In order to get my car back it the garage, I needed to connect my dryer. My good, old car works better during the rainy season if she gets a break from the rain and parks out in the garage. (She’s gets touchy around the wires if soaked.) However, during the dry season we’ve enjoyed the extra space of the garage as “that” extra room every family needs for stuff like: bikes, strollers, coconuts, and Addison’s therapeutic jumping machine; old exercise equipment, and bags of old toys I’ll be donating to someone someday.

I was determined to get the jumping machine, which is tall, large, and ugly, upstairs. In order to get it up the stairs, I had to saw off some of the base. After an hour of sawing, I held up the cut off wood in victory. I disconnected the stanchion from the base, and a nanny and I tried to twist and turn it’s way up to the second floor. After scarping the walls and chipping the stairways, I decided it wouldn’t fit. Back down it went. I gave up the idea of a stylish, modern living room and gave in to a having a stylish, modern living room with that tall, large, ugly jumpy thing in the corner.

In order to get the machine in the corner, I had to move a book case. To move the book case, I had to remove all the books. I pushed the bookcase across the room and swept away about 10 ten cockroach carcasses before putting all those books back. (Would someone please tell me why cockroaches ALWAYS die on their backs??)

I don’t believe the person who installed the washer/dryer hook-ups actually ever did laundry. The water spigots are directly above the 220 outlet. And as all of you know, the dryer comes with a really short cord and washers, short hoses. Since the last muchacho installed hoses that exploded due to cheap plastic and fittings that leaked with every load, I plumbed the machine myself with the help of the other nanny and, of course, duct tape. I finally got help with rewiring the 220 dryer connection (as I am terrified of electricity since getting a shock I can still remember when I was 10).

What was left? The bikes were moved to the patio. And now, the stroller has to be collapsed after every use to fit back in the garage. Coconuts? Tucked neatly in a tina - little tub - on the side of the dryer. The car fits. We can’t fully open the doors, and the hood serves as a place to set the laundry baskets between loads, but we’re in.

A task is never disconnected from another; an action always gets a reaction. A butterfly fluttering it’s wings in St. Louis effects the weather in Alaska. Now me and the kids can get in and out of the car without getting soaked, and the old vehicle just might last another season or two. While I put the last of the books on the shelf, I looked at my little corner of the world. It didn’t look so bad. So, CASAVIVA wouldn’t stop by for a photo shoot. There’s always next year. The dryer buzzed, another load was finished; another day was done.

The rainy season is slowly moving into the Central Valley. During April and May, there’s usually a few days where it rains, then it’s gorgeous because the winds aren’t as fierce. Then clouds gather - well you get the idea. Before the daily downpours begin, it’s a good idea to caulk windows that leak or repair roofs. It’s funny how easy it is to forget about the holes when the rain stops.

One of my storage rooms has a sun roof. And of course it leaks. Landlord management is a bit of an art here. Some landlords, I’d probably say the majority, follow more of the “laissez-faire” model of leadership. In other words, I have to take the lead. The window that leaks in one of my bathrooms really should be replaced. The termites in the roof need a better solution than spraying diesel on the area. (Diesel is a cure for an amazing amount of ills in this country.) The cockroaches…well…..no one knows what to do with the cockroaches.

After getting my garage back in order so I can get the car back inside (because loading children into cars in the rain is the pits!). I peaked inside the storage room. Ugh. Boxes were here and there and papers sat right under the leak. The landlord offered again caulk as the solution, which meant of course if I didn’t do it, no one would.

All my photos sit in this storage room. A tip if you are moving to Costa Rica: Put important papers, trinkets, CDs, and photos in those Rubbermaid boxes. It’s then best to store them stacked one upon the other to make a good seal. In ten years, everything I’ve kept in those boxes has survived mold and mildew. I’ve had pants and shoes turn green in one month of rain; whereas, all my photos have remained dry as a bone.

While tossing boxes aside to clear a path, I stumbled upon a few photo albums I must have been putting away one day and never got back to. This is doom. Photo albums have this magical power that draw me and make me stupid for an hour while I reminisce about the past. Who is this person in all these photos? The images are fading, but with one look I can remember the smells, if it was a windy day, and even those clothes. What did I do with those jeans anyway?

Over the life span of the craft of photo album”ing,” I’ve never really found great solutions to storing them. Although I’ve fought off the mold, the pictures are having a tough time surviving those sticky backed pages I so excitedly pasted them on years ago. Now we’ve got scanners, so I can spend hours scanning them all. I always wonder for whom? Why? No matter how much I write, I will never be able to capture all the senses a photo does, in such a short time. Sure if I spent hours and hours coming up with a short story or a novel, had it edited, a publisher liked it, printed it, and the reader then - maybe - got the gist of what I wanted to capture, I might come close to replicating that feeling.

