Addressing the crisis of Covid-19 in my previous blog post was a way to acknowledge the pandemic that has affected an entire planet. Living overseas in Costa Rica, a country that has done an exceptional job at flattening the curve and protecting residents and expats, has been a unique experience. One that has allowed me to live in safety and in comfort while watching the world’s struggles unfold from across my screen. As we all know, this has uprooted the lives of many and I send my deepest concern and prayers for all of those directly and indirectly affected during these oh so strange times. On another note, I wanted to share my place in time with you all, for the sake of documentation and as a way to further connect our stories in a time of mandated distancing. Thank you so much for reading along.

April 25, 2020.

This morning is like almost every other; ritualistic and informed by the weather. In one of the hottest seasons of the year on the coast, I have to adapt to the rising temps: if it’s sunny by 7am, I meditate inside and then retreat behind the glass doors of my room where the AC keeps me from sweating onto my keyboard. If it’s a cool enough morning, like today, I will throw on my running shoes and jog adjacent to Black Beach, inhaling sea breeze and the fragrance of dawn; drinking in the damp and floral scenery with each step into slippery black sand, waving to neighbor’s, bikers and porch-front locals entertaining their angsty kids who are out of school. Upon coming home, still sandy and sweaty, I ready the chorredor, a traditional Costa Rican method of brewing coffee that requires you to fill a sock-style bag with fresh grounds, then pour steaming water over the top for an instantly strong cup of joe. Settling into the plastic wicker chair on my balcony with my earbuds in, I listen to the Buddhist writer and teacher Jack Kornfield, leak wisdom and spiritual sayings into my sleepy conscience as he reads from his book, After the Ecstasy, the Laundry. While the coffee warms my belly, I glance over my cup and discreetly watch Frangul, the indigenous man who maintains the property and lives in the humble hideout next door, begin his day. He has his own morning rituals, and today that means slicing bamboo trees into evenly-cut posts to line the private property. I notice his blue Adidas socks pulled high up to his knees under black rubber boots, and up top a baseball cap to hide the abrasive rays of sunlight from his eyes. Later, I will walk over and pilfer a few stocks of bamboo for flower vases that would otherwise be burned in the weekly bonfire that ignites in the center of our shared yards.

This current space opened up because of a friend-of-a-friend who had recently finished building the property and was willing to rent it out to us for a killer price. Because as of now there is no telling when the borders will re-open and tourism will commence in this popular beach town. Kimberley, the local Tica, property owner and designer of the home crafted this estate as a modernly-appointed oasis for the out-of-towner. Just a few minutes from the beach, the home was designed with a contemporary lens, a stark contrast in this laid-back town filled with one-story pink and green rustic abodes housing generations of families. Clad with walk-in-closets, large showers, a sophisticated color palette and sliding glass doors in every room that glance out to the ripening bird of paradise flowers and tropical hibiscus bushes beyond. Above the home are steep trees with leafy crowns stretching from one edge of the sky, while around the home bamboo and red palms line the grassy floor. Inside the space, white-tiled floors stretch across expansive interiors adorned with flowing curtains the color of chipped sea shell and smooth metal banisters line the sharp edges of the linear house. We use the large kitchen often, with enough counter-space to hold an abundance of fruits and veggies and where Carla, my roommate, will prepare her home-made tortillas, platanos, stove-top rice and fresh-squeezed orange juice. A window-framed living room is the perfect reading nook and the sunlit study area is where Carla hosts her digital ESL classes for the local girl’s school. She keeps the tables adorned with fresh-picked flowers arranged with precision all while honoring the wild greenery that abounds here.

In this newly-built house with the barest of furnishings, I am happily living with less material things, which has given me a more dedicated focus to my surroundings; busying myself less with objects and more with the natural world outside. Today, I notice that yellow-chested Great Kiskadee is back in the ficus tree that stretches high above our two-story home. It has been building a nest for the past few days in the crook of the tall and leafless tree; moving fast across my eye-line, but with a pitchy chirp and flashy coloring they are easy to spot. Other birds, like the black Montezuma Oropendola with their orange-tipped beak and neon tail feathers, shake out a radio static noise followed by a melodic mating call. I listen to them while on the brink of laughter as they unfurl their wild sounds; unaware of their warbling song. | | Listen to my recording of the birds below to hear for yourself. | |

After a mindful observation of the lively creatures of the sky, I tune into a guided meditation led by neuroscientist and philosopher, Sam Harris. Allowing the broadness of what I see, hear, and smell from my jungle perch deepen this Vipassanā-style meditation before tackling the day. It is a ritual of acknowledgment, with eyes open or closed, this practice is not a denouncement of the world, but absolute acceptance of what comes my way. For those of you already annoyed with my description of this blissful setting, I will be the first to admit that meditation comes a helluva lot easier here in paradise and this is not a bad place to be ‘stuck.’. As my good friend Richard once commented to me during a phone chat while I sat along the roaring coastline: “Will you turn down that damn ocean, it’s so annoying!” When most others are hiding out indoors, whether a stuffy apartment with roommates or their anxious partner or set up in a comfortable home, completely alone, I am reminded of the gratitude in these moments with nature. And. yes, it’s easier to to be still here, it is easier to be content. So I am charging up!

