The next morning, three baby birds sat on my railing. Two pigeons and a brown one. The brown one flew away when I got my camera, but the two palomas remained for hours. I recognized our fledgling, but this other little one? Maybe it is his sister - the one “gone missing.” It was so fantastic to know that the night passed and the baby made it. Off to another day to stretch his wings. And he’s not alone. It’s always better to travel in pairs. I’ve got a feeling they’ll be back.

The first pigeon that tried to nest on our patio, failed. One day, she just disappeared. We found the two eggs alone after waiting for several days. The next mother had more success.

She roosted in the same nest and had, again, two eggs. They hatched. One day, one of them fell onto the balcony. We replaced it back into the nest. Days later, we noticed just one baby, which got bigger and bigger. In fact this youngster was so large their was hardly any room for the mother.

This morning the baby tried it’s wings at flight. He didn’t get far. He sat on the balcony next to the guinea pig cages. (Wonder what they thought.) The mother was calling in the distance. She returned to the nest and appeared a bit stunned that no one was there. The little one saw his mother and took a leap up to the green beam and back to the nest. They snuggled together and competed for room. He wasn’t ready. But that afternoon, I guess he was.

I went back to check and saw a pile of droppings on the guinea pig cage. The young bird must have sat there for a long time before taking the big leap. We never did find out what happened to that other baby.  Yesterady afternoon, we’d found a baby sparrow that had fallen out of it’s nest. I almost stepped on it. Despite our efforts, he didn’t make it either. I guess the ones that are still here, that have had the grace of making it, are the ones with the work to do: find seeds, worms, fly, soar, and strut along the cement with our heads held high.

One night my daughter couldn’t sleep. There’s been a few of those lately. I think “we” parents can too quickly overlook the intensity that children feel over things. Sometimes divorce isn’t so easy to take: a new life, house, and family order. Who are her parents anyway? Who is she?

We all know that pesky little ego begins it’s march into our brains around 5 - 7, perhaps earlier. We start getting attached to all those labels we’re given and begin to give them meaning. Whereas, when a child is two, you can call them a “bubble-headed-goofball” and they aren’t going to understand all the ramifications of those words.* It’s not very nice, but it passes without sticking. I watch Coco get older and deal with bad days, name calling, and a small circle of kids that just don’t behave all that well. Basically the same circle we form as adults, more or less.

I remember being almost mortally wounded at the names kids would call me. Clutzy - because it rhymed with my name. One time in 6th grade, one of the boys in my class called me over to his desk after we’d gotten our class pictures back.

Everyone looks good in this picture except you, he told me pointing my photo. You’re hair is greasy, and you’re ugly.

Can you tell I’ve carried that with me for years? And the bag of others: skinny, fat, short, slow, never going to be able to write -you’re bad at English! - poor, and that overbite!

What’s going to change in the world? Maybe the tools I can give my children to lessen the blows and not react to those words that are really people’s unhappiness about themselves. So when Coco came into my room, I told her the story of the names kids called me. I made fun of myself, and it helped her see that with a little humor and distance those awful words and crazy thoughts in our heads can go away.

When Mr. Ego comes around and tells you to believe all those things kids say, you know what you can do? I said.

What?

Look over on your shoulder, because that’s where he hangs out, and give a quick blow and say: Bye Bye Mr. Ego! And watch him tumble right on his bum and fly away.

He lives on you shoulder?

Well it’s really in your brain, but when he comes out he sits on your shoulder because it’s harder to see him, I said. Then, when he’s gone try saying this: I am.

I am?

That’s it Coco. You are.

I am what?

You just are.

I am?

You are a beautiful beaming light and beating heart and pulsing breath and that is.

I am, she said a tad more resolved and looking sleepy. She blew the ego away over her shoulder and rolled in bed with laughter.

The next day when I went up to my office, she’d made me a snow flake and wrote: Mama I am.

It’s still going to be a ride for my daughter. And I worry that my son, who looks “different” and has special needs will suffer even more at the cruelty that we all harbor inside ourselves. But maybe when the dog bites and the bee stings we can say those two words: I am. And it’ll feel like a little nip rather than a huge bite out of soul that never heals.