I am going to come clean: I take photos and I catalog photos for me. Some incredible cathartic moments come when I brush my hands against the picture and remember who I was and how far I’ve come. And I find this genuine warmness for the person that took the photo. We had this connection. Even when I’m snapping away at photos of my kids, it’s for me. My daughter and son have just as much enthusiasm over the albums. In fact, Coco keeps a bunch in her room and can spend hours flipping through the pages. Looking back at her bald-headed little self amazes her, and it also strangely comforts her.

Maybe it’s a way of filling up our holes - or least forgetting about them for awhile - and remembering that we exist. And we always have.

I had this nice little piece I was going to post this morning about finding style in Costa Rica. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about this “comment” I received yesterday on a site called The Real Costa Rica. I’m not controversial, at least I didn’t think so. Until someone took issue with my “complaining” about the prolific use of plastic bags here. He was referring to a post I wrote about how I’m trying to use less plastic bags in Costa Rica.

He said he owns a home here, part-time, and then went on to say……” I love Costa Rica and if you (that’s me he’s talking about...) carry plastics bags back and forth in buses and public transportation and complain about it, then you are probably not the kind of American who should have moved to Costa Rica.”

I wondered if he actually read what I had written because in the next line I wrote how plastic bags were helpful, especially on buses and in the rainy season…..

“Then, I moved to Costa Rica. A plastic bag free-for-all. There’s no question these bags with handles are handy, and since it does rain in Costa Rica, paper bags aren’t always a good solution especially when one has to take the bus or walk home. But the other day when I came home, my AAA batteries (which are encased in plastic to begin with) were inside a plastic bag inside another plastic bag…….”

Basically he continued on and on how I should just ship out. He stopped short of calling me an “idiot” or a “gum-chewing-hussy” or you know - THAT word. But the the tone was clear: because I was such an ingrate, I didn’t deserve to live in the country where he lives a few months out of the year, and he so dearly loves. Although I never met this fellow, I could see him shaking his finger at me. He finished up with this:

“SO, stop complaining and if you dislike it there, then come back to the USA, we most certainly could use another complainer!!“

Well, I’m chewing on my napkin instead of giving power to all the negative - and quite clever - things I could say. Guess maybe he didn’t read a few more of my posts like the grateful column, or how I adore the organic food in Costa Rica, or how this great community of people rallies around my son and his special needs. Details I suppose. I would teach my children to use conscious consumption no matter where we lived. I happen to believe small acts, such as one or two less plastic bags, actually makes a difference in the world. Not only because maybe one less fish will tangle up in the handle of the plastic bag that happened to miss the garbage can, but also because these acts bring on an awareness. Our thinking changes from “Hey what’s in it for me” to “How am I affecting my family, my community, and my world with the decisions I make?” No we can’t analyze every decision all day long or we’d go mad. But with a little practice, it gets quite easy. Are my tires the correct air pressure so I am more fuel efficient? Could I eat more fruits and vegetables produced locally and thereby reduce fuel consumption? Could I walk instead of drive? Could I be kind instead of crabby?

What kind of American should move to Costa Rica? I’m the kind of American that lives in Costa Rica and will continue to examine lifestyle choices that lower have the potential to raise our planet’s health and consciousness or chip away at it’s delicate balance. When I accept the status quo, then you’ll see me moving back to the States to chum up with the group of complainers he asked me to join. Until then, I’ll continue to write about the things I adore about Costa Rica and the challenges we face as a developing country and the little things that can make a big difference. If my views get someone’s underwear in a bundle - welcome! Step right up. Though the line is long, you’ll be in good company.

*If you want to see his whole response, go to Tim’s site at The Real Costa Rica Blog. This is a great site with a lot of helpful information.

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 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?

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?

To pay electricity, phone, and water bills, I go to the grocery store. After ringing up a pretty large order of foos because I hadn’t shopped in awhile and could no longer pass off eggs as dinner, I pulled out my bills.

As I watched all my food items ring up, I saw a lady with very few things come up in line behind me. I knew she’d get a little upset at me. My friend says she always goes to the pharmacy two stores down and pays her bills. She feels it’s a service to not make people have to wait in line. The times I try to pay bills at the pharmacy the computer service is usually down, and I end up back at the grocery store anyway.

