The Costa Rican coffee is on it’s way to our tables. Another summer blows into the Central Valley and workers, many immigrants from Nicaragua, scour the fields in search of that prized red berry.

After picking the bean must have a red skin removed, which has a gummy, sticky layer to it. Then it is dried and raked and dried some more. This harvest will be sent to brokers and it is hard to say when that bean that used to sit blooming on this branch will reach Starbucks or Gloria Jean’s. Already, tiny new buds sprout in preparation for next year’s crop.  Rows and rows await another season of rain so they may bring forth fruit again.

It’s an awful lot of work for a crop that we consider an “extra” in life. But what an extra it is.

Whether in Costa Rica or New York, we’ve got to bring with us our stuff. No matter what stage of my life I’ve been in, I seem to always be hauling a cart. On the airplane, I’ve always got more to pull along than others. I’m amazed at those with the single fanny pack. I admire people who get it all in one bag. I even had a job once that ran out of office space when it came to me, they gave me a cart. Just find a space that’s open I was told.

With my car in for another adjustment, I pull my orange cart out and take it from the kid’s school to the grocery store to the pharmacy. One night, a rat crawled into my garage and must have discovered something I’d neglected to take out of the bag after shopping. The little rodent chewed a huge hole right through the bottom. Now, I’ve got to be sure I don’t put a wandering avocado on the bottom.

Few people stop for pedestrians in Costa Rica. Being pregnant or crippled doesn’t always add to the advantage either. Having a cart surely gets no exceptions. I have to fight my way across like the rest of the world as I lug my stuff to it’s next stop.

I go through phases or trying to downsize and get sleek. It never seems to work. Between diapers and snacks and water and my camera and…..I’ll be pulling more than my share for a while to come.

It’s easy to wake up and figure out what we don’t have: no sunshine, no money, no husband, no eggs for breakfast, no sugar for my coffee, no time to fit it all in.

There is this story of a man who has five children. He’s going crazy because his house is too small. He goes to the village wise man and asks him for a solution. The wise man tells him to move his cow into the house.

Excuse me?

But the wise man was wise, so the man did it. But he was so upset at having so much less room in house, he went back to the wise man. The wise told him to put his horse in the house. Bewildered and a tad upset, he marched home and told his wife they needed to bring the horse in the house. Now, it was really getting crowded. The man went back in hopes the wise man came to his senses with a different solution.

The wise man then instructed him to put his sheep and chickens in the house. The man almost lost it, but figured since he’d gone this far he would do as the wise man said. Needless to say, the wife and kids were quite unhappy.

He returns to the wise man and says: Man, you gotta help me. This is just not working! The wise man then tells him to take all the animals out of his house. The man goes home; takes all the animals out; and can’t believe how big his house is!

We have a choice.

1. Appreciate what we have, thus opening the door for more to come.

2. Whine about what we don’t have until we loose it and THEN we’ll appreciate it.

Since I’ve been working number one most of my life, I’ve skipped on to number 2. And in case I ever forget all the wonderful gifts and joy in my life, I have messages everywhere telling me to get it together and appreciate.

Addison struggles every day to walk. I use my legs without a thought. Today, I am thankful for my legs. Addison has developmental speech challenges. I babble on like a chicken most of the time. Today, I am grateful for my normal sized tongue, and my teeth, and my ability to speak.

Every day I walk and talk is a downright miracle. That’s what it’s like to live with Down Syndrome.

(And in case you want another miracle, check this out.)

As the rain pours and pours in the middle of the thickest part of the rainy season in the Central Valley, I thought I’d dust off all my awards and trophies. There’s the “Most Improved Softball Player Award” from 1977. I’ve got the first place ribbon from stuffing a chucker partridge in sixth grade (never did capture the sparkle in the little foul’s eye).

On of my favorite awards will always be the plaque that a girl’s team I coached a few years ago gave me. They never had time to get the engraving, so they handed me on a slip of paper what they would have put on it: To the best coach ever. We love you! I still have the slip of paper.

And today I add to my collection an honor I am more than proud to put on my shelf. Tamara gave me this award. Thanks Tamara. Thanks mom. Thanks dad. Thanks to all you readers who click on motherjungle. Thanks to my bus driver and the bag boy. Without every one, I’d be someone else, and I’d like to that’s a shame.

I can only hope to live up to this honor and offer up more than the average bear. Thanks again Tamara. And everyone who gives a damn.

(In case you have trouble loading the award, click over to Tamara’s site. You’ll also find out some other great blog sites you might like too.)

