floor and said:

I’m going to iron my hair.

She leaned over; placed a chunk of locks between the two books; and remained still for about one minute.

Coco has long, beautiful thick goldy-brown hair. The kind that in slow motion would fold upon itself like a shimmering waterfall (when I can get a comb through it). She may have a wave here and there and gets a few cute little flips when it’s humid, but her hair is far from curly.

Where does she get this from? My daughter observes Costa Ricans, Americans, Europeans, and those in between almost every day. Women iron their hair here. I don’t, but I use a hair dryer. Most women here don’t even own a hair dryer. I only wonder on which way she’ll swing with shaving.

Is my hair flat? she said.

Perfect! I said, just as they pulled back the curtains to reveal the gorgeous kitchen on the Decorating Channel.

Enclaves of cultural groups seem to gather together in Costa Rica as naturally as water falls down. German, Dutch, Americans, Canadians, Chinese, and Danes (just to mention a few) set down roots here. Some retire, some work, some live here when it’s too cold OVER THERE.

It’s great fun to go to an event and see a blend of all these cultures make for a splendid afternoon. Meat on the grill; Mariachees, rice, and at least three languages filled an afternoon in the sun. Off in the distance - over an hour away - the Atlantic sat, just doing it’s thing of beauty.

For the afternoon we were from all one place, and a nice place it was.

I’ve dabbled in cooking, but it’s been awhile since I’ve created anything more than dinners with yogurt, lunch with tortillas and dinner with tortillas. I had this romantic image when I was pregnant with my first child that I’d transfer all that culinary experience I had into delicious, savory meals for my daughter. She’d grow up eating sautéed gold squash, clean her little dish when I served her pesto artichokes, and giggle in delight when I again served our her favorite Indian curry for the second time that week.

Ha! laughed the gods of parenting. Ha! Ha! Ha!

I made that squash, froze it; and threw it out. One time when friends came to visit Costa Rica, they had two children. Touring is a challenge with kids. Even in a car; even with DVDs; even with Nintendo; even with the scenery. Kids get hungry. ALL THE TIME. The gods of parenting forget to tell us that basically kids are hungry ALL THE TIME and that they will prefer sugar - in any form - over any other type of food. I struggle with my daughter when I travel, and I live here. This mother valiantly braved the switch-backs, Spanish, and hot weather with her two children. We received our lunch at a coffee plantation we’d stop to take a tour of, and the youngest child didn’t like the sandwich. Plain old white bread sandwiches are tough to find here. And this one came with mayonnaise. Mayonnaise! Imagine the horror! The sandwich was returned, and about 15 minutes later, the slab of carbohydrates (notice it’s sugar) came back to the child. He snubbed his nose at it. Everyone else was restless and had finished eating.

The mother promptly reached over the table, opened a pack of sugar, and poured it onto the child’s tongue. Then, she opened the sandwich and put it on the meat. The boy took a couple of bites. You bet I was judgmental then. Sure, my attempts at sautéed squash failed, but this? I was above that. Oh, how I learned.

My two children drop me to my knees about an average of once a day with another lesson in parenting. On a long road trip, I might not carry white packets of sugar, but you can bet I’ll pack a few candy bars or lollipops. At home, I continually shrug my shoulders at the bag of candy Coco - and now Addison - will come home with. I fight it. I give in. I fight it. I give in. (Repeat until thoroughly confused and blended).

So, the opportunity to cook for a few friends was a joy. The ingredients in Costa Rica are so fresh and bountiful. I sautéed the curry chicken and inhaled the smell as it mingled with the figs. The marinated Italian vegetables snapped with color. The Parmesan crisps filled my house with the aroma of a Pizzeria. All the while, I listened to the radio (one of my favorite pastimes) and felt this subtle joy that I was creating something with a snippet of spirit and a touch of arty flare.

I could have been mistaken for someone on the Food Network up until that last hour. I kept slipping in oil that I’d spilled on the floor; burnt a pan of Parmesan crisps; and I forgot to put the Feta in the dip. (I always forget the Feta!). The meal was delicious, and I think I ate more than anyone else. Good food serves the soul and appeases the gods all at the same time.

