In quiet and silence the faithful soul makes progress. Even as one learns to grow still, he draws closer to the Creator and farther from the hurly-burly of the world. Thomas a Kempis
The jungle is never quiet. And yet there is the sense of being swathed in a thick warm blanket that wraps out everything else. So in the rattle, throb and drips there is silence.
It was a long, hard road to get here. Twenty-nine hours to be precise since we first loaded the suitcases into Jeff’s rented van. We learned that when they say roads in Costa Rica are awful, that they were not talking about potholes, bur tather traffic that crept and stopped and crepted and stopped at twenty-five miles an hour for six and a half hours.
But we were amongst friends. The magic Mary Poppins bags of Angie’s that brought out one wonder after another. The enthralled delight of Heather. The gracious patience of momma. The manly man hefting and hauling of Dustin. And the driving, Alan driving right through the heart of San Jose population three million with nothing more than a “Hey mister, could you tell us the way to Limón?” shouted out to taxi driver after taxi driver. My google.map guide “turn left at the Shell station and drive 1.3 kilometers” had revealed itself to be sheer fantasy, as the rest of us tangled and retangled and hunched and wiggled in some tiny person’s idea of a seven-passenger vehicle. At least we were chomping on the most amazing black beans and roasted chicken and cabbage and thick chewy corn tortillas known to mankind.
May my soul grow still in this week of quiet and silence. The silence of checklists and Micorsoft updates. And stillness of now. Even as Heather looks with glee for monkeys through the binoculars.
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