Muchachos. In every country in every world, the hard, physical labor often goes to the “guys” and yes, “gals.” As our country sprouts store like eggs to tadpoles, men and women in orange safety vests pour the cement, cut the grass, and schlep the mud. And it gets messy here, especially in the rainy season. When the rain starts, a few will have rain coats, but many will just keep hammering away as they get soaked.

After picking the coffee or hauling the garbage into trucks, they head home, often with less than minimum wage in their pocket. When I sip on a cup of coffee, I always try to remember the hands of the person who picked and sweat while struggling to put their kids in school, stomach toxic chemicals, snakes, and at the end of the day probably not enough money in their pockets to feed their kids. The faces get forgotten.

The other day on a morning run I saw a dump truck, loaded with heavy, wet dirt from the construction of the new mall, flipped on it’s side. His load spread across both sides of traffic, jamming up traffic for miles. An ambulance sat next to the scene. I had no idea of the driver was O.k. On a side road, a man chatting on a cell phone honked his horn impatiently because even the frontage road was effected. I fought back the rage and wanted to run over and sit on his hood. I crossed the pedestrian bridge over the highway. As I returned home, more horns began honking. Just as I started getting angry, I realized there was something different about these sounds. The honking was long and bellowed over the valley. As a banana truck approached, it’s load of green fruit hanging over the tops of the load, he honked and honked. Then I realized he was sounding the horn for his fallen comrade, his brother in arms.

The mall will get built. Along with the bridges and sewer systems. And every time I step into the stylish modern setting of bright lights and low-fat yogurt, I will try to sound a horn (in my head) of thanks for the backs it was built on.

In the middle of the night…I hear nothing. In the morning, there it is again…nothing. Nothing except the faint, slow sound of my son breathing. Breathing without struggle; breathing without interruption. After three years of fighting to catch his breath, Addison finally has what we all take for granted.

Three years ago, I sat in the frigid, sterile room of the NICU holding my son, trying to warm him and create as normal an atmosphere as I could considering we’d both just had major surgery. Above the quite humm of the florescent lights, I heard a slight gurgling in his nose. There was no mucus or any signs of a cold. I pointed it out to the pediatrician, and she told me it was nothing. That bubbly sound - way up in the bridge of his nose - rocked the foundation of my life, impeded my son’s growth, and dove me near the depths of depression and complete physical exhaustion.

I can tell you recipes for nasal sprays; remedies for allergic reactions; enema concoctions; and positions to prop children to help them sleep. And with Down Syndrome, there are these physical “things” that are hard to get around until the child’s body grows: a larger tongue, sluggish immune system, and smaller ear tubes, to name a few. The moment Addison snuggles into bed, his tongue tilts back just ever so slightly, and that tiny bit of mucus mulling around in his airways, blocks a good percentage of air. Imagine what it’s like to be on the verge of suffocating. Now imagine this all night long, when all you want to do is get into your dreams and under the blankets. Add a cold on top of all this, and it’s a breathing becomes gasping. To give an absolute formula to anyone on how to help a child breath is like trying to gather the rushing waters of a river into a bathtub.

Above all the cures, I will tell you the one that works. In fact it is the only cure, I can put my stamp and can confidently say all other professions will join in on with high approval ratings: Gratitude. It’s easier said than done. Try being grateful for EVERYTHING. That includes the hole in the ceiling, the ex, the cockroach scurrying across the floor, the food in the fridge, the gas in the car, the cranky boss, the air we breath, and yes, even the sleepless nights.

By unearthing the gratitude for everything, I’ve found a treasure chest of wisdom or sometimes just an AHHaa moment, where I can then move on more clearly to the next step or the next breath. Those nights where I hear nothing are the sweetest, most jubilant sounding of trumpets I could ever toot my horn at. And as we breath more easily, we can all get on with the other important things in life like painting the bathtub.

Living in Costa Rica is a lot like camping - camping lite. About every six weeks or so we get notified that we will not have water. Today, the water was shut off in three or four cities from 9 a.m. until 9 p.m. At least this time we had notice.