The networks should be calling any day.

A crimp in my neck runs from under my skull, over my shoulders, and splinters off down the spine. I went to bed fine; woke up as I fought off a camel hogging the bed all night. Turning to the right is downright painful and the rest of life’s every day motions are annoying and stiff.

All the "little things" add up when caring for my son, especially the lifting. This is injury is an old one, and it returns when I put too many straws on my back.

This morning Addison’s nanny had a crimp in her neck. Same side. We look like a pair of melted salt and pepper shakers. We both have to turn our whole body in order to use it. Reaching down to pick up Addison makes us wince and huff out funny noises like: oooffff….aaahhhgggg…bluuuufff. Our house smells like menthol rub. We laugh at how ridiculous we look.

As we finished breakfast, I told the nanny how I once read once that everyone who’s ever sat in a chair or lived in a house or used the changing room at the department store leaves their energy behind. So, we decided that the guy who used to live in this house must have had neck problems. Either that or it’s in the water.

Addison was sitting on the floor and signaled he wanted to be picked up.

Maybe we can get a camel to haul him around. I’ve seen camels trained to get down on their knees. Addy could climb up and fit perfectly between those two humps. In the meantime, I huffed and puffed and grunted as I reached down for my son to take a little walk in the sun.

Growing up in Minnesota, I cherished every moment of sunshine. May through September were jewels. People stripped most of their clothes come April - even March - to let their skin breath something other than layers of synthetic clothes. When my sister came to visit one May in Costa Rica, no matter the weather here, she wore shorts.

I’m didn’t come to Costa Rica to wear pants! she said, even though I’d be wearing socks and sweat pants and a sweater.

Now, I’m inundated with sunshine almost non-stop during the dry season of December through April. Even in the rainy season, the mornings are usually bright with sunshine. Flowers have two blooming seasons here when it changes from dry to rain and back again. Living in two different, yet in some way oddly similar climates and cultures,I pluck gems of each one into my home, back yard, and attitude.

Cosmos is a flower said to represent “the heart of a girl.” Look how simple and yet tall and determined this flower is. Back in Minnesota, I glowed proudly at my crop of cosmos. Butterflies love them, and they are surprisingly easy to grow. I still love these gems. But look how much this flower offers: the innocence of color, the resilience of change, and the stamina to grow again. It’s like a whole, little universe unto itself.

I think it was named perfectly, don’t you?

Yoga; run; walk; meditate; pray; tai chi, write down your three pages of your thoughts; write down your dreams; gargle; juice; drink tea; coffee? - and while I’m at run up the mountain. While I was oil pulling this morning (more on that in a minute), I contemplated all the things suggested by theories, dogmas, paradigms, and mothers.

B.C. (that’ s before children), I could do one or more of the above with vim and vigor; connecting to the great source of the Universe. A.C. (yes, after children and including pregnancy), I’m lucky to squeak out going to the bathroom before someone needs something from me. Once and awhile, I get really determined and will forge ahead with that morning yoga, meditation, or dream recall. After about three days running, I run into problems: that child that was sleeping soundly until 6:30 a.m. now gets up at 5:15 a.m.; that child free of colds or flu starts vomiting. I’ve learned to forget it all for awhile only to try again a few weeks or months later.

On my bookshelf are at least 50 self-help books (not to mention the ones I’ve given away). The authors are brilliant, and the titles shimmer with such hope: Co-dependent No More; Seat of the Soul, Emotional Alchemy; need I mention Carlos Castenada? Ever since having children I’ve felt separate and apart from this movement. How can it include me when it takes all my energy just to keep snot, bile, and other fluids either inside the child or properly disposed of?

When Coco was almost two years old, our family took a trip to the Netherlands. I was covering a convention for a radio station on peace, spirituality - groovy stuff I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into. We had a few days to "see the town." But, even pleasures like art and music take a back seat to this incredibly physical profession. I sludged through the Anne Frank house with Coco on my back. I mean I stood in front of the hidden closet; gaped up at the attic stairs; and tried so hard to completely give myself to this intense story, energy and place. Instead? I jiggled up and down and zipped quickly through the exhibit so my daughter wouldn’t wail and ruin the other visitors experience.

