Hello there. I moved to Costa Rica. It’s great. You can follow my story here: http://storify.com. Here is a poem with which I want to leave you to tide you over until I return, if ever. It is by my dear friend Erin Taylor. Thank you, Erin.
Winter is a time for dreaming.Everything is still, but if I stopmoving I’m afraid I’llstop altogether.So some part of mehas to keep goingalways.My mind won’t leave me alone.No sleepno rest from my dreams and nightmares of what could be.It looks around, scrutinizes,pulls apart every detail.Nothing satisfies.Nothing is as it should be.Nothing feels wonderfulin winter.My mind says to my bodyyou are still and cold,get moving!Go away from this placeit’s holding you back.My mind says to my hands,you are idle and chapped.Make morepoetrymore musicmore production.Make!My mind says to my eyesyou are tired and droopy.Dance more!Read, learn, progress.My mind say to my mouthstop kissing so much!My whole being is wrecked by conflict.And from outside, my earshear more bad news.My eyes see so fewpeople out on the streetsand my hands shake fewothers. They hide in my warmish pocketslike everyone else.My mind, meanwhile, whirlsclose to oblivion.It says this is fine and fine isnot enough. Everything has tochange. Go go gokeep movingnever stop never hibernate winteris not for you you mustmaintain the kineticheat that flows and pulsesand makesyou alive.A small voice askswhy?Don’t the plants die back in winter?Doesn’t the maple sap settle into the roots?Doesn’t the bear hibernate with her cubs?Don’t the ponds freeze?Doesn’t the sun, even the greathot blazing sunhide from us?The small voice saysmy feet hurt from walking.My throat is raw from speaking.My hands are chapped from use.My eyes ache from being awake too long.Perhaps it’s okay to be stillfor a while.To be kissedclose my eyesrest my hands.And many parties nod their agreement.The hands fold.The eyes close.The lips part.But then the mind warms(more softly this time)be careful.You are not a maple tree,reserving sugar until the ice melts.You are not the mama bearprotecting her babies from the cold.You are not the sun, turning awayfrom some of her children for a whileonly to tend to others.You are only you.Who will rouse you in the spring?If you don’t at least dreamat least plant at least hopeall winteryou risk getting stuck.You wouldn’t want that, nowwould you?