Tag: love

April 3, 2025

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And Semana Santa swelters on. 

I love Semana Santa.  Not because of how it is, but because of how I remember it the very first time I came to Costa Rica 35 years ago.  Every day was magical and I ate so many rosquillas con café that I made myself sick. 

I love rosquillas in vasos of hot black sugary coffee.  It’s the only time I put sugar in my coffee, unless I’m in Italy. I don’t even know if I’m going to get any rosquillas this year.  Maybe tomorrow.  I remember trying to make them out of grocery store masa and Mexican cheese during The Cold Years in Moses Lake.  I tried, but they never turned out to be edible. 

Tomorrow Hernan and I are going to Guaitil for the afternoon.  Something about hidden dusty Guanacaste towns in Semana Santa sparks this fierce and defensive type of love in my heart.  I love it so much I almost don’t want to even go so that it won’t be in any way different than what it is.  But I belong there.  It’s one of My Places. 

I have quite a few.

Speaking of My Places, I have a roof!  My not-so-little house in a hidden dusty Guanacaste town has a roof complete with a layer of insulation (to keep the heat out, not in) and two canoas internas that apparently work perfectly and with no leaks.  How would I know such a piece of information?  Because THE DAY that the workers finish installing them, it rained.  You should have seen my rain dance!

House. Roof. Yippee!

The Insane Cooking Schedule was supposed to settle down after Semana Santa, and it will.  Not immediately, though.  It’s going to take a few days for the madness to peter out.  Next week is a bit of a zoo and then…Then I can do the things I’ve been dreaming of doing all summer long.  Write.  Take walks.  See friends, if they still remember me. Make pretty beaded necklaces.  Surf! 

My youngest sister turned 50 yesterday, and at the end of the month I’ll be traveling to the USA to celebrate my mom’s 80th birthday.  It’s not that I didn’t think we would all get old, it’s just that I thought it would take longer.

And, the USA.  Wow.  The only thing I can say is that I remember sitting in the lounge of the dorm during my first (or second? I forget.) year of college and having this oddly clear sense that the wheels were about to fall off the wagon and that I might be wise to relocate.  That may be wrong or it may be right.  I guess it depends on who you ask, doesn’t it?

Ten years ago, Pio and I moved back here from our years in the USA.  I’ve been back twice as long as I was even gone.  I remember how happy we were when we got off the airplane.  I remember waking up the next morning and feeling like I had died and gone to heaven.  Heaven turned out to have a few bumps in it. 

The other day I had this sudden memory of Pio the day before he died, during the (thankfully) short time that he was “confused.”  He frequently said things that didn’t make sense to anyone, as people who are at the end of the process of dying often do. He told me that he wanted the measurements of something we were building.  Then guess who was confused, lol. 

He floated away from that subject and onto the next before I had to provide any measurements, thankfully, because he no longer had the capacity for patience and I didn’t want to say, “What measurements?”  But that came back to me, the other day.  I wonder what we were building. 

I think I might know.  At the time, I attributed it to “confusion” which is the only way I had of understanding something like that.  But I now I think he wasn’t confused at all. I suspect he was achieving a different perspective that was unavailable to me.  I channel him all the time when I am trying to decide how the windows should look, or which way the doors should open.

That’s all for now.  Time to pack the boxes and go to tonight’s performance of “I Am a Chef and This Is Your Dinner.”  And let’s hope the tips are generous because after Semana Santa come the electric installations, the water lines, the windows, and the doors!

January 25, 2026

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The last thing I knew, it was the middle of November and now suddenly it’s almost February. This busy season blindsided me. And it’s not over, I’m just lucky enough to have a little break. I’m pretty sure the angels arranged this to prevent me from losing my mind which is not entirely off the table and would be a real shame.

Eighteen years ago today on a very hot and windy afternoon in Tamarindo, I married Pio. And we lived mostly happily ever after until, in fact, death did us part. Many things did not go the way we imagined them that day, especially the fact that we only had 9 years. The great thing about learning from your experiences is that you can keep learning from them even after they are over, for as long as you remember them. In that way, we still have a very present relationship and I am still learning from him, being formed by the fact that he was present with me for a time.

Today I am sitting on a rocking chair on the front porch of a mountain cabin. My sister came to visit me at the most dreadfully busy time of year and by some miracle we had a few free days from the mad catering schedule. So she whisked me away to the mountains where I can read a little, write a little, sleep, breathe, sit and stare at the sky. That sitting and staring at the sky part is so good for me.

Blessed are those who live in places or have jobs that provide a steady stream of income all year long. For they can choose to have reasonable schedules if that is important to them, and lives that retain some kind of balance. A little bit less blessed are those who depend on seasonal tourism and know what balance is when they see it but don’t get to experience it personally. If I had a nickel for every time I say to myself, “Suck it up. It’s high season,” I would probably save enough to make it through the low season. No mercy.

