My IV Drip


I had surgery once where I thought the panic attack would kill me before the surgery did. I clung to the nurse’s arm and squeaked out, “I need a Valium”. Now, let me say that I don’t take valium, nor have I ever. But I saw all the shows on TV for decades where that little pill seemed to be all too friendly with women to help them sleep, manage stress or simply just check out from being a Stepford Wife. My nurse said, “Oh, honey, we’ve got something far better than that for you,” as she hooked me to an IV drip and I was out in LA LA land in four seconds.

Costa Rica is my IV drip.

I arrived here in a hurry.   I arrived here living a hurried, fast paced type A life. I had no clue how to do it otherwise. And pretty much upon landing, setting my toes deep in the hot sand and sipping agua de pipa, I unplugged from a power source that in almost every way, I had become addicted to.

Suddenly, I was drifting off to a deep sleep at 8pm once the blackest curtain of dark was drawn over the jungle, precisely at 6pm. For a girl who had never thought to see 4am, I was up with the first spark of pink light. My gate slowed, my needs of the day thinned out like plucking weeds from an overgrown garden, to reveal the fact that I could get it all done today, or maybe get it done manana. It did not matter.

Now, five months later, I am not only type B, but I am not concerned with moving to any particular destination in my day. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I work, I see a dozen clients a week on Skype, edit a half-dozen books, write my own stories and yet there is no inner coil of tension from the decades of living in urban life and off a grid of energy that never shuts down. I can be in the thick of writing a scene and not lose my place when I pause to watch the scarlet Macaws fly over. I just take the bliss of that moment and pump it all into the next sentence I write.

Here there is no need for Valium, or vodka tonics, or having to read Eckhart Tolle for the hundredth time on how to be here now. I am here now. Nature requires it and her grid of energy is so powerful that unless you let her reboot you, you will simply go back to where you traveled from.

Nature is my drug of choice. Nature never leaves me with a hangover in life. She simply returns me to the rhythm that is innately humane.

Remembering Paradise

steve jobs on the heart

Full Definition of PARADISE

a :  eden 2

b :  an intermediate place or state where the souls of the righteous await resurrection and the final judgment
c :  heaven
2:  a place or state of bliss, felicity, or delight
par·a·dis·ial \ˌper-ə-ˈdi-sē-əl, -zē-, ˌpa-rə-\ also par·a·dis·i·cal \-si-kəl, -zi-\adjective


Well, Elysium Fields, Avalon, the Garden of Eden are not what comes to mind here in Costa Rica. And since I am not a big believer in Heaven anyway this Webster’s definition seems totally archaic. So how would I talk about Paradise?

Simply put, paradise is a place that is as close to the natural order of the earth as any human can get. And here in Costa Rica the opportunity to remember the natural order of things, the rhythm of the earth and allow yourself to entrain you heart to the heart of the planet, is abundant and ever-present.

But my mind says,

”Maya you have to go back to the states for about a zillion reasons!”

My answer? “Mañana, or maybe not even Mañana.”

Paradise is heart centered, heart driven and insists on using the communication of the heart to do just about everything. From a chop wood carry water approach to life here, squeezing the papayas to see how they “feel, or closing your eyes countless times a day to smell something, taste something, listen to the call of a hawk or feel the change in the air telling you a storm is coming and to unplug your computer, paradise is all sensory. Which translates to, paradise is all about the body and the heart. The mind is forced to take a back seat.

And for me, this melding into an earth based daily life is totally the opposite to my years of living in a metropolis, to sitting in traffic and getting heart palpitations and wondering why living next to a cell phone tower was contributing to my insomnia.

Remembering being human and what being human is about, is what living in paradise offers. It is nothing about learning to walk on the earth as a heart centered human being, it is simply about becoming unconditioned, stripped of the habits and beliefs about life that insulate us from our own true humanity. Paradise is simply the elixir that jogs the mind out of its psychosis and jumpstarts the heart.

