Practicing Peace: And Why It's Not Always Peaceful

Practicing Peace 

And Why It’s Not Always Peaceful

 Just about two weeks ago I went to Fullerton, California to visit family. After living in Costa Rica for the past eleven years, trips “home” don’t hit the same as they used to. It’s not necessarily better or worse, but the longer I live in Costa Rica, the further away I feel from that version of me who grew up in California. Of course, I’m no longer the same person who lived in California, nor am I the same person who moved to Puerto Viejo a decade and some change ago. And one of the things I noticed this time around, in addition to all of the other differences—some almost imperceptible or hard to put into words, others screaming in my face the entire trip—is how much more peaceful my life is here.

And I’m not saying that people in the United States don’t live peaceful lives, I’m sure a great many do—I hope a great many do. My life there was not peaceful, and had I stayed, perhaps I would have committed to practicing peace there, as I do here, but there’s really no way to know.

But it got me thinking about practicing peace, and just how hard and brave it is to decide, over and over again to practice peace. And what peace means to each individual person.

One thing I noticed in the States—and again I know, it’s not everywhere, or everyone’s experience—is that it’s just loud there. There’s almost constant noise from some source. And I was a city, a suburb, a metropolitan area, suburban sprawl, whatever you want to call it, there were a lot of people, a lot of cars, a lot of noise.

Now here I am sitting on my quiet porch, with essentially no neighbors, with only the sounds of crickets and nighttime insects, and the occasional passing car or motorcycle (which can be very loud) and I think about how much I love the quiet, how peaceful it feels to me now. But quiet can be very unnerving and one of the things I have experienced, in my own practice and while guiding others in mediation is just how uncomfortable quiet and silence can be. And how uncomfortable peace may be when we are not used to it, when we have not practiced it.

I first started meditating after I had my miscarriage. I was just thirty and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be pregnant but losing my pregnancy (and in a very ungraceful way as things go in a remote part of Central America where the nearest hospital, which is still an hour and a half away, is most known for its high rates of amputations) set me on a path that at the time I could not see clearly. Let’s face it, we almost never see the path that we’re on and if we get a glimpse of it, the view is seldom clear.

I was angry. Well, first I was sad, depressed, despondent, and dejected. And then when that passed, I was angry. I was shut down and not processing and doing anything I could to not feel what I was feeling. I knew I was broken, but I had no tools to start to mend. Drinking, socializing, avoiding being alone, running and exercising, avoiding being still and quiet. It wasn’t cutting it. So a very dear friend of mine gave me a very short book on meditation, and she sewed me a beautiful meditation pillow. And I sat down to face myself.

I read the book, cover to cover, highlighting, underlining passages, making notes (I always was a very good student) and then I sat on my pillow and set a timer for 15 minutes. And it was awful.

My mind wouldn’t be still, I wasn’t calming down, there was no peace to be had, no inner stillness to be found. It was torture. I sat, on my little wooden porch, not much different from where I’m sitting now. At the time, my house was a one-bedroom cabin, tucked into the jungle, with one neighbor. It was quiet, it was calm, it was peaceful, and yet my inner world was anything but.

Now I had been to yoga, though my practice was not consistent nor was it at that point very deep in the other seven limbs aside from Asana, the physical practice. But I can’t recall a class that incorporated seated meditation as I was trying to practice it on my tiny porch. And I didn’t have enough knowledge to even understand how the two are related. Like I said, we rarely see the path we’re walking on, even one step at a time.

As hard and awful as my meditation practice was, I kept doing it. I kept practicing peace, though it was not peaceful at that point. It did become more familiar though, and through reading and re-reading that tiny book, and talking to my friend who’d started me on that path, she herself a dedicated practitioner at that time and still today, I did begin to appreciate my 15 minutes of stillness. I made a small altar in my tiny home and became more committed to practicing peace.

Life kept on life-ing and I went through a very difficult breakup, ending an eight-year-long partnership, then quitting the job I’d had for four years, then moving out of my tiny house as it held too many bad (and good which can sometimes be the more painful) memories of the past. I moved, got new jobs, dated new guys, and through it all, I kept practicing peace, sometimes committed and easeful, usually inconsistent and with great resistance. But the alter moved with me, growing and shrinking based on the house I was renting and how much I’d needed to purge. And my meditation pillow came along as well, until she had finally seen her last silent sit.

I used to see hippie women in flowing dresses and think how easy they had it, teaching yoga and walking barefoot at farmer’s markets and dancing in drum circles like they had no knowledge that self-consciousness was a thing that people felt. Living in Berkeley and Oakland before moving to Puerto Viejo, I’ve been around my fair share of hippies, and my judgment of them was deep. I thought, why is it so hard for me to find even a sliver of peace and they get to be so free?

I know I’m generalizing and I’m sure there are—in fact, I know there are—some hippies out there in their flowing pants and skirts and they are not at peace. The outside does not depict the inside, I know at least that much by now. But I’ve also learned enough to know that that freedom and that self-love and that courage to wear what you want and dance how you want, that is hard-earned. That peace did not come easy, that peace was won, battle by battle sitting in stillness on a tiny pillow, or foam block, or the hard floor, facing the quiet chaos of each individual mind.

In 2020 when the world shut down and everyone was suddenly thrust into stillness and silence without the proper tools, I believe we all saw a glimpse of the unpeaceful inner world that we strive so hard to ignore. I finally gave in to the thing I had secretly wanted for years and signed up for my 200-hour yoga teacher training, virtual of course, which made me all the more suspect and loathsome. Hippies and technology? You had to be kidding me.

