One year on, the journey continues: Welcome to El Colectivo 506

Posted on by stanleyobando

I want to start this final post of the Costa Rica Daily Boost – in its current form – with a heartfelt thank you.

Thanks for putting on your imaginary boots, as I asked on Sept. 15th of last year, and roaming through these many words with me. Thanks to those who read once in a while, popping up with a friendly comment just when I needed it most. Thanks to those who read regularly, like a discipline, riding the waves of long rambles and short, just-before-midnight, gotta-get-something-up messages. Thanks for understanding the needs, dreams and frustrations that drive a mother-writer to throw down any gauntlet for herself to try to carve out creative space; this has meant so much to me during a time in my life in which not one, not two, but three passion projects came abruptly to an end. (So did the world as we know it.)

Finally, thank you for sharing your love for Costa Rica and its people so warmly and openly in your comments and emails. Your love of this country has renewed my own, and led me to a new venture that I didn’t expect one year ago today.

As you’ve seen if you’ve followed me here, writing about Costa Rica for 248 continuous weekdays has taught me some lessons and reminded me just how many stories there are to share in this small place at the heart of the Americas, this country whose success or failure is so critical as a pioneer or model. In August, I decided to gather up the notes I’d been doodling in the margins for these many months and attempt to turn them into reality. I asked two dear friends to come along: rural tourism advocate Pippa Kelly, who has been featured many times in my proverbial pages, and extraordinary photojournalist Mónica Quesada Cordero. I’m very lucky that they said yes.

Today marks the pre-launch of our dream: a new, bilingual media organization based on the support of readers and of tourism communities eager to connect with the world in new ways. El Colectivo 506 is named for Costa Rica’s area code and the collective, shared transport that, in many parts of Latin American, allows group taxis and buses to take the slow route, stopping wherever that day’s travelers need to go. If you’ve ever taken el colectivo by mistake instead of an express bus, as I once did during my early days in the country, and found yourself winding in non-air-conditioned splendor through unexpected detours, awash in the easy conversation of those who hop on or off, you’ll know the kind of journalism we’re aiming for. Slow. Unhurried. Deep explorations of people, places and issues at the heart of Costa Rica’s towns and neighborhoods.

Katherine Stanley Obando

Alongside this in-depth, independent journalism, El Colectivo will connect rural tourism entrepreneurs and nonprofits with local and international travelers through a national, bilingual directory. Eventually, their small-scale annual support will make us sustainable, but as Costa Rica continues to reel from the impact of COVID-19, we plan to donate this service to the sector as a way to support the reopening and reinvention of the tourism industry. Readers will be able to navigate fresh, authentic itineraries through Costa Rica’s communities and find a wealth of stories, opinion and information as El Colectivo builds storytelling capacity among local leaders and youth. That’s why our motto is “Costa Rica from the inside out.” It’s a site by Costa Rica, for Costa Rica: benefitting, but also sourced from, the heart of its communities.

And yes, there will be a Daily Boost. When we launch on Jan. 1, we’ll begin complementing our in-depth coverage with daily photos, inspiration and more.

Via Shutterstock

As I did on this day last year, I invite you to come along for the ride. As a first step, we need to raise money to support the Costa Rican artists and designers who are creating our brand, logo and website (some of whom I met through the Boost!) and to get ready for the journalists and rural entrepreneurs who will bring the site to life. Please visit our campaign page, donate if you can, and share as widely as possible; I can’t thank you enough for any of the above. Of course, I hope you’ll also follow us wherever you like to read, whether that’s on our website, Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, and Twitter. And please share the news as far as you can.

As for me, I plan to continue posting weekly, here on my own site: my usual ponderings, writing news, and reflections on the various ways in which I’m working to make connections in the world and build new pathways for expression. Among the projects on my table right now are the development of a national volunteer corps, new ways for travelers to connect with ecotourism champions during the pandemic, a novel, and, well… it’s been a creative year. As Mr. Rogers used to say, “You’ll have things you’d like to talk about; I will, too.”

Until then, may the journey treat you well. Thank you and gracias, con todo mi cariño.

Feliz cumpleaños, Costa Rica.

