La Pura Vida

In the spring of 2006 I set off on a journey with a dear friend of mine.

It was one of those “take a time-out from your life” kind of adventures and I was in desperate need of it. You see, at this point my life was a constant state of Chaos, and I was over it. So I decided that I was going to allow myself to hit the coveted snooze button and go on a treasure hunt for that shiny gem known as Clarity.

Our plane touched down, we de-boarded and there we were…Paradise had been found! We made it to the lush, tropical, untouched purity of Costa Rica.

I could feel a shift as soon as my feet landed on the tarmac. I shed some layers of clothing (it was cooking hot) and though I didn’t know it yet, I also shed some of those pesky inhibitions that were cramping my Spirit’s style.

The first few days were spent lounging, reading, swimming, sunning and detoxing the stressors I left at home.  The cotton candy sunsets, bold iguanas and opinionated howler monkeys took residence where the sights and sounds of city living once did.

Before I knew it relaxation had set in and running in tandem with it was the weekend.

My girlfriend and I decided to head out on the “town”. Now, by “town” I mean tiny little surf town on the edge of the Costa Rican jungle, of which you navigate by dirt roads and big smiles.

It was this night, in this town, backlit by stardust that I never knew to exist, that I met him.

Our paths crossed in a manner that only makes sense if you never question it. We fell into a state of normalcy that would historically have taken me aback. Lucky for me, I had just excavated a state of mind akin to blissful relaxation, so I decided to be Zen and just roll with it.

My mantra was something along the lines of “Tara, be Zen, roll with it, don’t question how or why....oh, and be sure to call the airlines and extend your stay”.

(FYI:  My mantra was a success.)

It was a whirlwind romance that made all the sense in the world. The only issue was…I was a world away from home.  

My last morning in Costa Rica pulled back the tropical blanket of my hiding spot.  My two worlds were now colliding.

He drove me back to my neglected hotel (and forgiving best friend) before the sun began to rise. We parked out front sharing a very long and hesitant farewell, filled with pleas and wishes by both of us that I could stay longer (maybe forever). But home and the chattering list of life obligations began to trickle into my Zen. The only words that found their way to my voice were the ones that said I couldn’t stay. I wanted to stay…but I couldn’t.

My heart and my soul slumped their shoulders in defeat. They were ambassadors of Paradise.

Before I could let him change my mind, I kissed him one last time, hopped out of the truck and bolted toward my room without daring myself to look back.

I flung the door open and my girlfriend greeted me with a look of shock and the following words: “I can NOT believe you are coming home!”.

My response was: “I can’t believe it either”.

I packed my bag in a fury. Within minutes there was a knock at the door. My heart jumped, my soul squealed in delight. I looked at my friend and said: “It looks like I’m staying after all!”.

I whipped the door open, ready to proclaim "Ok, I'm staying!" but it wasn’t him with one last request, it was our driver letting us know he was ready to begin our long journey back to the airport where this whole adventure began. 

I tucked my regret into one of my pockets, tossed our bags in the car, gave our surroundings one last look and crawled into the backseat. As I sank into my seat and closed my eyes, I did my best to reassure myself I was making the right, rational choice. Soon, the gentle rocking of driving on unpaved roads had me drifting off to sleep.

It wasn’t long into the drive that I could feel the car begin to slow and then come to a stop. I slowly opened my eyes. The dirt roads illuminated by the rising sun created a magical, dusty curtain over the countryside. I whispered to my girlfriend asking her why we stopped. Her eyes widened and she told me to look ahead, through the windshield.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing there, in the middle of the road, was a white horse so grand, so pure, so dreamlike I could hardly believe it to be true. He stood there, looking at us, unafraid, unwavering and beautiful beyond words.

My girlfriend turned to me, she held my hand and she said: “Tara, what do you think he’s saying to you?”.

I would love to tell you I listened to his message that day, turned around, drove back to my love and stayed in that little casita on the edge of the Costa Rican jungle forevermore…but I can’t.

Instead, what I can tell you is that I did, in fact, find the clarity I was searching for on that adventure in Paradise. I can tell you, with certainty, that I was forever changed. I can tell you that I married this man, barefoot with flowers in my hair, in a tiny chapel on an orchard with trees dripping in twinkle lights.  I can also tell you that I believe in magical white horses who are messengers and reminders of the life you are meant to live.