But there it was again, the foggy, unseen path. The rocky step, leading me somewhere that I didn’t even know I was going. So I sat there, every Monday and Wednesday night, every Saturday morning and sometimes ALL day Sunday, for five months, and I practiced peace. And I learned that everyone in that training was on the same path, the same quest to learn to be with themselves. To just find a little bit of peace in this mad, mad world, and to find some way to love the chaos of their own mind and existence.

I’ve now been to a handful of in-person yoga trainings and wellness conferences and now I get it. Those flowy skirts are hard-earned. Those long feather earrings, those tattoos, those piercings, walking around with your hula hoop tied to your backpack, that’s brave. That’s practicing your peace. That’s saying to the world I have sat with myself long enough to know what makes me happy and I will pursue my happiness knowing that I will be judged for not fitting in. And some days that will be hard, and I will still practice my peace.

Practicing peace looks different for all of us. For some, it’s painting, or long walks, or reading a good book. It could be lighting a candle, or quitting a job, it may be loving who you love despite judgment or criticism. Practicing peace could be how you drink your coffee in the morning or your tea in the evenings. It could be surfing or dancing or mountain biking. It will never look the same to anyone but you, because as my wise beyond his years husband always says, each mind is its own universe.

And the task at hand is to know your own mind, to know your own universe. Which is terrifying to think about traveling alone, into the darkness of a universe where no one else can go. And to be brave enough to do, and to keep doing it, over and over again, well that’s damn impressive.

Recently I’ve not been able to see my path in front of me at all. The fog is very thick, the visibility is zero. I come back to sitting on my purple yoga blocks and using breathing techniques I’ve learned over the years to try and quiet my mind. Some days it works, some days it doesn’t. I know I can’t really get off my path, that’s not how this works, nor do I want to get off this path. I also know that something very big and challenging and rewarding is coming, and I will need to practice my peace fiercely to climb this next mountain.

The path may be cloudy but I’ve sat with my eyes closed long enough to know that site is not limited to vision.

And now I know that the quiet, the silence, that’s a gift, not something to be afraid of or shy away from. For only when it is quiet can we hear our deepest desires. Only when we sit alone, can we truly know ourselves.

And what a gift.  

You Can Absolutely Run Away From Your Problems

 And Here's Why You Probably Should

This is not the advice that most people will tell you. This is not the advice that most people expect to hear. Most of us grew up with some kind of puritanical dogma of standing your ground, rising up to the challenges set before us, being a man and facing what comes head-on.

But what if you flipped all that on its head and just... ran away?

One of my best friends says in this life, you have to choose your hard. Now, I'm not saying that every time you face a problem or a difficult situation, you should change towns and change your name. But I am saying, choose your hard. Have a job you hate? Staying in that job will be hard. Quitting that job and walking into the unknown of finding a new job will be hard. Choose your hard. 

Stuck in a bad relationship with a partner who hurts more than helps? A partner that makes you cry more than laugh? Staying will be hard. Leaving and starting over will be hard. Choose your hard. 

Living in a place that you hate? Staying there will be hard, day in and day out. Moving to a new place, making new friends, feeling like you have no idea what's going on will be hard. Choose your hard.

And I'm not saying this glibly. And to those of you who are in situations right now that you cannot change, or leave, or walk away from, I see you and I know that hard, trust me I do. What I'm talking about, is when we have the god-given privilege and have put in the absolute work to have the tools, the skills, the determination, and the courage to leave, or change, or shift, or run, and we don't do it? Well, that's choosing a really hard hard. 

It seems leaving and going somewhere new is easier for many people now than ever before. Social media lets us see glimpses of life in far-off places, plane tickets (though exceptionally expensive) are available at the push of a few buttons, online jobs, digital nomads, remote workers and Starlink have made it so we can work from essentially anywhere, GPS and Google Maps mean that we can literally get in our car and drive off into unknown lands, and somehow never get (geographically) lost. 

And yet, a lot of us stay stuck, fighting some battle that we think is going to make a difference one day, when the truth is, everyone is so busy fighting their own battles that no one is really paying attention to you. No one is paying attention to how well you do that job that you hate. Or how good you are at acting like you like a place that you can't stand. And staying in that bad relationship to show others how committed you are? How loving you are? Flip it around and commit to yourself, love yourself instead. 

I recently moved out of Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica, a place I have called home for eleven years. And it was hard to move there. I drove there (once successfully, once not so much--that's another blog altogether) and I chose that hard. Moving to a foreign country with two rescue pit bulls, starting a whole new life, making friends, working for $2 an hour--which to be fair was plenty of money back then--that was a hard that I wore like a badge of honor. Learning to garden with a machete, taking baths in the ocean when there was no water for days, riding rusty bikes down dirt roads with no lights, finding snakes, scorpions, and spiders in my house, that was my hard. And I fucking loved it. 

But slowly, as things change, I changed, Puerto Viejo changed, and I found myself waking up every day hating my life, a life that I had worked so hard to create. It took about two years of me fighting this internal battle, trying to make my edges fit where I just didn't fit anymore. And then the universe did what she does: she got loud.

She got loud, and pushy, and handsy because I'll tell you what: The universe will not let you find peace in a place you are not meant to be. Read that again.