*Of course the case of real verbal abuse changes a child no matter what age and a something that must end immediately.

The construction boom in Costa Rica is mind-blowing. The buildings go up and up. Strips of land just do not sit empty for long. In a developed country I understand that the basic cycle of construction usually involves obtaining leases or tenants before the first Catepillar breaks ground. But when these digs go up in Costa Rica, they often sit more than 1/2 empty when finished. Prices generally do not reflect the market and instead show a landlord willing to sit on empty space (which has got to relate to lost money I’d think). I don’t get it. Are there that many people flocking to Costa Rica? Businesses?

These two buildings are going up almost right next to each other. And they’re neighbor is another new construction. I suppose real estate agents have got a much better feel on this than I do, but gosh, it is something to watch. The slow-down in the U.S.will have an impact on Costa Rica, but in one of those great sound-bite phrases - “a trickle down effect.” I’ve got to think it’s a buyers market and there are going to be great deals down here. And, if you are smart, I think you could find some great value in Costa Rica.

But beware, there’s a catch: some people pay no mind to the markets. Places will sit empty; people pay too much for paradise; and there goes the neighborhood.

The sun always sets, whether we see it or not. The ocean’s still there, regardless of my location. Gravity keeps me from floating into space and jumping out of buildings, and even with all “that” education, I couldn’t really tell you I completely understand the formula for gravity or string theory or relativity or chaos or even electricity. When I push “send” on this computer, I’ll be darned if I can explain how those little pixels, dots, and vibrations get this message to work. But I remain on the ground and the light turns on, regardless of my beliefs or limited thinking.

Copernicus had a heck of a time convincing his fellow humans about that earth-sun thing. Science is great at proving what we know; the things we’ve figured out and arrived at conclusive conclusions for. The laws of life, the ones we understand and the ones we don’t, keep working with or without me. We’ve stopped burning people at the stake for “wacky” beliefs and theories. Or have we? If I came up with an engine that would burn fuel on horse poo, would someone hear me? Smell me sure, but listen?

So, as the rainy season takes hold in Costa Rica, it’s easy to forget that the sun sets in glory every night. I’ve got to think there’s a whole lot of things we do not understand. It’s comfortable to stay in the dogma we’ve all created - you know that fear based web of goo stuck on the bottom of our shoes that hold us back. It was meant to be changed, challenged. When I look to the west, I can be sure around 6 p.m. (Costa Rica time) that ball of fire is right where it should be.

P.S. Who is John Gault anyway?

The International Art Festival has hit town. Costa Rica is flooded with theater, exhibitions, dance, and music for the month of April. Right on the heels of the Cow Parade Inauguration, Costa Rica hits the arts with a splash. One great event for the family is in la sabana - Costa Rica’s mini-mini Central Park.

I love this park. For a few years, I lived quite close to it and walked with my daughter on my back every day through the trails and around the lake. For the International Art Festival, vendors set up booths and food is served. There’s a theater for children, concerts performed on a huge stage in the middle of the lake, rides, and lots of crafts fashioned by the locals from paintings to sculpture to jewelry. This year, there are special exhibits put on featuring Chinese art and culture.

After a good run through the park as vendors set up tents, I retrieved my daughter from her gym class. We sniffed out the food right away. Then, we mingled among the tents to browse the wares and find a suitable treat to satiate Coco’s sweet tooth. She passed on the huge ice cream sundaes and decided on Chorros - these fried grease sticks sprinkled with sugar. They are kind of the Latin mini-donut.

We walked across the park back to our car. We’ve decided to return next week when I remember some money. I’ve eyed a cute bracelet, and Coco’s long overdue to spend some of her allowance. Now these Chorros are batter blobs. I mentioned deep fried? I’m kind of allergic to wheat, but I can sneak a tidbit here and there. Deep friend grease sticks with sugar? Refuse this? I reached for one, and Coco screamed.

You’re actually going to deny your mother a Chorro?

She chomped the tops of the sticks off, “nubbing” them down one by one. I ate one and reached for another.

Hey! she screamed.

Hey! I screamed back.

I’m just trying to stop you from eating wheat mommy!

