This is Not a Postcard

How many times a day do we feel complete and utter happiness? How many times a year or a lifetime?

Today I was sitting, reading, having a coffee in a cafe in Tortuguero, Costa Rica when happiness washed over me and hovered. The coffee was good and the ambience was pleasant, but real (palm trees, puffy pillows scattered around the cafe, yet an Imperial beercan floated by on the river). The tiniest flower I have ever seen rested on my table, until a breeze lifted it away.
I was reading Fugitive Pieces, a poetic novel by Anne Michaels. Healthy and alert with caffine running through my veins. There was love and peace in my heart, nothing could spoil that moment and I had full control as I basked in its rarity.
Tortuguero does not have a pretty beach and I would not want it any other way. No one was on the black sand with me and no one was swimmming or sunbathing on this gloomy day. The waves were fierce and the water murky with warnings of sharks and barricudas.
This is not a postcard. The water is not turquiose or azul or any other shade of ¨brochure blue¨. It is perfect and I am happy. Why do I cringe and back away from postcard promises? Why do they stir anxiety in me? I do not believe they are real. Because I think they are made to be what we have come to want and call beautiful?
The crashing waves are soothing with no particular rythum. Everything is impermanent. This feeling will pass, I will drink all of my coffee and this beach will disappear into the sea. But for now, en ese momento, life is good and so I will savour it, breath in.
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I have jeans and privacy! These are two things I have been craving. I bought jeans a couple of days ago for $4. The front button was missing but I had one put on for 0.20 cents... Magic happens in the marketplace! No city, town or world should ever be without a market.
And privacy---oh the luxury! How do people find time for themselves here? They don´t and have never had the chance. I travel sola, yet I am never alone and it is often a battle to find space to think or write or be silent. Here, in Tortuguero, I have my own room and washroom for $15 and it is glorious! This is the most I have spent on a room, but it was worth it these last two days.
I catch myself thinking back to ¨A Room of One´s Own¨, by Virgina Woolf. This article has stayed with me through the years and her thesis is so simple: in order to create and find inner joy we must have a room where we can think and enough money to provide for ourselves.
On Canada Day I asked my friends and family what Canada meant to them. There was a common thread in the email replies that I recieved. Our home and native land is blessed with space, lots of space. And those lucky enough, with the proper means, are afforded the luxury to enjoy those beautiful spaces. I had never considered this blessing before, but am rapidly realizing the splendor of space during the course of my travels. Elbowroom and headroom cost money. The majority of people in Central America and in the world cannot afford spaciousness. We can survive without our own space but we cannot thrive.