And so, things started to get harder and harder. My vacation rentals sat empty for months while my living expenses soared. One of my four rescue dogs got savagely attacked while walking on the same beach path where I had walked dogs for eleven years. I woke up with a dead rat in my bed one morning--courtesy of my beloved cat, Bill. I stopped enjoying the beach, or going at all for that matter. I dreaded leaving my house, going to the store, eating at the same restaurants, everything felt HARD. 

So before I knew it, I was making plans to leave. Pack up the car, load up the animals, luckily the husband was a willing captive, and within five weeks of deciding it was time to move and leave this chapter for a new one, we were living in new place, on the other side of Costa Rica, trading in the beach for the mountains, the warm waters of the Caribbean for the cold rivers of this rocky terrain, a mere nine-hour drive from our "home".

And it has been hard, I don't have friends here--yet. My husband hasn't found work here--yet. We're still learning how this place works, and learning is awkward and something you think you'll leave behind when school finishes, but that just isn't true.

If you are lucky enough to keep living, and I truly mean lucky, then life is going to keep being hard, and you have to keep choosing your hard. And if that means running away from something that just isn't working, then my god, you run like Laura Dern with velociraptors hot on your tail. 

Because what's the point of suffering in a place you hate, that no longer resonates? No one is coming to give you an A on your life report card. Because no one has any idea what they're doing themselves. So, again, if you are blessed enough to have the freedom of choice, and movement, don't waste that freedom. This ride doesn't last forever and you really don't know when you're getting kicked off, so try to squeeze as much enjoyment out of it as you possibly can. 

And another thing, you can run, you can move, you can quit jobs (and I hope you do), you can end bad relationships (and I really hope you do), but none of that will matter if you don't do the internal work. Because the one thing you can never run away from is yourself. So find a way to make yourself your best friend, your place of refuge, to go inside and excavate all the gunk that you've been carrying around for years, and make your internal world a place of safety, and love, and acceptance. And once you do that, once you choose that hard, the other hards seem a lot less hard.  

Take a Walk on the Wild Side--Embracing the Gift by Captain Zero

Puerto Viejo recently lost one of its most memorable and most loving and lovable characters. Patrick Abrams, Captain Zero was a true legend and famous in his own right. I'll let his own words speak for themselves.

This story was handed to me by Captain Zero one day while giving him a ride into town. He wanted me to help him publish it because he knew I "worked with books." I have typed the copy exactly as it was given to me so that you can read it in his own words. There is no way not to hear his voice or picture him while reading this account. 

EMBRACING THE GIFT

The following story recounts a series of events in the life of Patrick Abrams, the notorious Captain Zero. The story, I think, speaks volumes of Patrick’s philosophy concerning how we could and should live. I met the Captain in March of 2015 and he welcomed me into his home as he would an old friend. Patrick wrote, at some point, the first draft of this tale on 16 sheets of lined paper and gave it to me, Brain Rogers, for a “look” that led to some editing and proofreading. I have mostly only ironed out some grammatical errors and it is my hope that I have not altered Patrick’s tone, voice, or intent in doing so Lots of work yet to do here, but it’s closer, I think, Captain.

 

EMBRACING THE GIFT

Costa Rica, Central America, 2006. This is the Caribbean Coast, Talamanca, Limon, the largest province in Costa Rica. Surrounding me is thick, green jungle, the canopy’s flora and fauna beyond description. Es rico in every way. The temperature is, ah, perfect, as the embrace of a lover.

Awesome and tranquil, but ALIVE and perhaps disarming, and allowing one to neglect the fact that there’s danger everywhere.

When I least expect it, my receptors are bombarded and these instincts release the adrenalin, driving my senses into full alert. This awakening call. The Law of the Jungle.

So it was on this morning that naturally, being who I am, there was this problem.

Standing at the end of the road that leads to my casa, I was being questioned by an official who was asking me for my passport or my papers. We were standing just a few steps from my dwelling in this sleepy town called Old Harbour.

My passport had expired in 1994. However, I had lived along this peaceful tropical coast for many years and for most of those yeas had not concerned myself with passports and papers of identity. Before 9-11, papers weren’t important, especially along the Talamanca coast. Land of the Free, a two car town, horses and bicycles the chosen modes of transport.

Local immigration officials would pass through on occasion and suggest that I pursue my legality in Costa Rica. Fines imposed were determined according to time lapses in my visa. It had not been a big deal in the past. However, on this day, I was being asked for my papers by Federal Immigration officials. Clearly this visit was different.

This being Rasta country, my response to the papers request was to ask, “Rolling papers?” No smiles came my way. Apparently they didn’t smoke.

“Oh, toilet papers? Some newspapers?” Humor seems to get the best of me but not them on this morning.

“Federal Immigration,” they responded. They were very polite and quite serious. “Passport, please!”

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” I said. “I live in that house over there. Allow me to retrieve my passport. Please!”

Ever so casually I walked to my house. Moments before their arrival I had just finished a creepy green bud so I was about peaking when I entered my humble casa, quickly snatching my emergency travel bag that I always have readied. My getaway bag! I was out the back door and headed for the bus station, hoping in a hurry to catch the next bus to San Jose. In the nick of time, I was on my way.

 

I remembered that I had applied for a new passport in San Jose a few years prior, in 2003, at a cost of $100 that was paid to the American Embassy there. My hope was that the passport would still be available to me. After a relatively uneventful but unsettling bus ride, I arrived in San Jose and went to the embassy. Surprise. My passport was there, three years later. This new passport was important for obvious reasons and it also helped my financial situation as it allowed me to access a new ATM card that the Bank of America had sent for me. I was told by embassy officials that this card was in a mailbox and the mailbox was just a few blocks away. After accessing my new ATM card, another surprise awaited. The card allowed me to access $3,000 USD that had over time been direct deposited by the US government for my service in Viet Nam, so many years ago. My Blood Money, I called it.