Gee thanks, I said, still eyeing the bag. She was going to eat them all!

As we drove home, Coco took a slug of water. She started to choke and up came the last Chorro, chunks of sugar, water, and wheat poured onto my just-cleaned car and her brand new pants (less than 24 hours old).

I remembered a painting back at the festival. It was a surreal face, mouth open wide. Perhaps the figure had just thrown up too. So which comes first the life or the art? Next week, we’ll be back, and we’re brining her brother. I’m a glutton for punishment.

*The Festival Internaciona de las Artes Costa Rica runs April 11 until April 20, 2008.

Watching the end of the Mary Tyler Moore Show (dating myself again?) was agonizing for me. First of all, she was so cool. I mean, she lived in MY hometown. She was a producer at a television station, pretty, smart, and funny. One year when I marched in the St. Paul Winter Carnival, my mom had a hat made that looked just like hers: the one she threw up in the air on a corner in downtown Minneapolis.

It would be redundant to say it was cold marching in the parade. All that baton twirling went out the door and our little group of girls focused on just staying in step and making it to the end. When we passed my mom, she clapped. The sound of muffled mittens gave me the strength to forge on. But for a day, I was just like Mary. Back when there was no Internet, I connected to characters on the television probably a little more than I should have…Mary, Lou, Ted, Georgina, and of course Rhoda.

I would bawl today as much as I did then. It was some darned clever writing for the times. For the last two Fridays while I kill time before I’ve had to go pick up my daughter from her friend’s house, I’ve tuned into The Ghost Whisperer. Need I say there was nothing else on? Last week I never did find out why the mother was haunting the family instead of the father because I had to leave. Last night, I missed twenty minutes of the middle of the show, and it didn’t matter much. The Ghost Whisperer just wrapped up the whole plot in the last five lines. The little jokes in the show were staged and overused. I guess that’s where the writers of Mary’s show had their advantage in that they were breaking new ground. I haven’t seen a re-run in years. But I bet I’d still laugh. I’d smile at Archie and Edith too. Television has to get smarter because we’re all spending our time here - with each other on-line. The thing is, I fail to see it. I know there is some good stuff out there, I’ve read some good reviews. My cable station in Costa Rica gets a few HBO shows, but we tend to miss out on all the edgy ones.  And after one reality show, you’ve seen them all. Furthermore, I just don’t like watching people belittle themselves in front of a “panel” of people they barely know for a chance at fame.

It’s always a toss up on how to end a series. Letting millions of viewers go and satisfying their craving to still love all these characters without hating the ending has got to be tough. For the last episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show, all the characters gathered in a group hug. When a few needed a Kleenex, they couldn’t let go of each other and shuffled in harmony over to the box. In the middle of the sadness, a laugh. Perfect writing. The end was paid homage to when St. Elsewhere ended - a group hug, a laugh.

I’ve watched a lot of television in my days, I admit it. I barely turn it on now. Where’s the time? Maybe this time on the Internet is like the era of the Mary Tyler Moore Show. I’m hoping I can be just like her: gather up millions of viewers, offer up some laughs, a tear, and hold everyone in a group hug.

Where’ the Kleenex?

Developing country. This is our tag. Costa Rica waffles between trying to keep up with the big boys, yet stay out of the mix of things that just are not it’s style. For one thing, Costa Rica does not condone war. We have no army; no sons or daughters will die as a soldiers. But we wage other battles: hideous driving records, a marginal infrastructure, and as you’ve seen barely a sidewalk to pass on. Organization and forethought, I believe, are one of this country’s biggest barriers to creeping out of the “developing” category and moving into a “more developed” sort of label.

On a main road that I take once and awhile, it is packed with cars - almost any time of the day. When I moved here, this road had a Caterpillar dealer, one hotel, a long bridge, a cardboard box manufacturer, a guy selling guayabo trees, and a lot of empty fields. Today, the hotel if for sale, and even though the guy still sell fruit by the road side, every empty lot has given way to an office building, a housing development, or strip mall. All this booming development to the economy could be seen as a boost; however, after thirty minutes of sitting in traffic congestion, bumper to bumper breathing fumes, and inching forward to drive just three miles (or less), it becomes terribly obvious that no one thought about a plan for the road. More office buildings = more traffic. More shopping malls = more traffic. More housing = more traffic. The three lanes just don’t cut it. For a lot of folks, there is no alternative route.

