I have a passion, for helping others. I don’t always get to help the ones that I would like to, but I do get to help. And along the way, I can’t forget myself. Givers must have boundaries, because takers don’t. (if you’re looking for information, that is a jewel)
The comment above is written by a life long friend, Mary Ann. As teenagers, I thought that if I didn’t help her, she would surely get hurt. We had so much fun as kids. I would have her sit above the tire, on our antiquated, Ford tractor and go as fast as I could, “bajaing” across a plowed field, trying to throw her off. Her job was to hang on.
Then there was the day, we flew out over a ravine, her in the seat of a rope swing and me, standing on the sides of the wooden board that supported her. We would jump off of a platform, high up in a pine tree. We would swing out and circle back, coming back to the tree trunk and missing it by inches.
Our antics go on and on. The beauty of youth. The best part of younger years.
I search for the right answers. I will survive, until I don’t.
At 4:58, this morning, I heard the first sound of the Howler monkeys. They might not be the first awake, but they are the first heard. Soon there will be a rooster and then the dogs, followed by the birds. I enjoy the rhythms of nature. My comings and goings are like folding the corner of a page, to mark my place. It reminds me where I’m at, on the verge of a new chapter, divided by days. And who knows how many days, that will be. In twenty four hour segments I go from quarter time, to a stacatto pace, then TSA arpeggios, back to quarter time. That’s my rhythm.
The pleasantries of Potrero are so unlike the foreign, 1/4 mile red lights and road rage of Amelia. The sounding off fiery chutes, burning pulp to make paper, is my morning sound on the island. A lone car will start the day; the same time as the monkey’s howl. It’s timing. I’m tracking time.
It seems, that when I built my home here, I manifested an old and deep desire, to be an aesthetic. A childhood idealistic dream of life. Possibly a throwback, to my days of parochial school. I took it all seriously. Or were my desires innate, laying dormant, deep within, some segment of my DNA. Regardless, of it’s seemingly unplanned existence, I marvel at my cavelike abode. Even when my drapes are drawn and you can view the garden, you see nothing but green leaves, flowers, and animals through my windows. The interior remains dark, because of the over hang, the thousands of plants in the yard, and the monstrous mango tree, that provides shade for all, not to mention 300 mangos, last year.
The insulated feeling, of the concrete walls, covered with paintings, photos, stickers, posters and shelves, inch to inch, filled with knick nacks, and dust: every item in it’s place. I like it. The restful, secure feeling I have in my carved out space is one thing, but nothing compares to opening the front door, in the morning, and feeling the fresh air of Costa Rica. The breath, inspires a visualization, of what lays a short distance, on the bay ~ clean water!
This is my sanctuary. This is a slice, of my life. However, I will be headed home. Home to an island that people call paradise.
To each his own said the old lady that kissed the cow.
The dirt roads here, in the neighborhood, are filled with them. So, there are plenty to choose from.
It’s never “out of nowhere”. Happenings are an accumulation of. Today, I am depressed. Or am I resting, recuperating from a barrage of words? Conversations? Ones that I could have done without?
I can only handle so much.
Therefore, I really don’t care what people want.
My writing is a journal.
I have taken my daily posts off the internet, and onto my desktop, due to the nature of it’s content.
~ Cancer is Personal ~
How does one deal with lies and deceit? That’s big. How does one find resolution with friends that do not support you, in your daily endeavors? How do you deal with simple rejections. ~ Just ignore it my old Aunt Esther would say.
And that is the underlying truth.
“Out of nowhere” ~ I Get out the old laptop and scrub myself clean.
We know it was hard; so conflicting. All the alcohol, church and backwoods neighbors, created a confusing life. Come to Jesus and daily violence, were family tradition. Wearing beautiful clothes and farm work were contrary concepts. Roadside bus stops gave way to neon signs, in tavern windows. Continue reading Juke Joint Jesus