 

In June of 1966, I graduated from high school. By September I was drafted and off to Viet Nam seven months later in April of ’67. A shocking way to begin a new life. However, all things considered, for me things went well in Viet Nam and now in San Jose, Costa Rica. Earlier in the day, I was being hunted by the Federal Immigration Police as an illegal alien. By nightfall, I was in possession of a new passport and a windfall of three thousand dollars.

Lou Reed’s “Hey Babe, Take a Walk on the Wild Side” has for many years been my anthem. And so I did. This day my being was at peace with the world; a new passport, cash in my pocket, and daylight quickly fading to tropical night.

In exotic San Jose, Costa Rica, with the sun hanging low against the mountains, I was drinking 7 year old Flora Canya (Flor de Cana) Nicaraguan rum. Multi colors and shadows were dusting this green canopy with various shades of pink and purple, dazzling my visuals, tantalizing my impressions of this moment. It had been three years since my last visit to this city.

“The Wild Side,” he sang. My adrenalin was driving me to seek the unknown. I was in need of companionship, women, liquor, and mood enhancing medicines. Mi hermano, a very close friend from many years ago, has a hotel called Casa Alfie. It is centrally located downtown on Second Avenue. My home away from home.

We were unlikely companions, Alfie and I. These two strange animals, inquisitive enough to recognize the endangered species that we were. Alfie is a patron of the Arts and I am a patron of the Art of Surfing. Alfie, raised British in Africa and me, a renegade product of my years in the USA. Our common ground? A belief in Embracing the Gift for those who have been condemned to poverty all of their lives. This Gift bestowed upon us, this choice, this privilege, this High Ground. That we could make a difference.

I called Alfie and explained my situation, embellishing my story of escape from the Federal authorities. Alife, knowing me “quite well”, laughed continuously, being aware that there’s a thread of truth in everything I say. Then I was off to Casa Alfie, where I stashed my cash and a copy of my passport before showering and joining Alfie for a departing drink and venturing into the night. And, of course, it was 25 year Flora Canya as British Alfie is more refined than myself. In conversation, I informed Alfie of my evening’s desires.

Alfie’s response was, “Of course, Patrick! Three years in the wilderness (The Wild Side, he sang), you could use a good shagging, massage, jacuzzi, sauna… However,” he added, “be careful. There’s a jungle out there.”

Indeed, I thought to myself. I am an animal. I’ll be in my natural element.

 

I took a cab downtown and the time was about 11 PM with people just starting to make their night moves. I was delivered to a House of Quality that my friend had recommended. This House of Quality, of lust and temptation, was just what I was looking for.

The Ambassador Club was all brick and plentiful green vines added to its ambiance. Before entering this unique building I thought, “Sweet. Meant to be. Just for me.” The management was very professional, especially when I presented my “Alfie” card. I was directed toward a VIP lounge. It was very quiet and extremely comfortable, with couches, lounge chairs and thick carpeting. A unique idea, I thought. It allows one to collect himself and perhaps take a pause from the action that’s happening within the complex, this other world which I was so looking forward to entering.

My spirit, my being, at this moment was tranquil. I was reflecting on similar situations I had experienced. So many years ago: Saigon, Mombasa, and Bangkok; Viet Nam, Kenya, and Thailand. A thrill a minute! This adrenalin of life­—this unknown—this Wild Side, he sang. Take a Walk on the Wild Side.

This loneliness won’t leave me alone. This need for companionship, the feminine side. The tender touch. More, a friend of the spirit—a communion of compassion, of trust, perhaps caring. Transcending time. “Been here before,” I thought. “Obtainable. As my past had shown me.”

Her name was Kimberly and she was a beauty. Bronze in color with awesome green eyes. Lean of body, a gymnast’s physique. Kimberly’s hair was reddish blonde; the texture suggesting African descent. This unique being. This unique personality. She took my breath away. Conservatively dressed, very sure of herself. Five foot four inches and twenty-three years old.

We assessed each other from a distance. This spiritual eye contact. We both shook our heads and smiled as we met half way across the room. Hugging and laughing. Pecking each other on our faces. Perhaps each knowing the other from another time.

Both of us realized that this was a special human chemistry that we were sharing.

We introduced ourselves. “Patrick is my name!” I gasped. “Ah, ah.”

“Kimberly, I’m called,” she cooed. She was rad, bro.

“My Kimberly, perhaps a bit of food and drink, darling?” I suggested so that we could become better familiar with our pasts, lives, and loves.

This bonding of respect achieved during dinner would later enhance our physical and spiritual union. Hours later, we pondered the improbability of this level of satisfaction being achieved in such a condensed period of time; these milliseconds of love, Kimberly and I would become lifelong friends. We, my love, my Kimberly and I shared a final drink before she returned to conduct her professional business and I returned to the VIP lounge to assess these impossibly magical last few hours.

My desire now was to smoke some herb. It was early in the morning now and the street was quiet with little traffic. I stepped out into the night. I fired one up and took a long pull, holding it and then slowly letting it out. And the world was a better place.

Suddenly, I noticed a movement to my left. Just a shadow. Nevertheless, my survival instincts said, “Red flag!” Reaching into my jacket pocket, I clutched my Browning automatic; my sweetheart, my protector. I never traveled without it here. Costa Rica is a third world and there are several homicides every night.