So when I see a little development, I get more excited than most. A new bridge went in by my house, and I giggled with excitement. This bridge was years overdue in completely. Even landscaping can offer me hope. Look closely at the top of this photo. The house at the ledge was about to fall off the cliff. The big orange retaining wall was an engineering must - without it there’d be no road. But one day we drove by and wow! Landscaping. No, it’s not the wildflowers dotting the landscape that Lady Bird Johnson imagined, but it’s a few palm trees, flowers and even a color scheme.

Why in the world does this offer me hope? Because somewhere deep in the bowels of the bureaucratic machine, there is this one person (or maybe two) that thought ahead a little bit, and possibly even researched other models on what makes an infrastructure successful. And if there’s one, that’s enough to ignite change. All it takes is one. And then another. And another…….

The rainy season has started. Some years, we get ushered in softly. One weekend it rains; then it stops for a few days; starts again. This year, in Costa Rica, the rain is following a schedule. In the afternoon it rains. And with the rain, the kids can’t go out to play.

After finishing up the laundry, I sat back on the sofa and the idea of squeezing in that Yoga before bedtime was a pipe dream. My daughter, now seven, can easily entertain herself for hours with a scissors, felt, paper, bits of cardboard, pens, or just about anything. But after awhile, she’s need some “hanging out” time. Before the rain, she’d linger in the garden in her imaginary tree house until dinner. Last night, she hauled down Candyland and Chess. We split on the Candyland and she won in chess.

Her yellow kitty blanket was still warm, and we crawled under it and watched Mother Earth/moon- on our coffee table that is. Andrea Boccelli was playing on the stereo.

Should I dance? asked Coco.

Of course, I said.

She kept looking my way, a little self-conscious. I told her to forget about me and dance to the moon. Soon she was spinning and doing moves I envied. I could see where the ballet was paying off. But there was more: she has a natural grace. Her head tilts gracefully, just so; her toes point with strength; and her legs follow her body as if they were given a script and already knew what to do.

Should I be a dancer?

You can be anything you want, I said, as long as you follow your heart and dance to the moon.

Ants belong on flowers. Not crawling up and down my hands and arms and over my computer and inside the box of cookies I just made and all over the dishes drying in the sink……..These particular ants are really, really small. Upon entering the kitchen and in a matter of seconds, I will usually have an ant crawling on my skin. It feels like a piece of hair that’s fallen on my back or arm, and I can’t find it. Creepy.

I don’t want to smash the little buggers, I just would like them out of my kitchen and back out with the plants and nature where they belong. However, I am quite aware that the goodies in my kitchen: honey, butter, left over cereal milk, bread bits, and anything - even fingerprints - attract them. I cannot remove them from my skin without killing them. I feel bad every time, but it’s a matter of self-defense.

Once and awhile I miss products I could get in the U.S. One of them is Terro and Borax. Vinegar and/or lime only works sporadically. I am sure there are billions of cousins and aunts and uncles nesting behind the walls. I know a little of that Terro goop on a piece of cardboard would do the trick. And I’d love a box of Borax. It’s also great on cucarachas - cockroaches. My mom brought down a box of Borax once in her suitcase and one day (back in my old life when I had a maid and we were out of laundry soap), I told the maid to use a cup. I guess I didn’t make it to the store for a few days because she proceeded to use the entire box. After 9/11 I don’t know if I’d even bother. In fact I’m sweating bullets wondering if I can bring Addison’s gel-like food on the plane when we head up for a visit.

Living in the tropical climate means coming to terms with bugs. Big bugs. Little bugs. Ugly bugs. Frightening bugs. Annoying bugs and helpful bugs. (Ever see a swarm of ants carry away a cockroach corpse?) I don’t want to live without these bugs. I’m quite aware that in this circle of life we’d be worm food - heck we’d be ant food if we didn’t have ants.

How’s that for logic?