And there’s the house. How do you like that? I can now call it “the house” and not just “the lot.” Because there is a “house” on it–the beginnings of one. You can hire builders who will charge you a fee and present you with your house, or you can do what I did: hire a builder for a smaller fee and source all the materials yourself. Advantage: you choose everything down to the last nail. Disadvantage: you have another job. One that is extremely important no matter how much time you do not have for it.

It’s all good. So very very very many blessings all at once. So many things to remember. So many things to coordinate, and only one car. Only two hands and one mind to do all of this with. Only 24 hours in each day and some of them have to be spent sleeping. So many reasons to feel happy and lucky. In between the absolute exhaustion and constant bass note of the terror of having forgotten something extremely important and probably obvious. All the blessings. Simultaneously.

The biggest blessing right now is this pause. To step out of all of that (oh and I forgot to say it’s also so very very hot) and come up here to the cool mountain with the hot springs and rest for a moment. It’s the eye of the hurricane, but how lucky I am to have it pass directly over me.

Ghosts Are More Territorial Than Cats

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ghosts are more territorial than cats
I knew you wouldn’t
follow me
you prefer those same empty rooms with
mapaches
scratching at the screens

I felt you watch me pack the dishes
take down the pictures
put my cloths into suitcases
and take apart the bed
I assembled there
two and a half years ago when
you were a flesh and blood human
I didn’t know

de último
I stuffed the cats into cages and
took them away
yowling

they’re getting used to it here
already
they love me more than
my own ghost

ghosts are more territorial than cats
which is lucky
I could walk away and leave you there
you would never have left yourself
in spirit
the way you left in body
one cool dry dawn
sin mirar atrás

it was easier for me to go
the excuse about the inundaciones
is true and everyone knows it

I didn’t say adiós when I left
or hasta luego
either
I walked out the door
as silent as you
as silent as cats

I am not territorial
at all

I bolted the bed together in the new room
with no ghosts
put my shoes in the closet and
the spoons in the drawer
I’m home now
with my books and my
masa madre fermenting in the fridge

at night under the fan
I open the windows to the
sea breeze
and dream sweetly
of cats

Conozco Islas

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vámonos de aquí
dejemos atrás la tierra firme
echémonos al mar
nuestra cuna, casa, ataúd
y avancemos hacia el horizonte
con brazadas fuertes

no temamos baby
al sol, a la luna
a los espacios líquidos
desconocidos

vámonos de aquí
te ruego
conozco islas
que desde aquí no se ven
conozco los dragones
a la orilla del mundo

no despidámonos más
excepto de la tierra
donde nos raspa el aire y
nos atrapa la gravedad

A Poem For The Kiss / Un Poema Para El Beso / Un Poesia Per Il Bacio

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there must be a poem
for the kiss
a quiet poem
a gentle kiss
the one you don’t remember

she presses her lips to
your warm forehead
a terrible journey
is over and
silence begins
now

another poem might say
you seem to be
only asleep, but
not this one
this poem has
watched you through
a thousand sleeps and
knows the difference

her lips press your forehead
this last time
trembling

the doctors have
turned off the morphine and
you are free of
this destroyed flesh

they will bring her
your ring, later
to keep
in the poem
with the kiss


Un Poema Para El Beso

debe haber un poema
para el beso
un poema silencioso
un beso suave
el que tu no recuerdas

ella aprieta sus labios a
tu frente cálida
un viaje terrible
se ha terminado y
el silencio comienza
ahora

otro poema podría decir que
pareces estar
solo dormido, pero
este no
este poema te ha vigilado
mil veces
mientras duermes y
conoce la diferencia

los labios de ella tocan tu frente
esta última vez
temblando
los doctores han
apagado la morfina y
estás libre de
esta carne destruida

luego, ellos le llevarán
tu anillo
a ella
para guardar
en el poema
con el beso



Una Poesia Per Il Bacio

ci dovrebbe essere una poesia
per il bacio
una poesia a sottovoce
un bacio delicato
l’unico che non ricordi

lei preme le sue labbra
sulla tua fronte calda,
un viaggio terribile
è finito e
il silenzio inizia
ora

un’altra poesia direbbe
che sembri
solo addormentato
ma non questa
questa poesia ti ha
guardato mentre dormivi
mille volte e
sa la differenza

le sue labbra ti toccano la fronte
l’ultima volta
tremando
i dottori ti hanno tolto
la morfina e
tu sei libero da
questa carne distrutta

le porteranno
il tuo anello più tardi
per conservarlo
nella poesia
con il bacio

I’m Lying in my Hammock When I Hear the Phone

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(poem #2 in a series in progress)

