Costa Rica Cost of Living Update: New GE washing machine, with five years extended warranty—$600

This picture was taken three years ago and brings back a lot of feelings. I was relieved when we finally bought that bed, even if positioned in front of thirty workers drilling, spackling, and tiling. That day they installed the front door. Previously, that gaping hole welcomed windy day cyclones, swirling the air with satellites of earth and construction dust. We all breathed a foggy constellation of debris those months. We were unable to afford to live elsewhere during the build, and we prayed we could make it to the end without going broke.

Rob and I were in the final leg of an ultra-marathon dream that started years before. There was no visible finish line, but it didn’t deter us. If everyone saw one, there would be a hundred thousand people entering a race. “Look how close the ribbon is,” they would say. No. It’s only the few who think, “Sure, I’ll train every day for years to qualify. I’ll step over that finish line, even if it means crossing it after everyone has gone home.”

What I mostly identify in this picture is me lost in my thoughts, writing to all of you about how my husband just tripped over a hornet’s nest, or fell off his scooter, or just brought home a pallet of broken tile from a project up the hill because we ran out of money to order more. There were times I hid in the shower stall and wrote while sitting on the cool floor, surprising workers when they came in to use the can.

I wrote in the car while my husband was in the hardware store buying a doodad which was inevitably the wrong doodad. I wrote on my phone while I walked the mountain, my only reprieve from the construction. I’d type how lavender weeds as high as wheat stalks swayed in the breeze. I must have looked peculiar standing on a mountain watching them. But sometimes that’s all you need at the moment, a field of bending weeds surrendering to the wind.

Since we rent the main level of the house, I now write in the bathroom in the upstairs Sunset Suite. I don’t sit on the floor anymore since my husband bought me a tiny desk that faces the wall. I don’t have any distractions now except for the toilet two feet away, which adds an extra dash of romance to our marriage.

Sometimes I dream of a magical space with a large mahogany desk. A scattered surface with postmarked letters, and bookshelves lining the walls, filled with leather-bound novels. It’s always cozy in this imaginary space. A little dusty. A little imperfect.

The truth is, I will write anywhere because it’s the only thing that I ever wanted to do. When I’m not, I get fidgety. Words build up behind a cerebral dam, cracking its concrete, threatening to flood a town downriver.

I imagine this is what it’s like for an artist. I’ve watched people at restaurants doodle on paper napkins and others sketch while talking on the phone. I see them on the beach, drawing waves splashing against the shoreline. Their serene faces lost in a mystical world full of shadow and light.

There is a saying, “Artists like to draw, musicians like to play, and writers like to have written.” Words are like wild stallions. It takes a while to gain their confidence, and even when you do, there is no guarantee they won’t buck. Sometimes right in the middle of your best sentence. These are the moments that can make you crazy. But the words that have been written, the ones you kept? Oh, my. It feels like you’re galloping full speed across a clover filled meadow.

Over the years, I have learned that those elusive “best sentences” never came to me while sitting at a desk or while comfortable in a leather-backed chair. They arrived while sitting on the floor, in the jungle, or even in a bed surrounded by construction workers. All I know to do is to show up and confront the wild stallion. Heaven knows I’ve got the bruises to prove it.

Thank you to all who have followed my journey, whether through the move to Costa Rica or now the ramblings from The Happier House. I feel good that I wrote this to you today. I got the words out. They’re a little dusty and imperfect, but I stopped the dam from breaking, and the town downstream is safe for now.

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