This morning, sirens wailed around our neighborhood. Either there was a very large accident, a fire, or….or a marathon. We raced out in front of our complex and along came an ambulance, a motorcycle officer, and a blue van. In between were the two last people in the race, running a bit, and then walking. There bodies were floppy and tired. We watched them walk/run off down the marathon’s route, sirens blaring right in their ears.

Since I’ve taken up running, I’ve though about entering one of those marathons. With kids under three and four years of age, I am not sure how “us” mothers do anything not related to children. I got the kids ready for a morning of gyms classes. I planned on sneaking out for an hour and run through la sabana park while my kids bounced around in their classes. About five minutes into the run, little sprinkles of rain dotted the asphalt path. After fifteen minutes, I thought it would hold off until I was finished. I looped around the big eucalyptus trees and wanted to take a picture. They line up in a row, bare and tall. They were just so there and did it so effortlessly. No, I thought. I want to keep the pace up. I’ll take a photo on the loop back.

The little drops got bigger. My hat kept my glasses dry, for awhile. Soon, it was a down pour. My mother always said: You’re not going to melt; it’s just a little rain. And in Costa Rica, it is one of the best policies I’ve brought down from the States. I’ve got rain coats and umbrellas - and trust me - there are times the rain is cold and I need it. But running from car to house or store, I don’t mind getting wet.

My shoes began to squish with each step and little bits of grass and mud flicked up on my legs. The hat wasn’t keeping my glasses dry any more. A few soccer players huddled under shelter, a few stuck it out. I passed other runners as we all were determined to finish what we started. It’s too hard to try to carve out another chunk of my day to exercise. I had ten minutes to go.

I circled back to those trees. I laughed because I should have taken that photo earlier. I hopped in place and pulled out the camera and got a shot. The camera got pretty wet, and the fanny pack was soaked. On the way back to the car, I ran with a velocity that surprised myself. At this rate, I could actually be one of those runners in the marathon. As I sat in the car and peeled off my wet shoes, and shirt, and hat, and cleaned my glasses. The window shield fogged up. I was a little damp, but I was still in one piece, and present. Maybe this is how those trees feel?

After defrosting the windows, I drove to pick up the kids. The rain began to stop. It didn’t matter: I hadn’t melted; it was just a little rain after all.

In a western Suburb of San Jose, another organic market has sprouted up. Every Wednesday from 8 a.m. until 11 a.m. (mas or menus - it is Latin America after all!) this gorgeous food market is open at the Cruz Rojo. It was a beautiful sunny morning and the place was busy. I hope it stays that way. I filled my orange cart up with a bounty. The celery was taller than my son. The woman running the market says she’s been working with farmers for 14 years. They didn’t believe her when she asked them to plant some of these odd things like bok choy and red cabbage.

Who’s going to eat that? they said.

Just trust me she told them. They’ll eat it. And there I was sticking a bunch into bag. I’ll be back. And if we tell a few friends, they’ll keep planting and we’ll all be the ones growing stronger in the end.

I was talking to a friend about the environment in Costa Rica. She said: Companies like Auto Mercado and others have to step into the 21st century and get a clue that they are part of the bigger picture. This coincided with an article I was reading in Vanity Fair about an architect and designer, William McDonough. He’s written about a concept he termed: Cradle to Cradle Design. Waste is food. No one gets squeamish when we think of cow manure being spread on plants to fertilize fields. What if we thought of the world as this abundant place that just recycles and regrows and re-digests everything it spits out?

“Minimizing toxic pollution and the waste of natural resources are not strategies for real change….Cradle to Cradle Design’s strategy of eco-effectiveness is rooted in the systems of the natural world, which are not efficient at all, but effective. Consider the cherry tree. Each spring it makes thousands of blossoms, which then fall in piles to the ground-not very efficient. But the fallen blossoms become food for other living things. The tree’s abundance of blossoms is both safe and useful, contributing to the health of a thriving, interdependent system. And the tree spreads multiple positive effects-making oxygen, transpiring water, creating habitat, and more. And it is beautiful!

Eco-effectiveness seeks to design industrial systems that emulate the healthy abundance of nature. The central design principle of eco-effectiveness is waste equals food.

When waste equals food, the “be less bad” imperatives of efficiency fade. When a product returns to industry at the end of its useful life and its materials are used to make equally valuable new products, the minerals or plastics of which it is made do not need to be minimized-because they will not become waste in a landfill. Industry saves billions of dollars annually by recovering valuable materials from used products. Similarly, products designed to be made of natural, safely biodegradable materials can be returned to the soil to feed ecosystems instead of depleting them.”

I think Costa Rica has this great opportunity to pass over some of the destructive ways of our more “developed” neighbors. We have a culture of people that at one time, used everything! Nothing went to waste. Unfortunately, I see these sad signs of the times when motor oil is dumped down the drain, insecticides are sprayed wherever and whenever someone wishes, and cars spit out disgusting fumes and “supposedly” pass inspections. Sometimes I wish I could scream - no! no! Costa Rica you had so many things right. I mean, WE DON”T HAVE AN ARMY!! Let’s be leaders - even as small as we are - for designing a culture that relishes and reuses everything we need.