Yoga has been a constant as of late. Cast shadows play on the white-washed interiors while I find my edges during new movements and the steep ceilings allow my wingspan to soar in fluid warriors. I will often join an Instagram Live with one of my favorite teachers from LA, where he leaves us in a pool of sweat as he strums his acoustic guitar during Savasana. After these early mornings of self-care, the work begins. I asked my landlord Kimberley if she had a desk lying around and within a few days, her workers had hauled an old wooden desk, flaking on its fringes, up to my bedroom; the last missing piece to this perfect homestead. A place for me to build my editorial portfolio, developing online stories for the publications I am a contributing writer at, and in between, sifting through a years worth of travel documents and images, writing for myself, writing emails to digital pen pals, and writing to understand the heartbeat of the world as it sits today. I am exceptionally grateful for a steady career, despite the fragility of working freelance, I am still employed to create remotely during this time when so many are out of work. Recently, I have had the privilege of working with my sister, Allie, whose new title as Creative Director at Boulder Lifestyle has given her the ability to recruit creators in her network that stems far (stay tuned for new articles publishing in the magazine’s May and June issues). Between taking on these new assignments and continuing to work with Iconic Life, I am busy behind the screen.

“Cast shadows play on the white-washed interiors while I find my edges during new movements and the steep ceilings allow my wingspan to soar in fluid warriors.”

In between work and creative play, I bike the dirt road to the local mercado where I fill up on plantains, avocados, fresh juices and the occasional not-so-vegan ice cream that seems to be the only cure during a sweltering day. The ocean, too, she cools the body when it becomes unbearable. I will occasionally sneak into the turquoise break when no one is looking. I don’t go anywhere else though, besides a few social hangs every week or so, my whole world is here—and online. And you know what? I am not even anxious to run out for a change of scenery, nor am I wishing I could flee the inner journey that is taking place here. For this life of minimalism has been a goal of mine for quite some time. Ever since living in Malibu, I have been practicing pairing my belongings down and making more space to be able to pick and run at a moments notice. My favorite memory after 4 years of occupying that home by the sea was the week before I moved, after I had given everything away and all I had was a bed in the loft, one small fridge, and 50 tea light candles lining the curved walls of the guesthouse. For the five open days before driving east, I bathed in those flickering lights and wrote long drafts in naked pages and stretched wide on my empty patio each morning knowing this is what I wanted more of: less stuff, more being. This supportive environment here, in Costa Rica, bridges that memory and is where my designated time inside means stillness, validated.

“Our designated time inside means stillness, validated”

When the sun sinks past the jungle, I make a piña colada with coconut cream and cheap rum, and perch myself on the edge of the still hot-to-touch patio while the neighbor’s puppy licks my naked toes as I count the butterflies that collect like halos around the bougainvillea. The day slips quickly into the cool midnight, and after a dinner of rice and bean tacos, topped with mango picante, and a side of steamed pesto broccoli, I make my way upstairs to read the powerful and poetic journey of Ocean Vuongs’ book, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. Maybe I will hop on a video call with missed faces, cheers’ing girlfriends over Skype, or binge a Netflix show (Ozark, anyone?) before blowing out the candles. In bed, the quietness falls in rhythmic sounds around me. The maraca-shake of the cicadas and distant bark of dogs can all be heard as nature breathes against the edges of Casa Blanca as sleep calls me in towards her.

While the world slows and mother earth heals, I honor my place in time. Time to be still. As my Aunt Jode (and editor) says: “to be a writer, Liv, you need to stay put.” Quarantine has shown me what staying put looks like. I have been able to artfully live like a minimalist, putting thought onto the page, movement on the mat and silence into my long sits. Having a beautiful home space is a luxury, but ultimately it is what is created behind closed doors that matters the most. Each day, I ask myself:

What did you create when the world stopped consuming?
What did you practice when the world stopped polluting?
What did you discover about yourself during this crisis?
…And what will you do from here?