And if I take an honest look at what is happening around the globe it is not hard to see that our civilized world has lost heart. Has forgotten about humanity. It is changing little by little. But it all starts with that incredibly brave step to stopping what is simply inhumane in each of our lives and asking the question, “who am I really?”

I stumbled on paradise. I had neither intention, nor goal in mind by coming here to Costa Rica, yet once here, it was clear that this is home. Not because of the place, but because of my place I am in myself. They say home is where the heart is. I would say home is where the heart is alive and well and strong. We all need to remember who we are. The rest of the swirling life we have created is simply the illusion that makes us forget who we are.

porch in costa rica

Becoming Uncivilized

animals of costa rica

I grew up in the shiny years of American life. Cut my teeth on James Dean movies, the Mouseketeers and a boat load of pie in the sky thinking. I was there when the indoor shopping mall was a concept that would define Americans. I was there when I Love Lucy started being broadcast in color and the fable of Cinderella started dictating the entire value system for girls growing into women. Consumerism, telecommunications, fast food, stress and Starbucks became a definition for living the American dream.

And, admittedly, I went after the picket fence, higher education, financial success and bought the whole nine yards of civilized American life, hook line and sinker. But what I did not know when I became one of the sheep, following the herd, was this: There are profound tradeoffs for having a platinum Visa. Following the norm, the subliminal and not so subtle dictates of a society means that you do not follow other things, namely; intuition, spiritual values, living in the rhythm of nature and following the heart. The two value systems are like oil and water.

But I hear you say: “That’s not true at all! You can rack up credit card debt, climb the ladder of success, shop till you drop and watch reality TV till your eyeballs fall out but you still can be living a passionate, joyful, stress-free and creative spiritual life”. Not.

And although I opted out of the normal American life decades ago, downsized, chose art over money, valued my spiritual beliefs over collective thinking, I still had no idea what tradeoffs my soul was really making to live inside of a culture that is so mesmerizing.   I had no idea what an illusion it all is.

When I came to Costa Rica I arrived as an observer. An observer of a culture not my own. An observer of nature and how subservient to the natural environment we all are. But what I did not know is how the constant presence of nature and beauty can change how you vibrate, think, feel and act. In the USA I was cut off from my natural rhythm, I was a late to sleep and late to rise person, jolting myself into a day with coffee. I was bombarded 24/7 by cell phone towers, electromagnetic overload, unnatural light, traffic, stress and the power coursing through city life left me sleepless all too often. Take all that out of my equation here in a third world country and what’s left is…space. Energetic space. Room for the heart to breath.

So the observer in me watched people living an unhurried life, eat large meals in the morning, take naps in the afternoon. Indigenous people here are never, ever in a hurry and where I am on the Pacific coast there are no traffic lights and simply no traffic. You have to go to bed with sundown and get up at sunrise. Nature gives you no choice. The animals are all living their true nature. Just watch the iguana, the parrot, the cicadas, monkey or jaguar to know that they are true to what makes them unique. Simplicity is Costa Rica. A downsized, small footprint is all there is room for in the jungle and if you listen, watch, feel and smell the reality all around there is no choice but to adapt, flow and merge with the pace and the values inherent in the natural environment.

So people ask why I am still here in Costa Rica, why I stay, why there is nothing about the civilized world I miss (except ice cream). My answer is that living a more uncivilized life has returned me to myself.


No Hair, No Clothes, No Shopping?

farmers market

What’s a girl to do in Costa Rica?

Ok, admittedly I cannot tell you a thing about much of any of this but to say, forget hair, forget clothes and forget shopping. Costa Rica brings you back to the basics of just about everything. Sure you can get an $8 haircut but don’t expect to want to leave the house anytime soon. Hair color? Lemon juice and the brilliant sun. You can find clothes but sarongs suffice and as for what Americans call shopping, the local Feria (outdoor market) is the only place to find organic food, local jewelry, an imported bra or two, (no kidding) and biodegradable detergent. When in Costa Rica it is all about local.

dominical market

And unless you live on a huge pension or have a trust fund forget about anything imported like, anything in a box, wine, liquor or shampoo. Quinoa for the healthy is $12 a box, cheaper American shampoo is $25 and a bottle of imported Milagro Tequila can run you upwards of $80. So I get to put my money into the local economy and eat, dress and look like someone who cares about the land, the people and the economy here. I have learned about odd vegetables I have no idea what the names are, I get to help support a family who picks lychee nuts from nearby trees and sells them outside of the bank and I have the opportunity to simplify my life, my diet, my expectations and my life in general. As a result I am simply happier.