Katherine

 

 

 

 

Independence and interdependence

Posted on by stanleyobando

My favorite night of the year in Costa Rica is upon us. It will look very different in 2020, to be sure. No festive parades of children holding lanterns, although I’m sure many families will recreate the tradition alone or gather in spaced-out groups. No crowds following the path of the symbolic torch as alternating athletes carry it south from Guatemala. No impromptu choirs standing shoulder-to-shoulder to sing our anthems at 6 pm.

My faroles on this Independence Day weekend were the fireflies at Tapir Valley in the hills of Bijagua. My antorcha was the powerful flashlight that owner and guide Donald Varela Soto used to showcase the animals he spots in the dark as if by magic, drawing on his knowledge of every inch of the vast terrain. Instead of feeling a rush of excitement as a runner streaks by en route to Cartago, leaving a blaze of firelight behind, my thrill this year came when I got to see a tapir in the wild for the very first time.

I walked the paths that night alongside a group of visitors, masked and distanced, cautious and excited. We were led by Donald and his family, who have preserved and reforested Tapir Valley through their hard work and grit. They made sure we were in the right place under the fruit trees deep in the reserve when a female danta came snuffling along for a snack. It was breathtaking, quite literally.

Famously calm, the tapir ate her meal just down the path, as naturally as if she were a cow and we her farmhands. But we weren’t. We were awed humans in the presence of an animal who maintains the biodiversity of the forest by spreading fruit seeds. An animal that has been hunted and endangered by development, but who, thanks to the respect and protection of people such as the Familia Varela Kelly, have slowly, carefully begun to venture further down the mountains.

Later in the evening, Donald told us how decades of environmental education and the slow growth of ecotourism in this northern Costa Rican community have had a visible, positive impact on the wildlife in the area. Seeing a tapir, he explained, used to be a rare experience. Today, hardly a day passes when a farmer or guide doesn’t spot one. This doesn’t mean the challenges are over: this majestic animal draws more tourism, requiring local leaders to maintain the right balance between growth and conservation. But the prevalance of the tapir in Bijagua today is a marker of what a community can achieve.

Donald didn’t mention the pandemic that closed down Costa Rica’s tourism industry in March. However, it was a presence in the conversation, lurking just outside the circle of light cast by our headlamps. While the country is now reopening, the crisis cut off the income of hard-working ecotourism leaders on whom we depend to preserve places like Tapir Valley. Next month, I’ll post a story here about an effort to support the efforts of Northern Zone environmental champions.

Costa Rica is beloved around the world for both its people and its wildlife. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate the start of our bicentennial year than by honoring the connection between the two. Amidst the fireflies and the frog songs of the Costa Rican night, they stand watch. Against the odds, they live their lives among the interdependence that, perhaps, we will not now forget so quickly.

Featured image by Mónica Quesada Cordero. Read more about Tapir Valley Nature Reserve here. And stay tuned for the big announcement tomorrow of a new project – inspired, in part, by the hard work and leadership of rural tourism entrepreneurs!

 

Good enough is good enough

Posted on by stanleyobando

Down to day four on the countdown: This was the year I let go of any remaining perfectionism from my teens and twenties. Parenthood took care of most of that, but publishing daily blog posts did the rest.

What does this have to do with Costa Rica? Well, I think perfectionism and national origin intersect in interesting ways. I know plenty of perfectionist Costa Ricans; in fact, I’ve had more discussions than is really necessary in life about how the country’s rather serious approach to karaoke than the boisterous, silly U.S. approach. There are many areas where people from my country are probably looser and more relaxed, or just plain negligent by comparison, as in the case of children’s hair grooming. (Trust me on this one. I’m lucky no one has ever called social services because of the low standards I maintain in the braiding department.)

On the other hand, as I’ve written before, there is a certain straight-laced-ness to North Americans that I don’t find here. I’m often less comfortable than the people around me to wing it, or make up a homemade solution, or try at home something that in my book is only done by authorities holding the proper permits, like a major fireworks display. I’m from the land that created square-jawed Superman; Latin America is the home of el Chapulín Colorado. So I like to think that by shedding some of the caution of the editor and the straight-A student, I’ve leaned a little bit into the culture I’ve chosen.

