I need to write.
I keep waiting for that grand moment of clarity when the
words careening around in my brain will add up to something coherent and
meaningful. That they will cut through the chaos of 2016 like a machete through
jungle.
But the clarity doesn’t come. And the jungle in my mind
remains choked with vines that grow faster than I can push away.
Which is why, I have decided, that I need to stop waiting
for this grand moment and just start writing.
Maybe the act of typing will be my machete. Maybe I just
need to force myself to randomly hack away, not worrying about where my blows
land, until the cuts become cleaner with practice and I will start to see the
path ahead of me.
Which is why, starting today, I will revive this long-ignored blog and will write. Every day. To
get through 2017 and what so many of us fear the new year will bring.
In less than a month, Donald Trump will be president. Seriously, how the hell did we get here? I want to figure out what I can do, how I can be part of the fight against the expected attacks on civil liberties, public education, labor rights, the environment, immigrants, racial justice, science, religious freedom, health insurance ... it all feels like a game of whack-a-mole on steroids.
In my 52 years on this Earth, I've acquired a few skills that might be helpful in standing up for social justice. But at this point, I'm so overwhelmed and confused, that I don't know how to contribute. Which is why I need the clarity.
I will write about what I am thinking about at any given
moment. My writing will meander and I won’t angst over my lack of cohesion.
Because that’s the point. Some posts will be long and rambling. Others, short
and maybe kind of pointless. Some of them, I hope, will be good enough that I
will sit back and wonder what orifice I managed to pull those insights from.
But, I repeat, I will write every day.
I am announcing this vow on a public site, so that I will
take it seriously enough to live up to it.
My father always told me that if you want to lose weight,
you tell the world you’re going on a diet. Fear of public failure can be a powerful
motivator.
Even though I will write in a public forum, this web site
will be my little secret, anonymous to all but the most random of explorers.
That way, I won’t be afraid to write poorly, as I hack through my jungle full
of thoughts.
**
I am sitting on a beat-up couch under the large open-air
canopy of The Tucan Hotel, in the tiny town of Uvita, Costa Rica. This is the
fifth year that I have plopped myself on this same couch, surrounded by
brightly colored hammocks strung about, where I watch the owners Tra and Bette,
American and Italian respectively, the Italian cooks, Christian and Al, and the
Tica housekeeper Loraina, take care of the parade of young international hippies
who drift in and out.
My husband is working today on the property that we bought
four years ago, a sliver of land that sits between the Pacific Ocean and the
beginning of what is known as the Talamunca Mountains. White-faced capuchins
and howler monkeys visit our property, as well as coatimundi, anteaters,
toucans, grissons and at least one jagurundi, a kind of wild cat slightly
larger than a lynx.
We chose this location, because it overlooks a stunning land formation that juts out into the ocean. A mile-long vertical sand bar, it is shaped like a giant whale's tail. Bahia bellena.
My husband’s plan is to build a resort here. He has hired a team
of Tico farmers, who drive down from the mountains every day to construct it. Mucho
trabajar.
Me? I’m spending the next three weeks here on vacation, playing
housewife. Which is a nice break from my daily life. And, at the risk of
sounding privileged, much needed, considering the year that I have had. Which I
will explain later.
The money to buy the land and to pay for all this
construction comes from the beer cans that Jeff has spent his life – and our
life savings – collecting. He has amassed the largest collection in the world,
which he has been selling off piecemeal. A weird way to finance this type of
project, I know. If my life were a television
sitcom, I would remind any readers at this point that Jeff’s plan is so crazy,
it just might work.
I feel a breeze blowing through The Tucan and it’s past 11
a.m. Enough writing for the day. I think I will go in search of sloths.
Pura vida.
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