Living in a third world country is good for the soul if you leave American standards where they belong.

Surf beach

Hopeless in Seattle: A Gypsy Confession



I woke up today, a beautiful sparkling day in Costa Rica, mad as a hatter. Then I just found myself crying into my pillow. My heart hurt and I had to wash my face, click on my computer and tell you why.  You read posts about the encounters I have on the road being my own sort of Gypsy.  But sometimes I hit a wall.  Sometimes something gets under my skin and I cannot shake it so I do what is my one great passion.  Write.  And as you know I am a writer, a coach, a ghostwriter and a teacher.  I can take my passion to the four corners of the world if I would like and do my work from anywhere that has a wi-fi cafe.  And I have.  But today the writer in me has a burr under her saddle.

When I started another site I have called nearly a year ago I had three inspirations: To encourage people to tell their stories, to help writers get published and to share what I know about writing, navigating the publishing world and most of all, to honor story as power in the world.  The Gypsy Life blog is a place to tell stories, to share how stories, places and people have changed me entirely.

Most of my clients are first world citizens who enjoy many of the luxuries that most of the planet do not have the opportunity to experience: Clean and free water, electricity, watching a show before bed while eating Ben and Jerry’s, a bed, buying food on every corner, one or two Starbucks coffees in a day and money. I think it’s safe to say that my clients are mostly Caucasian, privileged in my sense of the word and writing is a luxury, sometimes a hobby and most of the time a story that is true in their lives and the telling of it will help others and heal the writer at the same time. All but one storyteller. This is who I want to speak about in this post.

Over the past two years I have been getting to know a young man in his twenties from Zimbabwe. He has a story to tell, passion for his people and his family, a large family that his mother is raising, and he has no vehicle to tell his story other than Facebook.   And in my mind the best writers are those who cannot help themselves and have to write, are roused in the night and must jot down ideas or begin a new chapter, dig into a new flash of insight or who have lived through the unthinkable and still possess a light in them and their story of triumph is the medicine the world needs. A writer who does not write as a hobby or a tangential part of life, but sees writing as their life, like breathing, is a very different animal. Emmanuel is one of those writers and storytellers. And he has gotten under my skin.

I grew up in a black and white world of the 50’s. Yes there were pink poodle skirts, bobby socks, diners, 38 records and then came the Beatles, the Vietnam War and chaos and cover-ups. But there was also growing up in the south where an African-American person was a “nigger”, when Brazil nuts were call “nigger toes” in my family, where I grew up with maids and drivers and black gardeners who pruned our hedges and clipped the grass around a four-foot metal lawn ornament of a black man holding a lantern and wearing a butlers outfit. This was my norm as a child. Then it all changed. I saw more sides of the black and white issue, as I became a teen.

My knees buckled as race riots were out of control in Watts. As front-page news was Selma and countless other towns and cities brutally murdering black citizens. I sat with my parents with our aluminum TV trays and Swanson TV dinners in front of a black and white television as JFK was gunned down and began hysterically crying as my parents sipped a vodka tonic and praised the conservatives and bashed the liberals. I became despondent when our government murdered Martin Luther King, and then the same people assassinated Bobby Kennedy. By 17 I was hopeless.


The black and white issue began to eat away at my soul. Why? Because it was a human story for me. It was about people intentionally killing hope. From those days forward I was all about keeping hope alive. My hope, the hope of people in poverty, people who had so much less than me, people who had no future in our country back then because of the color of their skin. As for me I was lily-white, blonde, blue-eyed and wanting for not one thing in life.