I could see the woman’s face contort as the clerk punched in my numbers. The system was working, but it was slow. The woman fidgeted with her bread and package of cookies, rolled her eyes at the woman behind her, and then she sighed. You know that sigh. We all do it. The sigh that says: oh my gosh, how can we tolerate such inconsiderate, silly, hideous people that dare to do such things. The gall! The effrontery! (Ok, so I looked that one up but it’s a great word….anyway…..)

I’ve done it. As computer systems get faster and our society gets more and more accustomed to speed, we have very little patience for anything. I snip at the Browser when it’s taking too long to load a page; I get steamy when the guys decides at the last minute to check his oil at the gas station; I possibly may even say a few bad words under my breath when that lady picked the ONLY shirt on the shelf without a price tag.

What if we turned out thinking upside down? Maybe I am doing a service for the woman behind me. She gets a chance to practice patience - a virtue sorely missed today. Even though I feel a little guilty for making people wait, I will continue to bring my bills to the grocery store. It’s a service offered to us, “the public” and I shouldn’t feel guilty for using it. I look at it as a win/win situation. The lady behind me learns a little patience, and I get rid of some guilt.

So instead of turning my liver upside down when the lady’s credit card in front of me doesn’t work and she has to remove about 1/2 her groceries ( which are already in bags) because she only brought so much cash, I wait. And I remember that one day this could happen to me.

On the way home from ballet class, Coco likes to pontificate. Maybe it’s being immersed in the arts for an hour, pointing toes, demi-plié, and all that. l’m generally bored and anxious to get home knowing I have dinner to cook and another little child to get into bed.

Coco is oblivious to the traffic and my mood.

Mommy - why does my brain tell me so much? It tells me to move my legs, my arms. It talks to my stomach, makes me hungry. And then it talks to me all the time - telling me to do stuff, to think stuff. Why does it talk to much?

While waiting for ballet to get out, I finished a book written by Thich Nhat Hanh called A LifeTime of Peace. It’s a compilation of letters and thoughts about, well, peace. There are thoughts about peace in the world, peace with your loved once, and even peace in doing the dishes. A lot of the book is about quieting the mind - that rattling that wears us down to nubs. Coco’s entering the world of "us adults" and the world of the mind. I realized that all that talking she does - that which drives me nuts - is slowly going to fold inside her SELF. When she passes a store window and says: Mommy can I buy that? Or when we’re in the pool, she’ll say: When are we going to make snow angels again? Or when we’re driving home from ballet she’ll say: Why does my brain talk so much?

Thich Nhat Hanh gives these great simple ideas to quite the mind, to become mindful. Even when washing the dishes and brushing our teeth.

"Brushing my teeth and rinsing my mouth,
I vow to speak purely and lovingly.
When my mouth is fragrant with right speech,
a flower blooms in the garden of my heart."

Coco starts getting a little upset if I don’t reply. I have a hand signal that I give her to let her know that I am doing some dangerous driving maneuver and can’t speak. She quiets for a bit as I merge (and I tell you merging in Costa Rica is a miracle every time it happens without incident since there are basically no lanes to merge!)……The guy behind me honks because I guess I merged a little too tightly for his tastes; I merge again; hit a bottleneck; and finally get off the freeway.

Mommy when are we going to that restaurant again? Mommy when can we stay in the hotel for a week?

I put my hand up again in order to preserve my sanity the last 400 meters until we reach home. Coco will have to start all over again to learn how to quite the mind that once lived in the moment so purely. She can take it from her mother, it’s not easy. After dinner, I am actually looking forward to doing the dishes. As Thich Nhat Hanh said:

"While washing the dishes one should only be washing the dishes, which means that while washing the dishes one should be completely aware of the fact that one is washing the dishes. At first glance, that might seem a little silly: why put so much stress on a simple thing? But that’s precisely the point. The fact that I am standing there and washing these bowls is a wondrous reality. I’m being completely myself, following my breath, conscious of my presence, and conscious of my thoughts and actions. There’s no way I can be tossed around immediately like a bottle slapped here and there on the waves."

Mommy? Coco says as I’ve just about finished with the last plate. "When are we going to the beach again?"

For a just a second, I wished for a few more dirty plates.

So many great people have been writing on my old site - which still is up and running - and this new one. But with this new thing, it’s like getting a DVD player and figuring out how all the little buttons work. I just figured out how to operate and do COMMENTS. Yikes. What rock did I climb out of??!!

Next thing you know, I’ll learn how to operate my answering machine.

Keep it coming.

By the way, I have to share this great site that was sent to me by a freind George. He’s right - get out your Kleenex.

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.