A figure stepped very slowly out of the shadows. He was studying my reaction to his intrusion upon my moment of solitude.

“Buenas noches,” I said. My first impression was that this fellow was down on his luck; perhaps in need of a few colones or maybe a drink. Perhaps, a touch of compassion?

Okay, I thought. Been there myself. In my lives past, while traveling this earth, always my requests were addressed, my loneliness placated, confirming my faith in the human spirit. Yes, we can make a difference.

“Mi amigo, perhaps a drink?” I offer to this stranger while producing my flask of Flora Canya 7 year old Nicaraguan rum. We each accessed a long pull and again the world was a better place.

My new friend spoke English was a cool Latino touch that always makes me smile. It also reminded me that my life was now south of the border, deep within the Central American jungles. This Wild Side. We shared a green bud and drank our favorite beverage while exchanging a brief version of our life stories.

Mr. Jose Vargas was his name. Nicaraguan by birth. Years ago, he was an illegal alien fleeing from the war and looking for a better life in Costa Rica. As we talked, I got the feeling that the vibe was positive and I was relaxed with this new personality. He had a positive attitude and showed an appreciative acceptance of our situation at this moment. Besides, “It’s lonely at the top of positive.”

Mr. Jose Vargas’s life over the last twelve hours had been interesting and it would become more so. That morning, Don Jose was released from a maximum security Costa Rican prison after serving eight years. His crime? Possession with the intent to distribute The Herb, ganga, the Lamb’s Bread. This natural medicinal plant. Eight years for eight kilos of this healing medicine! Jose had a wife and three children in Blue Fields on Nicaragua’s Atlantic coast. They had been separated too long. My mission was quite clear. My obligation, the Gift, for Mr. Jose Vargas was to reunite him with his family. This Gift, bestowed to ME.

 

I was incarcerated in February of 1987 in the Grand Cayman Islands for possession of a thousand kilos of Jamaican green bud. British, you know, are quite proper and quality time was spent for twenty-two months before the powers that be realized that they had only found ganga. They were almost apologetic. Regarding my new friend, I recognized my opportunity to balance the Scales of Justice. I indeed had the power to make this happen. I had this window of opportunity… or should I say “We?” as I knew Alfie had to be involved, too.

The hour was now 4 AM and I knew that if I did not call my good friend and include him in this mission, he would never forgive me. Alfie is a nocturnal being and I prayed that he was still awake. And he was. Over the phone, I briefly explained this extraordinary situation to Alfie.

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “What can I do on this end?”

“We’re on our way to the hotel,” I said and then explained that Jose would need a direct bus to Managua, Nicaragua with a connection to Blue Fields on the Caribbean coast. That morning!

“I’m on it!” Alfie shouts, “ and remember, Patrick, one must accept the Gift whenever it appears.” We both laughed. The laughter of the privileged.

“First class!” I shouted.

“Of course,” Alfie replied.

I’m thinking as I hang up the phone that life does not get much more satisfying than this moment. On our way to the hotel, I watched my new friend who was not yet aware that his karma was about to embrace him. We arrived at Casa Alfie and I introduced my old friend to my newest friend. Alfie embraced Jose and suggested we toast our good fortunes. We shared our favorite beverage, Flora Canya rum. This time 15 years old, as Alfie was more sophisticated than Jose or myself.

We were feeling the energy and Alfie explained to Jose that our mission was to reunite him with his family. Still, Jose was not quite sure of what was about to begin. Jose was possibly in a time warp, having just been released hours ago after eight years in prison and now, que paso? Alfie and I suggested that Jose bathe and take a moment to reflect.

Alfie and I toasted each other, clinking our glasses and laughing; this positive energy making us giddy and drunk on this privileged moment. Then, Alfie got serious.

“Okay,” he explained, “transportation first class to Managua, Nicaragua with a connection to Blue Fields. Done.”

Just at that moment, Jose was descending the balcony stairs having finished a thirty minute shower; his first hot shower in eight years. Imagine. I had previously given Jose a set of clothes. He was just a bit taller than me and a mite leaner but we had similar enough body builds. My extra pair of Timberline moccasins still had some life and he wore them with pride. He seemed sheathed in his new identity and I wondered if perhaps he felt like he was being born again. Alfie and I made eye contact and reacted with purpose.

“He’ll need a travel bag!” Alfie shouted. “And toiletries,” I insisted. “A sack of food, also. It’s a long trip.” After we got together some things for Jose, Alfie bellowed, “Time is of the essence, mates!”

The energy being shared at this moment was extremely self satisfying. Unique to each of us; this bonding of the spirit. Mr. Jose Vargas was speechless and he looked at us, unbelieving. We were communicating without verbal language; a primitive positive mode.

Jose embraced Alfie and me, thanking us and expressing his desire to perhaps repay this Gift. Unknown to him, we had also stuffed $200 in an envelope for his family.

Then we took a moment to explain this concept, called the Gift, to Jose. Expounding on the fact that we had both been in his situation in our pasts, we explained that always our desires were addressed and then, of course, we spoke of the Guardian Angel who had taken the time to explain the theory of Embracing the Gift to us. The gift of receiving by giving. Jose’s lack of response was, I think, because he was trying to dissect his unbelievable meteoric transformation from incarceration to now, this moment.

Jose again expressed his desire to some day repay us. Alfie’s response was, “Perhaps in your future the opportunity to reciprocate in kind, to others who are in need will offer you the privilege of embracing the Gift. Hopefully, at that moment, you will think of Patrick and me, with a smile on your face and a tear in your eye.” We all embraced again.

