This writing comes from our composition notebook required to complete assignments while traveling in Costa Rica. Originally written on June 19th, 2015.
As a writer, I experience things in story format, meaning I feel things with words, metaphors, descriptions, and so on. Sensations for me are very emotionally connected and are experienced in terms of how they could best be written for permanent documentation. It sounds peculiar, but I see things and I ponder how they could be written about. I've done this since a very young age.
I remember once around the age of 10 I was at the ranch staring very intently at the screen door (how interesting, right?) and "When the Stars Go Blue" by Tim McGraw was lulling softly in the background. I remember my perch in the kitchen chair, tracing my fingers around in the cold sweat on my jar of sweet tea, staring at that door, wondering how I would later depict this exact moment in my journal.
Returning back to the present moment, writing this reflection on my time at Buena Vista, I am struggling. I am struggling to figure out the words that would best fit everything that I have experienced here... All the tasks I have undertaken, the adventures that have exploded intense exhilaration through out me, the laughs that have hugged my heart so tightly. But there really are no words. There is no real combination of sentences that can do this experience justice, at least none thorough enough that they will cause me to click my pen shut and put it down feeling satisfied.
You see, now, I am in the cabin staring very intently at the screen through the slats in the window (how interesting, right), and "Canyon Moon" by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness is lulling softly in the background. I am perched atop my bed and my fingers are curled around the warmth of a freshly made cup of Costa Rican coffee. And I am wondering how I will depict this exact moment in this journal, but not only this one; I am wondering how I will depict all the other small but significant moments that have thus far weaved the thick web of memories of this trip. And I don't know if I can do it, because it hurts. It hurts with the fond sort of ache that holds hands with the longing to re-live moments after they occur.
I think of Mosco's exuberance as he spreads his arms wide and sincerely greets, "FRIENDS!" Of the complex plethora of information he taught us, about poop, and the environment, and his story. His energy each day rubbed off and soaked into my skin, radiating into my mood and piercing me with a happiness so grand that it felt like my insides were swelling up. So I think of Buena Vista, and I think of Mosco.
I think of the dance parties in Cabin 51, sliding around on the floor to upbeat music echoing around from my phone's speakers within a tiny coffee cup. "I'm gonna play some music in a cup!" I'd exclaim joyously each time we returned to our shelter, because that was the only thing that made it louder.
I think of Buena Vista, and I think of the cold water pouring onto me in the shower, cleansing me of a day of hard work and strain. I think of flying through the rain forest. Literally flying, because how else could you better describe the euphoria of gliding on a zip line upside down, arms dangling down into the thick leaves?
I think of Buena Vista, and I think of the staff meticulously teaching me the steps to Meringue and their pride as I spun so deftly around to the rhythm. I think of the breath that caught in my chest as I looked out over the most green and expansive land I have ever seen. The swirling pastels of the sunset glowed above it, coloring the mountains with its warm rays.
I think of Chow confessing to me she told a friend about me, how cool I am and how much she admires me, and I think of my resulting humility and awe of relationships. Then I think of my relationship with each and every person in this group, and how close I have grown with each individual. I'm shaking my head in disbelief now, realizing that each of them has taken a little piece of my heart for themselves. I think of the intensity of playing cards, and the competitiveness that ignited in me as each game progressed. I think of the excitement that that tore open my chest once our team completed the biodigester and we all clapped, impressed that we finally made it to this moment after so much planning and learning. I think of being rocked to sleep each day by the embrace of a hammock.
I think of Buena Vista, and I think of the earthy smells, the wild sounds, the natural textures, and the phenomenal views that all compose each strand of the thick web of memories of this trip. I think of Buena Vista... and I think Pura Vida.
As a writer, I experience things in story format, meaning I feel things with words, metaphors, descriptions, and so on. Sensations for me are very emotionally connected and are experienced in terms of how they could best be written for permanent documentation. It sounds peculiar, but I see things and I ponder how they could be written about. I've done this since a very young age.
I remember once around the age of 10 I was at the ranch staring very intently at the screen door (how interesting, right?) and "When the Stars Go Blue" by Tim McGraw was lulling softly in the background. I remember my perch in the kitchen chair, tracing my fingers around in the cold sweat on my jar of sweet tea, staring at that door, wondering how I would later depict this exact moment in my journal.
Returning back to the present moment, writing this reflection on my time at Buena Vista, I am struggling. I am struggling to figure out the words that would best fit everything that I have experienced here... All the tasks I have undertaken, the adventures that have exploded intense exhilaration through out me, the laughs that have hugged my heart so tightly. But there really are no words. There is no real combination of sentences that can do this experience justice, at least none thorough enough that they will cause me to click my pen shut and put it down feeling satisfied.
You see, now, I am in the cabin staring very intently at the screen through the slats in the window (how interesting, right), and "Canyon Moon" by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness is lulling softly in the background. I am perched atop my bed and my fingers are curled around the warmth of a freshly made cup of Costa Rican coffee. And I am wondering how I will depict this exact moment in this journal, but not only this one; I am wondering how I will depict all the other small but significant moments that have thus far weaved the thick web of memories of this trip. And I don't know if I can do it, because it hurts. It hurts with the fond sort of ache that holds hands with the longing to re-live moments after they occur.
I think of Mosco's exuberance as he spreads his arms wide and sincerely greets, "FRIENDS!" Of the complex plethora of information he taught us, about poop, and the environment, and his story. His energy each day rubbed off and soaked into my skin, radiating into my mood and piercing me with a happiness so grand that it felt like my insides were swelling up. So I think of Buena Vista, and I think of Mosco.
I think of the dance parties in Cabin 51, sliding around on the floor to upbeat music echoing around from my phone's speakers within a tiny coffee cup. "I'm gonna play some music in a cup!" I'd exclaim joyously each time we returned to our shelter, because that was the only thing that made it louder.
I think of Buena Vista, and I think of the cold water pouring onto me in the shower, cleansing me of a day of hard work and strain. I think of flying through the rain forest. Literally flying, because how else could you better describe the euphoria of gliding on a zip line upside down, arms dangling down into the thick leaves?
I think of Buena Vista, and I think of the staff meticulously teaching me the steps to Meringue and their pride as I spun so deftly around to the rhythm. I think of the breath that caught in my chest as I looked out over the most green and expansive land I have ever seen. The swirling pastels of the sunset glowed above it, coloring the mountains with its warm rays.
I think of Chow confessing to me she told a friend about me, how cool I am and how much she admires me, and I think of my resulting humility and awe of relationships. Then I think of my relationship with each and every person in this group, and how close I have grown with each individual. I'm shaking my head in disbelief now, realizing that each of them has taken a little piece of my heart for themselves. I think of the intensity of playing cards, and the competitiveness that ignited in me as each game progressed. I think of the excitement that that tore open my chest once our team completed the biodigester and we all clapped, impressed that we finally made it to this moment after so much planning and learning. I think of being rocked to sleep each day by the embrace of a hammock.
I think of Buena Vista, and I think of the earthy smells, the wild sounds, the natural textures, and the phenomenal views that all compose each strand of the thick web of memories of this trip. I think of Buena Vista... and I think Pura Vida.