Costa Rica 3

A rhythm has begun to emerge out of the hours and activities here - I am placing myself. Walks with Gix at either end of the day, taking advantage of long, figural shadows, light that allows abstraction. Surfing, at low tide only, slides down the day by an hour or so; the morning wait becomes longer. Drawing, walking the village, chatting with new "friends", finally surfing, siesta, evening. Pilates or yoga and meals of various types fit in there sometimes.

Everything goes well here but poetry. Besides the I Ching, I brought 2 books with me, picked up at the airport. T.S. Eliot The Wasteland and other poems, and The Best American Poetry, 2010. (There is a Keats in the hotel store I might pick up too.) I've never enjoyed reading poetry (!) but now these texts I study for technique - unable to get enough.
Poetry is battering me, but the lesson is to get to the take-off point with persistent work - with exhausted muscles I tip my craft safely over the waves, allowing them to drift us a little off course. The effort seems endless and would deter me, but for faith that I will get there and the easy, joyous ride will be an enormous payoff.

As I write, howler monkeys are filling the 4am darkness with a distant, ghostly wail. An unearthly sound - wind through a drafty old attic; dead spirits lamenting their fate. There has been not a moment of stress, anxiety, sadness, regret, anger since arriving here. This is the element for a gregarious loner. Art exercise study rest. Now, how to bring it home with me? Or, to make a home here...