It was now time for Jose to board his bus that would reunite him with his family that he had not seen in eight years. I tried to imagine this soon to be moment of reunion, but I could not visualize it. Jose boarded the bus and took a seat in the back, waving to us as the bus departed. His departure created that void one experiences when an emotional disconnection takes place.

This was a sobering moment for Alfie and me and the two of us were silently reflecting on this privilege of the Gift. It was now 6 AM and Alfie was the first to speak. “Well, Patrick, since we’re feeling quite worthy, and this being a special occasion, the only cure for early morning melancholy is Bloody Marys and Black Jack at the Del Rey.”

“And early morning women.” Alfie and I spent all day and into that next morning very high on the Gift.

 

Several years have passed since Jose was transported to his destiny and often Alfie and I will reflect on our memorable encounter with our Nicaraguan friend. Doing so allows us both another warm moment of pleasure—the gift, The Gift. And we both agree that when the challenge of the Gift appears to Jose, he’ll embrace it and he’ll think of us and shed that tear and have that smile on his face.

 

So there it is, my readers. And yes, this is one of those feel good stories that really happened. God only knows, we need to be able to tell more of them.

 

                              From the desk of Patrick Abrams, Captain Zero

 

 

 

When Letting Go Looks Like Zumba

I woke up on my 35th birthday to my 13-year-old dog having a seizure.

Not a great way to start what could very well be the mid-point in my life (depending on how much Zumba I do), but one of those moments that reminds you that shit isn't always going to be like this.

Everything changes, everything comes to end, and if we're lucky enough to still be breathing, we have a chance to start again.

Call it a mid-life crisis (or if I'm lucky a third-life crisis). Call it my lastest fitness obsession since I seemed to have phased out my Salsa Fever that consumed the 34th year of my life. Call it what you want, but I decided to go to Zumba.

Now, going to Zumba was something I never, ever in a million years would have thought I would have done. Aside from the fact that dancing in a group setting, with a bunch of overly peepy fitness freaks, would have made me run the other way just a couple of years ago, I had a personal vendetta against Zumba.

You see, when my ex of 8 years cheated on me several years ago, he cheated on me with the town's Zumba instructor. Yes, brightly colored leggings, fake boobs, hair extensions and all, she was everything that I wasn't and since Zumba was her profession I swore off the cardio craze and also forbade any and all of my friends from ever going to a class.

The anger and heartbreak of my ex's infidelity eventually faded and I tried for many years to Let It Go. Move on. Get over it. Put it behind me. Forgive and let live. But no matter what I did, I was still pissed off.

I went to yoga, I repeated the mantra, "Let Go" with every exhale. I meditated. I ran in an attempt to sweat out all the hurt, all the rage. I dated other people (which only highlighted my continued trust issues). I really tried to put it all behind me and move forward.

But I couldn't.

Healing and moving on and forgiving is not that easy of a thing, especially when you really, really, really feel like you've been wronged. And all the tears and all the anger just make you feel more justified in holding onto some of that resentment, because the more times you tell the story, to yourself and other people, the more you engrain it into your whole being. And that's okay because it's how we learn to protect ourselves. But at some point it no longer serves us. Instead of protecting us, it isolates us and we start blaming new people for our past grievances.

When I decided to go to Zumba I knew a part of me had let it go, because there I was breaking the lifetime ban that I had placed on myself and my friends, but it wasn't until tonight that I realized just how much I had let it go.

Zumba in the Caribbean may be very different from Zumba in other places, though I have nothing to compare it to (yet). Here, the instructor is a Caribbean man named Enzo with a big tuff of hair pulled back into a ponytail. He's buff as all get out and has more energy in his pinky toe than I have in my entire body. The class is a hodgepodge of older Tica women, young European volunteers here for a stint, a couple of very attractive young men who really know how to dance, and my personal favorite Zumba-phile, Scott.

Scott is a middle-aged white man, probably from the States, but maybe from Canada. He brings his own fan, always sets up right in front of Enzo, with his fan on the table, front row, just to the right. He wears high socks with his sneakers and he is PUMPED! He yells out during class, he speaks Spanish with a thicker gringo accent than me to all the local ladies and his kids, ranging in ages from maybe 3 to 10, run around him while he Zumbas, sometimes joining in. Scott is my hero.

Tonight was my eighth Zumba class and while I'm still getting the hang of some of the routines, I for sure already have my favorites. One of my favorites starts out with us holding a disco pose for the first eight counts. As we stand with our arms in the air, fingers pointed high, hands on our hips, ready to get it, I smile, looking at this mix of people (especially Scott), all coming together to do something good for their bodies and to feel alive. Tonight during the intro disco pose, Enzo announced that this song, one of my new-found favorite things, was taught to him by none other than his Zumba instructor... you guessed it, my ex's adulteress.

In that moment, hearing her name, still smiling and holding my disco pose, I realized that I had finally, really, truthfully, thankfully, Let It Go. I didn't get mad. I didn't feel hurt. I didn't want to cry or drink a bottle of wine about it. I just wanted to Zumba to my favorite song. I also realized that whatever role she played in my break up with my ex, she also played a lot of other roles in a lot of other lives, and she continues to do so somewhere else. (I'm not a total saint and I do thank the stars that she didn't stay in this tiny town after everything went down. Hey, I'm only human.)