We trudged on to the Stedelijk Museum and before even entering, I knew Coco needed a diaper change. I see the Stedelijk is under construction, however at the time, the bathroom wasn’t exactly family friendly. I sat down outside of the bathroom while Coco mashed her sweaty hands against the spotless window, and wrote this poem:

Museums are poop.

Spirituality is for THEM.

Not award winning, but it was short and to the point. Back at the conference, I kept on jiggling, chasing, and jamming cookies into my daughter’s face to get a few moments of silence. After my son was born, I sucked deeper into the "dark hole" of mothering as I faced Down Sydrome, surgery (his and mine), and respitory problems. But he’s two now, and I’m at it again. I’ll dabble in yoga, but only when I see a moment in the day when kids aren’t around. I’ll just sit and smile contently and call it meditation.

One of my nanny’s is suffering terribly from wisdom teeth coming in. Since she hates taking pills, I looked up on the Internet for some ideas to help her until the caja - the slow but sure medical social system in Costa Rica - can squeeze her in for an appointment next Tuesday around 6 a.m. She furrowed her eyebrows when I suggested oil pulling: sucking unrefined sesame back and forth in your teeth for ten minutes. Since I had a cold, I thought I would try this cure that supposedly removes toxins from your body - thus no more cold, tooth pain or whatever.

Do it first thing in the morning said the instructions. I forgot that, and waited an hour until the kids were gone to school. As I sucked this oil through my teeth (and tried not to gag), I remembered a moment back at that conference in Holland. After an awful morning of managing my child and so-so interviews (thank goodness for editing!), I sat on the floor outside of the cafeteria as Coco smudged the windows and toddled under the tables. A woman, Carolina, hunched next to me, and we started talking. She told me about a woman who had eight children and had this bliss about her. Carolina asked her how she could be so content. The woman simply said: This is IT.

So, that’s IT. Parenting may be the highest form of spirituality there is. From the moment I wake up and Addison twinkles his eyes my way, I’m living in the moment. Even if I’m grumpy, hunched over, tired, or frustrated I am in THE moment. And, isn’t that what all those writers, all those books, all those paradigms are hoping for: mindful consciousness? I spit out the oil, which turned from a cinnamon brown to a foamy white; started the laundry; did the dishes while promising myself I’d do yoga right after lunch.

The beauty is always there; the contentment, the peace, the bliss. Costa Rica is small, heck we’re just approaching 5 million people. The compact terrain reveals something fantastic at every switchback. Look up, and there’s a mountain. Drive 45 minutes from the city - there’s the rainforest. Beaches, volcanoes, horses, and vistas wait for us to look and see the splendor they are offering every minute of the day. We don’t all live at the beach, and the kid’s schedule often dictates our adventures. But right out my window is a gorgeous mountain, and live in the city. A trip to the fruit market is a feast of fun and colors. And even for the moments when all we can do is stay at home, the beauty is right before us. My son got up this morning with a smile bigger than a bread box. He grabbed his socks in that super-flexi motion he has of putting his feet above his head and giggled. The beauty, it’s always there, right under our nose. We just have to look - up, down, inside and out.

Do you remember computer programing with punch cards? Goodness that reveals something about my age doesn’t it? Years later, here I am, trying to write a few paragraphs in computer language and just when I think I remember the CSS layer thing or the HTML code it betrays me. Computers must have a male energy, no? Me and my Yin are getting only so far with this stuff.

So in our changes here, you’ll notice a few glitches until the paragraph, line break, and font symbols all jive. I have this fantastic computer "geek" (his words not mine) person that knows so much more than me. He’s amazing, and I’m humbled at what I have to learn. But sometimes even when I remember that </p> thing for the line break….the line break disappears the next day.

It is a lot of fun - this learning thing. It keeps my brain chirrping and if I’m going to live to 120 I’ve got to find something to do with it. All of you that are leaving such great and fun comments, thank you! Imagine what’s ahead!