I used to keep my scribblings to myself, never good enough to show anyone at all. It’s been instructive, over the past 12 months, to sometimes throw something up on the screen at 11 pm, as I am tonight. I apologize to those who’ve read my less coherent musings. At the same time, I recommend it highly. I wish I had a better closer here – but this’ll do.

Our daughters and the poisoned apple

Posted on by stanleyobando

“I want to disappear,” my daughter said.

“What?” My hand, resting on her shoulder, tightened its grip instinctively to match the squeeze of my heart.

“It’s not fair, Mom. I want to disappear, too.”

We had just turned around on one of our quarantine walks on a dirt road near the top of Volcán Irazú to find that my husband, about a hundred feet back, had been completely subsumed in a sudden fog. Cartago is known for las brumas that sweep through its hills, and this one had made him disappear completely. My daughter, her pink sweatpants half-tucked into unicorn-patterned rubber boots, had made to run off into the mist herself, but I’d stopped her. He was crossing a rickety bridge over a deep gorge, and a car might pass, and we couldn’t see him, and I was afraid. I was afraid in ways that had nothing to do with anything around us at that moment. I was more afraid than I could ever express.

“I don’t want you to disappear,” I said, just as my husband’s faint form finally became visible. I tried to say something more, but I couldn’t.

The only word on my lips was Allison.

Allison Bonilla. The girl who did disappear on March 5th of this year, walking through the cool night just a short drive from where we were standing, heading home from class in one of the most beautiful valleys of the most beautiful country. The girl whose mother left their house to meet her daughter halfway as she walked home from the bus stop.

Allison never arrived. She was just 18. She just wanted to go to class, and to come home again.

Their neighbor confessed to her rape and murder this past week.

Allison has become a name on millions of lips. She has become a chill in the blood of all her country’s mothers, all mothers of girls. When we read that her mother had been waiting for her, patiently, in the dark, just feet from the place where their neighbor snatched her away forever, the chill ran through us from head to toe. When we saw her mother’s face in the paper, her eyes over her mask as she stood, arms crossed, watching the killer as he was escorted through the halls of the Judicial Branch, we felt it again. This whole, small country has a knot in its stomach, a nausea.

I am sorry to say that I didn’t know the word “intersectional” until after the 2016 election. That’s when I started to learn about the times when white feminism failed to connect to other struggles for justice. I started to learn about the idea that while each struggle is different, that while you can’t compare Costa Rican femicide to the ruthless murders of Black citizens of the United States at the hands of the very law enforcement officers who should protect them, you also can’t care about one without caring about the other. I learned that, in our brains, we must make room for all these movements, rising, to converge.

If you are reading this, you probably live in the consciousness of both those realities, the U.S. context and the violence against women in Costa Rica. You understand this intersection between Allison and Breonna. Between María Luisa and George. Between those chains of victims’ names – awful, relentless, ever-expanding – and the worlds they represent. Between the discussions these deaths have started, over and over, and of which we are so profoundly tired.

There is a recipe for it, a dance that’s pre-choreographed. In Costa Rica, when it comes to femicide – feminicidio, the murder of a woman because she is a woman – the recipe looks like this. The victim’s name becomes a hashtag; women put filters on the profile pictures with heartbreakingly simple assertions like “We want to live”; some men put up posts like “nací para cuidar a la mujer” – I was born to take care of women; women try to explain that we don’t want to be taken care of, thanks – just not murdered; other women criticized those women for never being satisfied, for trampling on those nice men’s nice gesture, for being so hard to please; and still other men publish, “We get murdered, too.” Women aren’t the owners of pain. All lives matter.

These are currents that push back and forth against each other, washing back and forth, sad and angry, wise and foolish. They are the same kinds of currents that wash back and forth in my own country surrounding racial injustice. All the while the victims lie beneath, among the smooth stones on the riverbed, unknowing, unseeing.

It is all so foolish, and it goes nowhere. We keep on losing. The stones keep dropping through the water, the next name, the next hashtag. The next life snatched away from a mother standing watch. At times, we just want to sink down there with them: not for death, but just for silence.