I don't know if it was the yoga, the meditating, the bottles of wine and venting sessions with girlfriends, the running until I couldn't breath, or just the passage of time, but I was over it. I am over it. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was the Zumba. I don't know.

What I do know is that wonderful old dogs die, boyfriends and girlfriends break our hearts. We quit jobs, get fired, move to new cities, lose touch with friends. We get wronged, we get hurt, we hurt people and somehow, somehow we Let It Go.

And sometimes, after all the tears have finally dried, we feel like dancing again.

My main man <3

P.S. My dog had seizures but he's still alive. He's 13 and doing his best, but getting old is hard work, just like letting go.

From Ugh to Ah: The Soundtrack of a Broken Heart

It’s been a year since my heart broke.

And it didn’t shattered all at once, like a wine glass crashing on a tile floor, the way I imagined it would. 

It crumbled, slowly, over a few months, or maybe longer, it’s hard to tell.

It started with a crack that crept its way across, as little bits began to fall away. And as the crack grew and splintered across my heart, the symptoms of a broken heart began to set in. 

My insides turned to liquid. My intestines, large and small, my stomach, they just turned to liquid. I couldn’t eat, on account of my insides no longer existing in a solid form. I yo-yoed between thinking I was going to vomit up my digestive system or shit it out, at any moment. 

Eating went out the window and so did sleep. Of course I’d be exhausted all day, from crying, from lack of nutrition, but then night would come, but never sleep. It was like I was possessed. The dark thoughts came with the darkness and that little voice inside your head that loves to remind you about your flaws, your faults, every inadequacy that you’ve ever feared is true, that little voice would take over. The voice would tell me how I wasn’t good enough, that’s why he cheated, how he probably did it more than once, how he never loved me, and why would he? Of course he had cheated, of course this happened, why did you think you deserved anything better?

As the broken, possessed record of negative thoughts ran through my mind, I would search for justifications to prove the voice right. This turned out to be difficult, pointless, and fruitless, but all that did was convince me of yet another thing I wasn’t good enough to do right. 

The first few days and weeks were the worst, but once my body adapted to living without food or sleep, I entered a new phase. This is known as The Drinking and Numbing Yourself Because It’s Easier Than Being Sad Phase. 

Night after night I sat with a bottle of wine and my laptop, video chatting with my best girlfriends from back home, “processing” what had happened. Telling the story, hearing the words, reliving the nightmare, over and over. This was me “moving on”. And if it wasn’t me at home with a bottle of wine and a friend on screen, it was me at the bar, with a beer or a vodka soda, numbing, numbing, numbing. Who needs food when you have wine and Facebook video chat? A vodka soda is basically a salad…..vodka….is like potatoes which IS a vegetable….and I put a lot of lime……

And when I was alone, no friend to chat with, no bar to sit at, just in my house, alone, I spent a lot of time on the floor. I remember going down there on one of the first days after he moved out and I really thought I’d never get back up. I decided I would simply live on the floor from that moment on. It was easier than standing up. Plus, if you don’t eat or sleep anymore, and you are sure you’ll never find love or happiness again, what’s so bad about living on the floor? 

The floor felt good, like I couldn’t possibly get any lower. And I couldn’t get up, it was just too much work. So there I lay, skinny, but not in a good way, on the floor, but not because I was stretching or doing yoga or something healthy, permanently slightly intoxicated because let’s face it, alcohol was the only thing my liquid intestines could process, and the only sound I could make was Ugh. 

Sometimes it came out just like that, Ugh. Other times it was much more exaggerated, Uuuuuugggggghhhhhhh, followed by heavy sobs and crying. Sometimes there were no tears, and I would think, thank god, I’ve cried them all out. But then they would come again with a force that proved, without a doubt that we are definitely 70% water. 

But life continues and as much as I wanted to stay on the floor, I began to “heal”.

I would attempt “normal” things, like going grocery shopping. This proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated and the trips would be cut short due to uncontrollable sobbing in the chip aisle (because let’s face it, I’d decided that if I had to eat, I would consume nothing but Salsa con Queso and Goldfish). 

Slowly, I started to feel a bit better and convinced myself that the “real healing” was beginning.

This phase looked something like this:

            -Lay in bed. Watch episode after episode of Sex In The City because my life relates more             closely to their lives than anyone that I know in real life.

            -Lay in bed. Watch movies like 500 Days of Summer and The Bridges of Madison                                County and cry uncontrollably because that’s how you get it out.    

            -Manage to call a girlfriend and go for gelato. Eat gelato and talk about how much better                      you’re feeling while admitting  that you’ve watch the entire Sex In The City series three             times and you’re starting on your forth go round. 

            -Go for gelato again. Be greeted as a regular because you’ve been so many times recently                    that  the gelato man knows what flavor you want before you open your mouth. 

            -Decide that you will now buy ice cream to eat in bed while watching Sex In The City.

This phase went on for months. Throughout it there were these bursts of self improvement that would involve these manic episodes of “getting my shit together”. I’d go running every day for 2 weeks, go to yoga, buy veggies instead of ice cream, do ab work outs of all ungodly things, only to return to Uuuuggghhhhh, in bed with Carrie and Miranda as my only true loves. (I will also admit that at times I put on episodes of SATC and got on the floor, listening more so than watching because I had each episode memorized, and the floor was often more "comforting" than my bed.)

