A LITTLE MOUNTAIN TOWN
On the move, again. I am here in the mountains. It’s my favorite little mountain town at the foot of the tallest mountain in Costa Rica. I only dreamed about it a year ago—pining for the quiet, peaceful and unplanned life. I only imagined it. I only dreamed it. I only wanted it. I only talked about it. I didn’t make a real plan to actually bring this to life. It was a last minute thing. I saw a little mountain house. I already had a house in the city. It was secured. But, the mountain house in my favorite mountain town appeared on social media. I wondered. I inquired. I inquired further. In two weeks, I secured it.
I packed everything I owned into a little rented hatchback. I drove four hours through some of the most stunning scenery in the country. I picked up a few provisions, and I drove up the mountain. My home for the next four months. I don’t know why I am here. I know I am drawn to the magic of the mountains, the rushing river’s constant flow, the birds above. But I don’t know why I am here. I know I am drawn to the quiet, the local people, the simplicity. But, I don’t know why I am here.
On the four hour drive here, I felt the heaviness of emotions that I couldn’t quite name. Much of it was rooted in anxiety, worry—worry about my family in the states. Underneath the worry was fear. Fear that things would fall apart. This might be the first time I stepped out of the pattern. The pattern of saving. The pattern of minding the business of others instead of my own. This time, I am following the whisper of my soul. I came to the mountains in my favourite little mountain town. I am working on my second book. That’s my excuse for hiding in the mountains. It’s an edited collection of essays by women in middle-age. A couple of years ago, nearing my fiftieth birthday, I envisioned a book about turning fifty and all the things I have learned and the ways I have changed. Then, I went a step further and imagined stories from other women in middle-age, as well. A few months later, I put out a call. Now, I am a year and half into this project tying the stories together, making connections, finding threads—echoes of truth, resonance of wisdom. I am in my favorite little mountain town, writing a book. And, I don’t know why I am here.
Is this what middle-age looks like? Finding yourself in places you’ve only imagined, and you don’t know why…
It only took two weeks to figure out why I am here alone in my favorite little mountain town. In the solitude and quiet that I wanted, I found that I also want connection. After a year away from the life I had been living, the culture I had been immersed in, the patterns I had been repeating, and a few weeks of total solitude, I heard the voice. I felt the movement in my body. I sensed in my spirit that I want connection. Not just more people. This mountain town has a population of maybe 300 and the tourist when they come up to hike the mountain. The lack of actual people and business certainly takes some getting used to; but, what I am wanting is deep connection, real connection, romantic connection. Even romantic feels too small for what my soul desires. I want my life to be intertwined with another’s. One where we both have full lives with interests and goals, and yet there is room for a connection where we meet in the corners, the folds, the creases of each of our paths regularly. We intentionally take a break from our journeys to share space, time, and magic with one another. We feel the heartbeat of the other when we are separate. When we are together, our existence is compounded by the energy brought by both bodies, both spirits, both journeys.
For many years, I ran from connection or hid. Maybe, I just shied away from it. Connection scared me. The thought of it made me feel out of control; more accurately, it brought up feelings of powerlessness. The risk of connection costs me too much. The cost could be disconnection. Disconnection feels like loss. It feels like death. It feels like falling apart. When we allow ourselves to connect with others, deeply, we open a part of us that is soft and penetrable. It’s a beautiful thing if the connection stays in place. But what happens if it doesn’t—if it doesn’t stay? We are left open and alone. We are wounded and bleeding. Who stops the bleeding? Who seals the wound? Who saves us from the pain? I have memories of being wounded, living with pain; and there was no one there to save me. The loneliest feeling in the world is being in pain, being wounded with no one there.
The work until now has been to return to myself. Return to wholeness. Return to the truth that I have everything I need to attend to my own wounds. I can care for me. I have been caring for me my entire life. Of course, I can. But, I want someone else to stay and care for me with me. I also want to care for them. That feels important. That feels akin to love. I want to be someone’s person. And I want someone to be my person. The person who wakes up next to you and walks into the kitchen as you are brewing a fresh cup of coffee. The person who takes that first sip and holds the warm mug with both hands and stares at you and smile. The person who hears the first few drops of rain on the tin roof and makes the decision to stay in and watch a movie instead of a day of hiking. The person who pops the popcorn and pours the wine in the middle of the afternoon in hopes that you both doze off on the movie and then slide into bed in each other’s arms to the tune of pitter pat. The person who takes a walk with you on the river down a path off the main road replete with the sounds of birds singing the morning song and water rushing down the mountain in the river bed. The person who sits with you in candlelight when the storm knocks out the power on the mountain. You talk all night about childhood experiences and your hopes for the future in a dimly lit living room with the sound of rain in the background. The person who you call when the rare bird is perched on a fence in your yard and stares quietly into the morning sun. You’re in awe of the sight, and so is your person. It becomes a shared memory and a story you tell to strangers you meet in random restaurants together. That person who walks with you to the neighbouring town to interact with the local community at a local event with homemade tamales and chicharonnes. Your person makes the silence in the little mountain town bearable.
I have had the incredible pleasure of experiencing all of these things in my favorite little mountain town. The beauty of it all. The magnificence. The quiet. I will return. I’ve made connections here. I left my mark on it, and it left its mark on me. On this final morning in la Casa de Ana, I am filled with gratitude. Ana is one of the many beautiful souls I have met over the last eleven years on my visits to Costa Rica—sometimes long, sometimes short. I am learning to value friendships as much as I long for romantic connection. Ana has become one of my friends. I will return to reconnect with Ana; and, I will also return with my person.