La Pura Vida was first published on 12 Months of Lent.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Bottled Up

I've spent my entire life trying to recover from YOUR disease.

I've spent my entire adulthood trying to no longer be affected by YOUR selfishness.

I've spent the last 12 + years sheltering my children from YOUR wrath of painful words.

I've allowed YOUR problems to infiltrate my marriage.

I watched YOUR behavior ruin EVERY milestone moment in my life.

I spent years in therapy mourning an earth shattering loss only to find out what I was mourning was YOUR lack of love and nurturing in a time when I needed it most.

I've given everything I can to try and repair this relationship with you to no avail.

Your sense of entitlement to things that I have worked hard for is mind boggling.

Your inability to be accountable for the path of destruction that you laid before me for so long physically hurts my heart.

I used to wonder why I have no photo albums of my childhood, no memory books of my first words or school pictures but it's so vividly clear now...you were too busy entertaining your demons to be a parent.

I cringe when I hear others tell you how proud you should be of me, what a great job you did "raising" me and how proud they are of you for getting rid of your demon.

I got where I am today, not because of you, but in spite of you. However, you got sober thanks to me, because unlike you, I didn't give up on you...and it was the hardest thing I ever had to do...but YOUR disease was killing me.

I see snip-its from time to time of your potential to be a good parent, grandparent, etc. but, they are few and far between. And again I'm mourning. I'm mourning the fact that YOU'RE going to miss out on two wonderful gifts that you were blessed with because you feel that I owe you something for doing what's right.

What scares me most is that I see snip-its of you in me. I too dance with the same demon far too often and find myself yelling too loud and too much...but its not my voice I hear coming out, it's YOURS.  

The difference is, I'm going to take steps to change my path NOW and not be a burden to my children. I will repair the whole me, mind, body and spirit.  I will continue to be a positive influence, a nurturer, a provider and a safe spot for them.  I've seen what happens to a child when they are without all of those things.  It's by the grace of god I made it out alive.  

I wish I didn't have to be anonymous.  I wish that I could say these words to you in a way that wouldn't immediately bring you to become defensive but that's not possible. So, for now, I will hide behind my anonymity but no longer behind the bottle.

Anonymous

Grieving 101: The Emotional Marathon

“I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.” 

― J.D. Salinger 

But I do.

It's exhausting, really.  It's something along the lines of an emotional marathon.  One that I find myself running every few years, against my will and against my wishes. 

Now, I've never run a real marathon before, however, this emotional marathoning isn't for the weak of heart either, that's for sure!  Each miserable stride burns more than the next breath.  You wonder how the hell you're going to get through this.  All those miles ahead, one thumping foot in front of the other.  Then, something happens along the way and everything quiets down for a moment when you realize... everything has gone numb.  You can't feel a damn thing!  Your reaction:  Hallelujah!  This respite allows you to coast for a spell.  Who cares if you can't feel anything.  Feeling, especially at times like these, is over-fucking-rated. This is your Menthol Mile, baby, and you better enjoy it.  Because slowly and then all at once the burn breaks through again and you'll be leaving a trail of smoke behind you for all the wrong reasons. In time, you'll stop screaming "holy hellfire" and simply accept the flames.  They are, some say, what make you or break you.

I don't know.  Sometimes I think "What the fuck?".  Sometimes I simply can't believe it all and I stand there wonderstruck, in the least magical way possible.  Every so often a wave of peace washes over me and I realize it's all ok, all of it, even the parts that aren't ok, if that makes any sense.

My thoughts ride a wicked pendulum.  They whip from side to side, up and down, from here to there, now to then and back again a million times in the blink of an eye.  Sounds fun, right? Yeah, just about as fun as that clown in Stephen King's "It" (insert shivers here please).  

It turns out my circumstances have demanded that I get good and clear on what I believe in….and I mean what I TRULY believe in.  As in...what is all of this heartbreaking, beautiful, chaotic, exotic, full blown insanity worth in the midst - and in the end - of it all?