Fast forward. I moved from hand writing letters to my congressman on stationary with my embossed initials at the top and mailing it to them by snail mail for eight cents to emailing those letters decades later. The KKK had gone underground and reappeared dressed differently. They were now corporate leaders, governing officials and not very interested in my emails. The Internet opened doors for all of us and there was a new power of the word birthing itself every day in cyberspace. Facebook shattered barriers and became a tool I would come to use religiously. Not because I wanted to simply dazzle the world with photos of my children or inspiring quotes, but because it connected me to stories around the world. I then started a Facebook page called Equilux, all about the dark and the light, all about the not so black and white issues we face. Then I met Emmanuel through Facebook and was instantly transported back to the days of my life at thirteen when life was becoming hopeless.

Emmanuel in his twenties, lives in a country in Africa that is a regime dedicated to keeping people from telling their stories, keeping people in poverty and powerless. Zimbabwe is not necessarily a black and white story though; it is a black and black story that is perpetuated by white values. Emmanuel is one of several children, the oldest, raised with the rest of them by his mother, living a life in a house with dirt floors and tiny brothers and sisters who dream of school and an easier life. Emmanuel is the only one to graduate school and who wants to go to college and follow a dream. His dream is not to get a job in IT and adopt empty western values, his dream is to go to film school so he can tell his story, his mother’s story and the story of his people. Emmanuel knows that is the only power of change for him and for his country; Words, stories and telling his truth.

If you go to Facebook and look Emmanuel Mazivire up, you will see him post photos of his family, his people and say things like “One kind word can change someone’s day” or “Do not judge by appearances, a rich heart may be under a poor coat”. He has not lost hope. So Emmanuel and I started to talk two years ago. He shared some of his writing of a story he wants to submit for a documentary on his mother and all the single mothers raising children in Zimbabwe. I posted about him and tried helping him get a basic video camera, which took six months to reach him because of how they monitor the mail in Africa. He still wishes to find a way to go to film school in the United States, still needs a video camera worthy of a documentary and is working on his writing.

So before the sun came up today I was roused by the part of me who after five decades of watching the black and white story, which is really the privileged and underprivileged story, the money and no money story, the entitled and not very entitled story and the turn a blind eye story because it is too inconvenient to know too many inconvenient truths, my heart hurt. Because Emmanuel is one in a sea of young people with stories to tell, dreams to live, love to share and who has very little means of doing so without help, without compassion, without others sharing the load. And like many I am not one to swoop into Zimbabwe on a plane with great video equipment and shoot a doc on Emmanuel and his life. Why? Because, no one can tell the story better than the person who is living it.

And I am one single mother in the world myself, privileged to live my dream, and not wealthy by a long shot. What I can do for and with Emmanuel is help him tell his story, be a voice along side of his, read his writing, coach him for free, share with people who are touched to help with a camera and support him on Facebook. But he needs more. He needs to have the flames of his hope fanned. What power each of us has to do that. He is pushing against all odds even in circumstances you or I would cry uncle to have to face. He needs a mentor, a documentary camera, a plane ticket, help for his mother, his siblings, his story. He needs to go to school, have a patron, get his video into film festivals. He needs me, he needs, you. I do what I can but as Emmanuel knows first hand…it takes a village. He is one person in a sea of stories. But as he posted last week:

few sincere words

So these are my few sincere words. There is an ocean filled with Emmanuel’s in this world, on every street corner, in Mumbai, Russia and New York City. Story is power. The power I chose to use in my world. We hold it in our hands every day and have a choice what to do with that story, sometimes failing to see that words are one of the most powerful tools we all have and only second to the power of the heart. Put the two together and we would all be unstoppable.

Note: If you are interested in knowing more about Emmanuel, helping in any way, running a Kickstarter Campaign to raise money for him, buy him a plane ticket, give him your video camera that is documentary worthy, or help me to help him please contact me personally at or write to Emmanuel directly at and visit him on Facebook at Emmanuel Mazivire and send him your support. Become part of the global village.

emmanuel in school


Emmanuel doing some teaching.