When I went to the grocery store, mentioned above, I looked up and right in front of me where canvas bags - the kind that’s reusable. For a moment I was so happy! I bought one right away. The answer? No. A little step. You bettcha! Cotton involves an intense agricultural barrage of chemicals…yikes….sometimes change seems impossible. But I get excited about the fact that someone is thinking a little.

In Costa Rica, the grocery stores range from those that cater mostly to the Ticos, and there are those that stock their shelves with more imported goods for the ex-pats and the Costa Ricans looking for more goods such as blueberries or garlic stuffed olives or imported chocolate. Every Saturday, I get an organic food delivery to my home from NaturaStyle. The food is fabulous. It’s comes from happy cows eating grass; coconuts swinging in the breeze; vegetables harvested without pesticides. Coco was assigned a project based on a book photographed and written by Peter Menzel and writer Faith D’Aluisio: Hungry Planet: What the World Eats.

As National Pubic Radio reported: “The husband-and-wife team wanted to see how globalization, migration and rising affluence are affecting the diets of communities around the globe. Each chapter of their book features a portrait of a family, photographed alongside a week’s worth of groceries. There’s also a detailed list of all the food and the total cost.”

Most of the food we get on Saturday is also in less packaging. The milk comes in a big milk can (the one Coco’s leaning on) like in the old days. I transfer it to glass I’ve recycled. The vegetables don’t come in plastic bags. The vendor crates them in boxes, sets them on my counter and takes the crates back for another use, and another and…It’s a lot of work. On Saturday, I can spend up to four hours cleaning, condensing, and getting all this stuff to fit into my refrigerator for the week. When I’m done, I set the containers to the side and the organic company picks them up next week.

Most of the time, I’d rather have someone else cook for me. When I face yet another load of food, I’d rather go out to eat. But it’s not just budget concerns that keep me thinking about what I eat and HOW it gets to my table. It’s this planet. It’s the planet - you know that thing we walk on - get air from, the water….that planet. I do have to go out and shop once a week to get those other things that doesn’t come on Saturday. But even there, as I’ll write about tomorrow, I can try to reuse, reduza & recycle.

Possibly a paradigm shift will save us from choking on all the plastic and toxic bits and parts we produce. Instead of a disposable society where we have to figure out how to burn, bury, or dump or old stuff, why not make it so it all rots and we eat, breath, and drink it all over again? That could be the ultimate paradise.

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.

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.

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.

Two things I should never have in my home: Peanut (or almond) M&Ms or Praline Pecan ice cream.

I’m better off zooming past the freezer section. Then, all I have to face is the check-out lane and those little bags of candy titillating the consumer, knowing the weak souls we are.

Last night, Coco and I finished off about six mini-bags of M&Ms while watching the Decorating Channel and chirping at the television screen our two-cents about the so-so modern/cottage design. O.k., so I had four bags and Coco had two. But it’s over and done for now. Yet tomorrow I must shop again.

Addison is recovering splendidly from his bacteria/virus/thing. There is always a point when my kids get sick that I think I’m doing everything wrong, and I should run to an emergency room or doctor. This point usually happens about 3/4 of the way to wellness.

Yesterday morning, Addison looked like a wrung-out dish rag. Because of the Down Syndrome, he is this "super-flexi" boy and can do the splits and Yoga positions students around the world would envy. He watched the Clifford cartoon as if he only had hours left to live. I picked up his legs, and they flopped to the floor like a dropped bag of water.

This is it, I thought doubting my apple cider vinegar/baking soda/turmeric/fresh squeezed apple juice and enema* medicines. A doctor can surely do much more than little old me.

Then this show comes on he loves. It’s a perky version, juvenile version of the show Laugh In without the sex or bad jokes called High Five. Five teenagers sing about the five senses and Addison knows the whole song. He sat up and began jazzing right along with the singers. Then his sister Coco let him cuddle a new stuffed puppy she bought with her money at the store. Then, he sipped some of a bottle of some of that homemade medicine. Later he ate some applesauce, took a bath, and played ball around the living room.

He slept through the night. I woke up with that instant thought of terror:

He’s dead. Is he breathing? I should have brought him to a doctor.

I listened. HIs breathing slowly pumped in and out of his chest. I relaxed back into the pillow and behind the light in my eyes, I saw the terror flee - tail between it’s legs. But it looked back at with a glimmer in it’s eye as if to say: I’ll be back again.

*not in that specific order

My legs are on fire, and I make a lot of funny noises when I bend down. I dread going down the stairs. I grab the railing tight, take a breath, and grunt as I descend. But my muscles are alive, which means I’m alive. They’re yelling and screaming at the change. Sounds familiar.

Although a goose could run faster than me, I’m getting out there, taking it up a notch; wondering what brand of shoes is the best; wondering where I can get some running shirts. I think I’m hooked.