I am watching the 24-hour news feed unfold across my screen, scrolling through stories of the epidemic told from Paris, India and Brooklyn, and consuming video content of the global virus in real-time.

I can almost smell the dry, chalky perfume of the nurses rubber gloves. I can almost taste the humid breath behind the soft and sterile cling of an N95 mask. I can almost hear the hum of a hospital room full of ventilator’s and the splintered beeping when something goes amiss. I can almost feel the weight of the world on the slumped shoulders of a front-line medical worker who has to fill another bed and empty the next. I can almost imagine.

Almost.

But, I don’t really know. I am relying on my five senses to associate the visuals I see that document the trauma during this 2020 pandemic. This imagining is a way to empathize, but it doesn’t do much for the problem. To be abroad at this time, in a town that has not been hit by the virus removes me one degree further from the struggle. So, I watch. I watch as my own country, the wealthiest country in the world, reveals its systemic flaws (and questionable morals) come flooding to the surface: Inadequate PPE, ventilator’s and essential medical equipment, limited space to address the sick and transport the deceased, how prison inmates and the homeless, already vulnerable populations, are at high-risk for contracting Covid and the lack of support for employees deemed “essential” remain on the front lines of this sweeping virus.

I left Colorado right before the economic shut-down, just a few short weeks before the impact of the virus would take over New York and Los Angeles, my home state buoyed in the middle of the country’s chaos, in the heart of the west. I am hearing about how Boulder has changed overnight. The city once flooded with students, bustling storefronts and daily traffic, is now a vacant town. Almost a nod to its humble beginnings, before Tesla’s outnumbered the dusty tumbleweeds. Most businesses have been left with no other choice than to shutter their doors while the independent owners and their employees scramble to respond to this halt of operations. No one is left unaffected. Right now, the entire planet is connected over this crisis.

From where I stand, I hold my own health and well-being in one hand and gently carry empathy for the loss of theirs, in the other.

I am currently based. 3,000 miles south on the lower tip of Costa Rica’s Caribbean coast, far from familiarity, leaving friends and family to ask me: “When will you return?” Right now, that answer is TBD. The plan was to live overseas for the remainder of 2020, making my way to Argentina towards the southernmost part of the continent come Christmas. But travel is suspended and borders are closed. So, here I will reside, in Puerto Viejo, watching the town’s own struggles unfold. Financial concerns as nearly every single business has either chosen to close their doors or been mandated to by the government. No cafes, bars or restaurants. Nada. Pharmacies and grocery stores only. I can almost sense the fear of the disease making its way into our small town of pebbled roads and swaying palms, knowing that the medical infrastructure would not support a surge in Covid cases. I can almost understand the challenge for local families to keep food on the table come dinner time, and I can almost feel the parental concerns for their children’s education as school’s remain closed for an indefinite time.

Almost.

The virus hasn’t actually made it here due to diligence from the country and its people to keep travelers and city-dwellers out, prohibiting the sales of alcohol and all beach access closed to the public. The financial impacts are grim though. I empathize with my neighbor’s whose dependance on tourism means virtually no money coming in. Property owners and hoteliers have vacant beach-side rooms on their prime pieces of real estate while boarded-up bars and clubs showcase a surf town—turned ghost town. One young mom told me, despite the money troubles, she is thankful they live in a place with an abundance of food as fruit falls heavy from the trees above and there is plenty of fish in the sea. An anchoring to sustenance here is what makes this location so ripe with beauty—informing the phrase Pura Vida, which means more to me now than ever. A pure life = a simpler life.

“Pura Vida means more to me now than ever.”

Today marks one month since departing the jungle retreat of Samasati, and settling into this home by the sea, Casa Blanca en Playa Negra. I have had the privilege of living in a safe and beautiful space during these most uncertain times, meaning I can almost understand the disruption to lifestyle and the health concerns so many have faced these past 30 days. But not quite. Because honestly, Covid has not dismantled my life, not in the least. My quarantine, cuarentena, has been a diametric opposite to that of most. While the world weeps, responds and ultimately evolves from the crises, I have been gifted with a safe and secure oasis to wait this out, a place I can be held by the profound beauty of the rainforest out my doorstep. This month, I have realized that I must turn towards the good-fortune sent my way, the support I have been given, and the tools that privilege and hard work brings. With these, I am able to grow my career, my spirituality and my relationships. And even in a time of crisis, even when it doesn’t seem fair, I must commit to these ideals. No matter how much I imagine the misfortune of others and hold their struggles in the open palms of my meditating hands, casting prayers near and far, I can’t fix the pain or minimize their fear.

I know that all I can do is remain present, stay honest and write from exactly where I am.