Certain songs were completely and utterly OFF LIMITS. Basically anything by Ed Sheeran, and of course “our songs”. Songs we had both loved, songs he had loved that I had teased him for, songs that I had loved that he had teased me for. So many songs became auditory bombs while other songs became anthems, battle songs that pumped me up, got me going, convinced me that I wasn’t in this alone, that I was going to make it. Like Rhianna and Bruno Mars were singing just to me and that was all I needed to put the pieces of my heart back together, to go out and find new love, and to become this better, stronger, more resilient person. 

And there were distractions, attempts at flirting, attempts at getting back out there, moving on, and that was the worst. It didn’t seem like it at the time because it’s just that same numbing, numbing, numbing, but it was the worst kind of numbing because when it ended, when they left or stopped talking to me, it broke a little bit more of my heart, which was barely holding together at this point anyways. 

Because I was still sad. Because I still missed him. Because I didn’t want to be alone. Because you can only numb yourself for so long. 

So a year has passed and I think I finally have swept up the crumbs, the bits and pieces and they are starting to stick together. Sure, there’s some dirt and dog hair mixed in there, some sand, some lint, some toe nail clippings, but all the pieces are there. 

I don’t cry at every love song anymore, although a couple still set me off. I drink a lot more tea than vodka. The manic episodes of yoga and running have become more stable routines and I’ve limited my gelato intact drastically. I’ve banned myself from watching Sex In The City (mainly because my laptop crashed, but I take that as a sign). I still end up crying on the floor sometimes, but I let it happen, I feel it, I let it in, and then when it passes, I pick myself up and I carry on, and I find myself on the floor less and less these days. 

And now instead of saying Ugh, on repeat, all day, every day, I say Aaahhhhh. I sigh out, sometimes in sadness, often times in joy, sometimes in wonder of where I am in life, in awe of my friends who brought me ice cream, and wine, and French fries, and beer, and cooked me dinner, and sat with me while I bawled my eyes out. I sigh Aaaahhh for the friends who had 5 hour video calls with me and listened to me tell my saga over and over again as if I was the only one who’d ever had a broken heart. I sigh Aaahhhh for the great things in my life that I can see again, that I can feel again.

I sigh Aaaahhhh for myself, for making it through this, for finding all the pieces, for putting them back together carefully and slowly, as slowly as they crumbled, for trusting that while it may have some cracks, and it may be a bit dirtier than it was a year ago, my heart is still worth loving and it still has love to give.

The Whatifs, The Who'sits and Coulduves

A day will come where you'll find yourself, seemingly, in the
                                                                
                                                                  middle
                                                                      of
                                                                 nowhere

You'll look to the left......................................................................................and you'll look to the right

You'll look straight ahead.........................................................................and you'll look straight behind

But for the life of you, you'll have no idea where you are or how you got there.

This, as it turns out, will not be important.

You'll spend far more time than you should wondering.......

You'll wonder about
         The Whatifs........
                 The Who'sits........
                        The Coulduves.........

         The Maybes..........
                The Howcomes.........
                        The Shoulduves..........

         The Almosts............
                The Socloses...........
                       The Whynots...........

You'll wonder and wonder but it simply won't matter because still, just simply, you won't know
What lies to the left.................................................................................................What lies to the right
What lies just ahead................................................................................................What lies just behind

After you've spent time wondering and wondering you'll realize the time has come to stop wondering and start wandering

You'll wander towards
          The Hopeso's........
                  The Iwishes..........
                         The Let'ssees............

You'll wander towards
          The Heregoesnothings............
                  The We'llfindouts..............
                         The Dreamsobigs............

You'll wonder why it took you so long to wander and leave behind The Whatifs, The Who'sits and Coulduves.

You'll wonder why it took you so long to wander from that place you didn't recognize, that place that you don't remember getting to.

It won't matter how long you stayed.

It won't matter which way you wander when you finally leave.

All that will matter is that you stop wondering, pick a direction,
                                                                                            anyone will do just fine,
                                                                                                                 And Start Wandering.

Anything But Nice

Be bold, be brave. Be loud and obnoxious. Be fearful and timid. Make waves, start fires, cause a commotion.

Be anything but nice.

Be compassionate and have passion. Be cunning and charismatic. Be sarcastic. Be rude. Say things that make people uncomfortable. Start awkward conversations. Laugh loudly. Tell jokes and stories. Laugh at your own jokes.

Shake hands firmly with those you meet. Talk to strangers at parties. Memorize random facts to tell others.

Be reliable and dependable or be flaky and flighty. Be punctual or always be late. Say yes to invitations. Show up with presents.

Be outspoken or soft spoken, but be heard. Make your point and leave it at that. Listen closely and attentively to others.

Be anything but nice.

Be blunt and direct. Be romantic. Recite poetry. Sing loudly and off-key. Be caring and kind. Give people homemade gifts. Be flirtatious and funky. Wear costumes as often as possible and speak with fake accents and give fake names at parties.

Be rowdy and reckless or be predictable and cautious. Fall in love often and without abandon. Kiss babies and pet dogs. Feed the birds. Sigh loudly and emphatically. Read classic literature and romance novels. Go to the theater and to museums and drink beers out of brown paper bags on the street. Take road trips without maps and get lost. Drink strong whiskey, neat, in the diviest bars you can find.

Be anything but nice.

Play in the dirt, the mud, the sand. Lay in the grass. Go for pick-nicks. Stargaze, often. Be thoughtful and mindful and perceptive. Say things that make you blush and turn bright red. Keep secrets. Cuddle with those you love. Hug friends. Dance.

Be anything but nice.

For in the end, when your bones turn to dust and your eyes become stars, the worst thing that anyone can say about you is, "Well, she was nice."