Your Bucket List

Follow your heart

As a modern day gypsy living from pillar to post was not on my top ten Bucket List items.  I had the following dreams instead: I had things on my list like getting an Oscar, writing a bestseller, seeing the caves of Damanhur, going to Antarctica, and winning the lottery, of course.  But I won the lottery the minute I said yes to my heart and left normal life, as most of us know it.

I have been having a life on the road that is dotted with awe-inspiring, jaw dropping beauty, kind-hearted people, challenging culture shocks, language barriers and physical limitations. I chronicle how different I feel when I live in the city versus what my body changes into when I live in the jungle here in Costa Rica. Not a day anywhere is the same as the day before.

I have grown to know two certainties in my life: That all you can count on is change. And secondly, that love is the only real human currency. Money can in fact, not matter. When I can focus on these two things then fear can’t take a foothold. If every encounter I have is rooted in love and each moment of change is embraced then there is no way to contract from what life dishes out on a daily basis. Everything becomes a way of learning about self and other, about having and not having, about what the soul truly needs in order to thrive.

This is why I am a gypsy. I value experience far above stability and job security. As a result, my mind cannot become entrenched in the cultural mind, cannot feed on bad news, or really run the show in my life at all. Living and navigating by intuition and a spirit of “Yes” is a heart-based matter. Living in the heart takes courage and is a bit like “spelunking” into caves that are dark and unclear with the full knowledge that you are tethered to a large Universe that has only your wellbeing and growth in mind.

But one of the hidden benefits of living a nomadic life with few possession and estimating real wealth as beauty, spirit, new friends, new opportunity and an adventurous spirit, is it changes your physical chemistry. The body is not a vehicle just to get me from one country to the next, but is completely tuned to the vibration at which I live when I am inspired and challenged. Those experiences raise endorphins, change brain chemistry, metabolism, and virtually every cell in the body.

Living as a modern gypsy insists on total integration of mind, body and heart humming forward as one unit with the life battery being the soul. I don’t know how I could go back to living any other way.

bucket list

I’ll Have What She’s Having

meg ryan

Ok!  I have your attention but believe me I will get to talking about orgasms.  But to start off I want to talk about birds.

Ok birds rule in Costa Rica. And they each have their own well-developed voice which is more than I can say on how long it took for me to developed mine. And, so I have coined some terms for each bird that is recognizable through their song, their diatribe, their incessant nagging, unabashed screaming and yes their moaning. Imagine what it is like at that very special time of day, say 5am when they are all warming up together.

There is the tiny bird with a big mouth I call the Nepher-ti-ti bird, the screecher, the howler, the Ca-ca bird. Then you have the parrot families that are just unbelievably dysfunctional screamers, the Poo-poo, Poo-poo bird, and the one I discovered just today. I am affectionately calling it the Orgasm Bird since she, I think, starts out slow and speeds up until she ends in a blood-curdling scream…of sorts. You be the judge since I am also calling this amazing bird that stops every man in his tracks, “Meg” as in, When Harry Met Sally’s famous delicatessen scene.

Ok back to the birds. I count on these birds and am learning to move through my day by who is yelling, singing or just mad as a hatter at some animal that is encroaching on it’s territory. And that is pretty much a late day phenomenon. I wake up to a certain group of birds mostly Parakeets, Conures and big bold Parrots with a shit load of bravado.

Conjur     chuculaca     king parrot

During the heat of the day, which I say tongue in cheek really, since that is all the time, there are the Cha-cha-lacas (oh that is their real name) who are very family oriented and seem to guard our house. They make sure my daily siesta does not go on for too long. Oh say 15 min.

Then it is quiet right about the time I think that a fresh banana or papaya daiquiri would be pretty good by poolside and by night I wouldn’t hear one screecher since the cicadas sound like breaking glass in and out of the inevitable thunder rolling over the Terracotta roof.

So this bird watching report is really to say one important thing. Since I arrived I have developed a kind of reverence and awe at the perfection of nature in the Jungle here in Costa Rica, which if left alone, undeveloped and wild is one of the greatest teachers we have on this planet.

Enough said. Meg is back.