I’m lying in my hammock when
I hear the phone
make a cricket sound

it’s you
you found me
you want to be my friend

I’m lying in my hammock when
I hear the phone
make a cricket sound

it’s you
saying hola
and I answer
because I always do
because your hair is curly and
your eyes are blue and
I am lying in my hammock
with the cats

you tell me things that
are the answers to
questions I haven’t asked

I’m lying in my hammock when
I hear the phone
make a cricket sound

it’s you
you ask me questions that
have long answers so I
summarize

you say you like me
I tell you
you don’t know me
I say it because I’m scared
because I do know me, and
there are crickets in my phone
at night I dream of cats

you have only imagined me
you have no idea


Follow Me

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follow me
to the brackish places
where warm muck mixes
with ocean salt and
last week’s rain
this is where land crabs
make their burrows
little fish hatch between
rotting twigs and
baby crocodiles wait,
their eyes floating like
bubbles at the surface,
for the return of their
hunting mothers

 

Sígueme

sígueme
a los lugares salobres
donde el lodo caliente se mezcla
con la sal del mar y 
lluvias de la semana pasada
aquí es donde los cangrejos
hacen sus hoyos
pecesitos nacen entre
ramas podridas y
cocodrilos infantes esperan,
sus ojos flotando como
burbujas en la superficie,
sus madres que andan
de caza

More of a Hum, Less of a Scream

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HABLANDO SOLA

I’ve been thinking about something. I’ve been thinking about it while I surf, while I ride my bike, in the early mornings when I’m neither awake nor asleep.


JUNE

It’s June. I don’t know what that means to you, but it for me it dislodges something that lives deep in my bone marrow. It brings me flashes of unthinkable doctor visits, sudden plane tickets, a long morning run when I understood exactly what was happening even though I didn’t dare to say it, and the surreal sensation of packing suitcases for a trip that wasn’t a vacation.  A lot of those days turned into poems.

Probably, eventually, if I live long enough, June will just be June.  It will be different. Everything is always different, eventually. You can quote me on that if you want to. You can bet your life savings on it.

After June comes July. July reminds me of long walks, fruit and vegetable markets, chemotherapy appointments, and the ER. August follows, with more of the same. September is a hard month that takes me on a trip through the process of dying. Getting out of your body is as messy as getting into it.  And then there’s October with its interminable silence. Clocks tick 24 hours a day. The sunlight is sharp and cold.


THAT WAS 3 YEARS AGO

You wonder how many more times I’m going to tell you this story? I don’t know. Imagine how many times it tells itself to me. 

It’s a good story.  If today was the end of it, you could say it has a happy ending.  How’s that for optimism?


CELLS

I read once that every 7 years every cell in the human body is replaced by a new cell. Have I written about this before? I might have. I think it’s important.

I’m writing about it now, because I’ve been thinking about my body. Almost half of my body wasn’t even there, three years ago, when Pio and I took off for Milan. These hands are only sort of the hands that packed the suitcases. The feet that walked through pairs of shoes on the streets of Milan trying to make space for all this—those feet are only sort of my actual feet, today. Half the cells in my body—from my ankle bones to the synapses in my brain—never even knew Pio. Half of these eyes never saw him. Isn’t that crazy?

And this: half the cells that make up my brain where the stories are held aren’t even the original ones who recorded the stories. They do the job of remembering the stories they’re told, I guess, but they weren’t even there in my head on the airplane, or at the market trying to remember how to say “cauliflower” in Italian, or in front of the TV together splitting a beer and potato chips (because at that point, why not?), or in the hospital room holding hands when that was all that was left. Imagine. A few years more and not even one cell in my body will have been there.

We remember things experienced in other bodies.


HARD POETRY

I think that explains everything. It explains how we can go on living. Because with every hour and every day, our bodies turn into other bodies that haven’t even experienced our own stories. Our brain cells that remember them were told the stories by previous generations of brain cells. It’s more hard poetry than hard science, but what a perfect place for them to meet. The stories remain, but something about the sound they make is different. Something about the tone. The sound coming from my bones is there, but it’s more of a hum, less of a scream.

You can’t stop it. You can’t make it hurry up. If you just keep eating some food, drinking some water, sleeping at night, and staying out of the jaws of crocodiles, it happens on its own. It’s beautiful. It’s brutal. It doesn’t really matter what you call it.

 

EVENTUALLY

Do I sit around ruminating on this all the time?  I do not.  But it’s June.  Part of me commences a 4-month walk through The Valley of The Shadow of Death.

It’s alright. I fear no evil. 

Everything, eventually, is different.