There are days when I’ll walk up, turn a water faucet and….nothing. We either have missed the announcement or there wasn’t one. Because we had notice yesterday, we gathered all the buckets, bins, and baskets that didn’t leak to store water. Everyone was sure to shower before 9 a.m. When the water is off, I see how often we use it on automatic pilot: A little oil on my finger tips - I run to the sink. I always brush my teeth and then forget when I reach for the water that I can’t rinse. Flushing the toilets? The word was out early to follow the old saying: if it’s yellow let it mellow……

Not having water gives me the chance to be appreciate this liquid because most of the time I run on automatic and don’t give a second thought of how wonderful it is. One of the reasons I like camping so much, besides the fact that it is quiet, tranquil, and smells so fresh, is that I get in contact with what little I need to make me happy. I’ve gone deep, deep into the wilderness with no more than I can carry. Water becomes a precious commodity, and I am aware of every drop I drink.

In Costa Rica, we get all sorts of opportunities to be “without” what the developed world takes for granted. Electricity pops off and on; streets are often more pothole than pavement; and it can take a year or two to get a phone line. Instead of blasting away at the injustice of it all, I find it a chance to be thankful for the simple things in life I use every day without thinking. Remember the New Year’s panic of 1999 - 2000? People obsessed about running out of water, computers crashing, and the lights going out. News reports showed people stocking up on flashlights, heaters, and gallons and gallons of water. Most people in Costa Rica just went about their day and knew the water might dry up or the lights might go out, but no one gave it much thought. And if the electricity didn’t come back on, they knew the sun would come up in the morning.

As with every case of comparing Costa Rica and developing world, I see value in both that each could learn from the other. No one was more thrilled than me to drive on smooth, paved, wide roads in the United States. But a pothole here and there is maybe a little reminder to be grateful for the part of the road that is paved. When the water comes back on, we’ll be flushing and brushing right back with the best of ‘um.

We’ve removed all the contents of our suitcases and promptly have deposited them on my sister’s basement floor. Thrilled not to be anywhere near an airport, we settle into the routine of “visiting” (one of our favorite Midwest words). This “visiting” tradition is more important to me this year than I can ever remember.

Traveling with kids has always meant I get to do less of what the grown-up me would like to do. And, I’ve learned to be content with zoos and playgrounds and cutting short all my trips to these delicious coffee shops due to an almost, death-like boredom that overtakes my children as they wait for me to finish typing. But this year, I am so content and relaxed and almost - dare I say it - thrilled to wile away the hours on the deck with the kids or trying to again straighten all those clothes on the floor. And when I try again and again to connect to the Internet and that $5.00 Starbucks card I just bought isn’t working and Addison wants nothing to do with the FREEZING interior and groovy decor, I pack up and move on. I may have said a few “bad” words under my breath as I folded the stroller into the back seat, but over it I got. And so quickly. I even amazed myself.

I owe this peace to my kids. I owe this peace to my family. These people who put up with all my goofy odds and ends. I sat across the table yesterday at Caribou coffee (where I later found out had FREE internet!) and saw the same blue eyes of a dear friend behind those slightly tinted glasses I’d known for years. After ten years, he still thinks I’m an O.K. person. And I am grateful I can be his friend again. We really always have been. Those ten years, well, I guess we all have gaps. A little filling in, and we were back to those carefree nights -the ones we used to spend as kids -playing ping pong and skating and just being. Funny it took me such a darned long time to get back to just being all over again. And this time, I have more. I owe my peace to it ALL: from the green peas Addison just slopped on to my lap top to the long summer nights and to all the hearts, and to all the hearts.

I don’t spend enough time being grateful for those little things in life. It is easy to take for granted - that in a flash - I would miss dearly if it wasn’t in my life.I am grateful for…my refridgerator, my feet, my sheets, my doors, my ceiling, my pens, my paper, my Internet connection, my elbows, my sink, the water that comes into the sink, my windows, my kidneys, my towels, my fingernails, my bed…………

So many of the people in the world live without the basics I take for granted. If we all stepped outside ourselves a few moments a day and thought, I mean really thought, about others, that’s where the change will begin. Political candidates can offer us nothing we cannot do for ourselves. Bookmark this site Miniature Earth to see a stark example of what exists outside our little worlds. Remember it and be grateful.

Since I’ve moved into a new home, it is a bit smaller, well quite a bit smaller, than my old one. But it gives me a chance to look at life from a brand new perspective. And I get to have a whole new batch of goodies to be grateful for.

I can see the mountains lit up at night as I type this.

I can now walk to get my groceries and to the movie plaza.

I get to plant a new garden.

My daughter has a new friend that is just a drive-way away.

For some reason, the cockroaches die all by themselves here. Every morning there’s a few on their backs - dead - so at least I don’t have to kill them.

Since my garage is also my laundry room, the car serves also as a clothes line and a place to dry the plastic animals after a kiddie pool is put away.

And above all, I have peace.