My belief system, I've learned, is made up of the following:  Love, the amazing, true kind of love that makes all this shit worth while.  Heaven.  Family.  Life, this one beautiful life.  Friendship.  Forgiveness, regardless of what a battle it is to achieve it.  Impact, the kind you make and the kind that's made on you.  Karma, what you give, you get.  Peace, the sacred hunt for it.   And honesty.

It's my 3rd Emotional Marathon in 8 years.  

Although you'd think I'd be a frontrunner with all this "experience" the truth is, right now, I'm just pacing myself to get to the finish line without shitting my pants.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Moment of Impact, Part II

My case worker at MGH wanted to send me to Spaulding Rehab to continue my physical & occupational therapy. However, my mother fought on my behalf for me to go to one outside of Boston, closer to home and easier for me to have frequent visitors.  

They decided to send me to HealthSouth (currently New England Rehab) on the Woburn/Winchester line.  Having previously worked at the 99 Restaurant nearby, I knew exactly where I was headed.  The EMTs that were in charge of transferring me to the rehab facility were a great pair of people.  They made me as comfortable as possible, which was difficult considering all I could move without serious issue was my right arm and my head.  

We got to talking on the ride and I had mentioned, in passing, that I had worked at the 99 Restaurant down the road from the rehab facility for a few years and had just recently been transferred to another location due to a promotion.  

I didn’t think anything of it when the ambulance started to slow down.  One of the EMTs had gotten out and a few minutes passed by.  I had never been in this situation before, so I assumed that she was just prepping to get me into the rehab facility.  

When she opened the doors in the back of the ambulance, I could barely lift my head. Remembering what I saw is making my eyes water as I type this.  We were in the parking lot of the Four Corners 99 Restaurant, my old work.  There was a line of people waiting to see me. Line cooks, servers, bartenders, prep cooks, dishwashers, managers & even some regular guests that I knew, had one by one been allowed into the ambulance with me. Some laughed with me, some cried with me, some did both at the same time.  They all expressed their well wishes for a speedy recovery, gratefulness that I had made it thru & support on anything that I would need going forward.  I used to joke with my fellow restaurant workers that I’ve been involved in some long ticket times in a restaurant, but that one took the cake.

I wish I remembered the names of those EMTs, I would love to be able to thank them to this day for that.  

Don't miss out on Moment of Impact, Part I

Paul Dube

Host of The Sports Den & Chef at Smokey Bones.

Defiant by will.  A true life miracle by every other standard.  

Claws. . .

17 right, 39 left, 5 right.  

I open my locker and take the books I’ll need until I come back again at lunchtime.  Ding, ding, ding, ding … our High School bell was a series of seven “dings.”  By the seventh bell, you had to be in your seat or you were late. Thankfully, during freshman year, my first period class was Algebra and it was directly across from my locker.

Mrs. D. taught Algebra and she had an unbelievable resemblance to Dr. Ruth.  It was truly uncanny.  She was all of five feet tall and always dressed in red or colored business suits.  Her lapel or shoulder was adorned with a little jeweled insect, usually a ladybug or a bumblebee.  She had a huge collection of them and they changed according to her outfit.  I found them beautiful and intriguing.  She used to tell us that on weekends she would do math problems for fun.  It was beyond my comprehension that anyone would do that.

She would begin to do roll call and I could feel the knots in my stomach starting to build.  As she worked her way towards the letter “N”, my anxiety would take over and so would the nausea.  “R.N.?”  “Present!” and then he would look over and leer at me. 

R. had one purpose in high school and that was to make my life a living hell, in every way possible, every single day.  I would pray every morning that he would be absent but that was seldom the case.

After first period, I would make my way to the other classes throughout the day.  I would strategically plan the best way to avoid him.  Yet, like some sort of a plague, he was always there, usually with the other “macho” guys in school calling me a faggot every chance they got.  When verbal slurs wouldn’t do, he’d follow me into the bathroom and kick open the stall and then laugh.  I would always go into a stall, using the urinals would be just asking for them to stand around and try to pick a fight with me.  To date, I almost always choose a stall over a urinal.

When the guys weren’t bothering me, their girlfriends were. Passing me notes in class telling me that they found me “hot” and asking if I would want to go out with them.  They’d laugh hysterically while I read it, and would then try to exaggeratedly “flirt” with me to see how the “faggot” would react.  I was a daily source of amusement for them.  As if beginning the day like this wasn’t bad enough, I also had R. and all his gang for last period, an all-male PE class.  