L’accento L’avrò Per Vita: Poesie in Italiano da CERTA COME IL POMERIGGIO

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Il sabato 9 novembre ho fatto una piccola presentazione del mio nuovo libro di poesia e ho letto 5 poesie primo in inglese, poi in italiano.  Il libro, CERTAIN AS AFTERNOON / CERTA COME IL POMERIGGIO e una raccolta di poesie sull’amore, la vita, e la morte.

Un mio amico ha fatto dei video della presentazione e oggi, qui, condivido con voi le 5 poesie lette in italiano. 

Non ridete. L’accento Americano l’avrò per vita.

 

1 di 5: Una poesia che descrive il mondo di “prima,” e finisce con un avvertimento

2 di 5: Sul momento in cui la malatia è scoperta

3 di 5: Una poesia che parla della morte e il primo momento (di momenti infiniti) di silenzio

4 di 5:  Contemplando cos’è che si deve fare quando hai gia fatto tutto quello che potevi fare

5 di 5: Una poesia riguardo i cenere, promesse, e il mare

Namaste

 

You Can Always Come for the Cookies / Videos from a Poetry Reading

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On Saturday, November 9 at Tamarindo’s one and only bookstore, I held a small launch party for and reading of my new poetry collection, CERTAIN AS AFTERNOON. I think I had realistic expectations regarding how much of a crowd a poetry book about death might draw, so I was pleasantly surprised by how many people showed up. Thirty is the number I heard: old friends, new friends, strangers, other widows.  I sold all the books I have.

I made a lot of cookies and bought some wine for the occasion. Even if you don’t love poetry (not the biggest draw in a surf town), you can always come for the cookies. I’m good with that.

A dear friend of mine videoed my presentation in short segments, which, today I am sharing with you. Following, is the introduction to CERTAIN AS AFTERNOON, and each of the 5 poems in English.

A neighbor who is also a poet made this comment to me after reading CERTAIN AS AFTERNOON:

“You say it’s a book about death, but it isn’t. It’s a book about life. You use shades of black to show us all the other colors.”

 

INTRO 1: HOW THE BOOK CAME TO BE, AND HOW IT CAME TO BE IN TWO LANGUAGES

INTRO 2:  WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF THIS BOOK?

POEM 1 OF 5: A poem that paints a picture of “before” and ends with a warning

POEM 2 OF 5: About discovering sickness

POEM 3 OF 5: A poem about death and the first (of an infinate number) moment of silence

POEM 4 OF 5: On what you must do after you’ve done everything

POEM 5 OF 5: Later, contemplating ashes, the ocean, the idea of going home

Namaste

CERTAIN AS AFTERNOON / CERTA COME IL POMERIGGIO

A Heart the Size of Your Fist

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Excerpt from Marry A Mennonite Boy and Make Pie
Workplay Publishing, 2018
pp. 174-175

 

I knew that letters were going to come but wasn’t prepared for what happened when I found one lying in my campus mail box. I flashed hot, then cold, then nauseous, and I had to go somewhere to read it—somewhere that is not home. No one must look at me.

Across campus on the other side of the railroad tracks that run behind the theatre, there is a tree I sometimes climbed. It’s a scruffy old pine with branches that are naked near the trunk—a hiding place I discovered last spring before I met Tom, when the guy I’d been in love with all year started going out with somebody who wasn’t me.

I rode my bike to my tree with the letter in my pocket and climbed up to the seat where I mourned that other heartbreak.

Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry.

I didn’t want to go home with red eyes and snot on my shirt.

Don’t cry.

The problem wasn’t my housemates. It was Tom I was hiding from. Obviously, at our house you could cry if you wanted and you didn’t owe anybody an explanation. But Tom would expect one. One I didn’t have. When he said he loved me, I said it back. And I meant it. I did.

 

I didn’t cry.

I read the letter, and read the letter, and read the letter. I held it to my face. I pressed it to my arms, to my cheek, to my heart. All I could do was think about breathing. All he asked was for me to come back, but I couldn’t move from that tree.

 

Can you love two people? If you love two people, is one fake and one real? Which one? Or are they both lies?

Can you fracture into a thousand pieces on the inside, and outside no one will know? Can you die and still appear alive? Can you live without understanding anything?

What is happening to me? Why can I not let go? Why does it matter more than air? How will I live my life?

Can you ever be alright again, ever, after you are absolutely broken? How can so much pain fit into a heart the size of your fist?

 

It was like the day in Los Rios that I reached from the shower for my towel and was stung on my pinky finger by the scorpion hiding there. I stared in dumb disbelief at my hand, as a blinding pain surged through my tiny finger and exploded into the entire room. It charged the air around my body like electric and shook the walls of concrete. All the while, my smallest finger looked exactly the same.