In a wash of cooking, cleaning and tornado chasing (also referred to by some as “child rearing”) it is easy to forget that there’s a world out there. My son and I are trying to remedy this with a new routine. Since the last couple of weeks have consistently provided sunny mornings and afternoon/evening thunderstorms, we’ve taken to walking the mountain at dawn, listening to the jungle awakenings, seeing how fast a pair of toddler size sevens can tear through star grass, and partaking in the best sport ever: rock throwing.
This morning, however, the routine took a respectful backseat to family unity. Our older son, who’s been with his grandmother in Guanacaste, needs to be collected. As such, my wife and youngest set out on the 4:30 am bus, for a day of adventure and travel oriented play. If all goes well, we shall be whole again by sundown.
Monteverde is amazing at any time of day, but predawn is something altogether otherworldly. For the first time in months, as I made my way past the drunken dregs of Saturday night’s bar scene, I decided to take some time for myself on “the rock” which overlooks the Pacific slope and the gulf of Nicoya. The voices of hundreds of birds rose with the light - slowly at first, then saturating the air like mist, illuminating the sound horizon with as many colors as the low cloud cover could refract from the mounting sun. The slow waltz of transpiration met and mingled with the migrating lowland vapors creating a billowing lift that swept breath and awe in its wake, pulling all senses to attention, even as the complete lack of human activity surprised the viewer with a static free glimpse of the world without us. As much as I await my family’s return with all the eagerness of a child at the gates of wonderland, these few precious and all too uncommon hours of alone, of quiet, of oneness, provide the opportunity to listen, learn and remember. Inhale, exhale, dream.
Glorious
Posted by: Ryan West | July 06, 2010 at 11:36 AM