I would do everything within my power to escape PE class and the changing room.  We’d have to change out of our school uniforms into our PE shorts and tees.  I hated this part of the day more than any other.  As a norm, it started with insults and ended with socks, shoes, and dirty clothes being thrown at me.  I hated it so much that at one point I tried to go to the guidance counselor, Mrs. F., and explained what was going on in hopes that I could be excused from PE all together.  She told me that I needed to grow a tougher skin and stop being such a wimp.  She was the same guidance counselor who, when reviewing my Career Aptitude Test, told me I would only ever be suited to be a florist, flight attendant or dog walker.  “What a waste of a good education”, she said.

There was also Mr. L., our religion teacher. Part of his syllabus was to tell us that being gay was a guaranteed acceptance to hell.  He preached this often and forcefully during his teachings.  

I wish I could say that I endured this only in High School but nothing could be further from the truth.  My earliest memory of abuse was in 3rd grade, Mrs. C.’s class.  My mom picked me up from school one day and I said to her “two boys called me a fag at lunch.  What does that mean?”  I remember her face turning red and her getting nervous.  She said it was a bad word and asked why they called me that?  I replied “I don’t know.  Is it a really bad word?”  She said “Yes, very.”

As the taunting went on through grade school, so continued to grow my anxiety and depression.  By the time I made it to high school, I was a very unhappy person.  Year after year of being treated like this leaves an indelible mark on your soul and your psyche. I didn’t come out until I was 19.  My self-hatred was that strong. 

Fast-forward twenty years and countless hours of therapy later and I’m an openly gay adult.  My family is completely accepting of who I am and I am blessed to share my life with my husband, Oscar, whom I’ve been married (not legally though thanks to Florida’s laws) to for the past 5 years.  He has been a never ending fountain of support and love for me.  I thank God for him daily.

I was having an argument with my sister once and she said,“Why are you so angry, it’s like your claws instantly come out!”  Ahhh, my claws, ever ready, always sharp.  The thing is that not everybody should be experiencing my claws.  For that matter, they should always be retracted when it comes to my family and friends.  I wish I could put them away.  Moreover, I wish they didn’t exist.  

It is said that “anger only consumes the vessel that contains it.”  I don’t like being an angry person.  Frankly, it’s rather exhausting.  I’m thankful to have the life I do today and I’m proud to be the man I’ve become.  I do my best to lead a positive and meaningful life.  However, when anything goes wrong, when someone irks me, when I feel mistreated, ignored, or even looked at the wrong way, my claws come out.  I’m not proud of them but they are an intrinsic part of me.

I’ll be forty in a few years and ironically I received the invitation to my twenty-year High School reunion just a few days ago.  Will I go? Probably not.  Yes, times have changed.  Thanks to Facebook, I’m friends with a few of the people I went to High School with.  It’s interesting, many of them never looked at me twice when we physically knew each other.  Now, they “like” pictures of my husband and I on vacation or having a romantic dinner.  Yet, I think I’m quite content with never having to walk into my High School again.

This is the age of the, “Stop bullying” and “it gets better” campaigns.  What I would have given for these campaigns to have existed when I was in school.  We are formed by our experiences.  My experiences created these claws.  I have written this piece in hopes of being able to begin to declaw myself and to realize that I no longer need them. Yes, one must always be able to defend oneself and those one loves.  I continue to work on constantly being a better version of myself.  My life has been a series of transformations and reinventions. These claws are heavy, cumbersome, and get in the way of all I do.  It is my hope that I will continue to grow and that soon these talons will cease to exist.

Santi Gabino

I have the pleasure of knowing Santi, personally.  

He was a beacon of light and guiding hand on one of the most important and cherished days of my life.
Santi & Family open the doors to their farm, inviting the world into a space worthy of fairy tales.
What's more powerful than the scenery is their cornerstone:
A family that loves so purely it's palpable to all that get to bask in their presence.
A celebrated Executive Chef, Santi will wow you with a dining experience 
making sure your moments are savored for years to come.
(bio written by Tara Mazzeo Jackson)