How do we rise out of the water altogether? Into the air, gasping for breath? Breath. A loaded word – and doesn’t that say it all, the fact that breath is a loaded word? The breath that has been denied, so ferociously, to Black women and men in my country, who are required to live in fear not only of random strangers but also of those who are supposed to protect them. The breath that a different kind of blind hatred and contempt choked from María Luisa in Manuel Antonio earlier this year.

What pulls us out of the water is love. I think I first fell for the sensations of this country: its sounds, its sights, the way its air felt on my skin. Later, I fell in love with the way it talks, its culture that spooled out in front of me along endlessly twisting and interesting tunnels and curves. But my latest love affair, developed over the past year of writing daily posts about this country, has been with the women who live here. The artists and scientists, the activists and authors. A group in which I include myself, through presence if not citizenship. I pour the past 16 years and my deep admiration for the women of this country into a proud, tentative “we.”

We, the women who live their lives in this land, are extraordinary. And we are being murdered in such quantities. We march, we post, we mourn, and, somehow, with Allison, we reached the end of our breath. The wind has been knocked out of us. We ask, what else can we do?

The answer, perhaps, is: nothing. Just as the burden of anti-racism should fall on white shoulders, and the burden of ending homophobia should fall on those who are straight, it is up to the men of this country to figure this out.

Not to take care of us. To take care of yourselves, in the toughest sense of that phrase. The sisterhood is in place. It’s time for the brotherhood: a brotherhood of self-questioning, of raising the bar, of pushing back against each other as Vinicio Chanto outlines here.

As you do the work, your sisters will continue to disappear. Disappear. Just hearing my daughter say that word made my heart contract.

What hurts the most, I think, is the knowledge that while, for now, I can keep that fear within myself, a sort of poisoned apple in my heart, I will have to share it with my daughter as she grows. I will have to hand it to her for her to try, nibble by nibble, taking that poison into herself so she can protect herself.

When I was in seventh grade in Dunbarton, New Hampshire, I’d sometimes be dropped off before anyone else was home. I’d put on some boots and take our dog, Max, into the woods behind our house. We’d walk around, muck about, sometimes go as far as the dike that stretched high above the wetlands. I don’t remember anything too specific from those walks: I wasn’t learning the names of all the trees and plants, or building forts. I don’t remember any fear or worry about wandering on my own with a dog who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I just remember the space, the cold inhale in winter, the slushy mud in early spring, the look of the wetlands glinting through the trees.

My daughter won’t have afternoons like that. I hope she won’t walk alone late at night as I did during university, either. I don’t think she’ll travel alone quite as widely and freely as I did. She will be robbed of something I once enjoyed through my privilege as a white person and my ignorance about the dangers facing women. What’s more, I will be the person who robs her of it, by instilling in her a necessary caution.

I will take it from her bit by bit in the talks that will fall to me to lead, the precautions it will fall to me to teach her. I will steal from her what has been stolen from me. I will rob her of her innocent aloneness, her privacy, her ability to feel free and safe all by herself, to walk where she likes without a thought, to stroll the woods without a care, to go home from a night class on the town bus without stepping into a heavy legacy. I will rob her of certain chances to nurture that space between her ears, the unencumbered breath in her lungs.

I will be the thief, but I will not be at fault. I will teach that to her, too. I will teach her the power of boundaries, of analysis, of assigning blame where it belongs and deflecting it where it doesn’t, deflecting it along with the blows of an assailant. At her side, I’ll learn how to throw a punch and gouge out someone’s eyes. I will have to raise her powerful, confident, strong, and angry. Because if she looks at this world as it is and doesn’t feel anger amidst all the other emotions – all the love, gratitude, excitement that I hope she’ll also feel – then I won’t have prepared her well. Anger on her own behalf. Anger on behalf of others.

What do I have to offer her in exchange for all this taking? A voice she can raise at a moment’s notice. She will have the possibility to connect to other women anywhere in the world. When we got home after our walk in the mists, I watched Alexandria Ocasio Cortez show us her morning makeup routine. I was right there with her, in her bathroom, learning how she creates her signature red lip. This YouTube mix of color corrector and commentary on the patriarchy dropped into the jangling chords of my mood in a strange way.

I thought: it is a consolation prize, I suppose. This community. This sisterhood. Perhaps it is not something we can touch, women we can see in the flesh, but they are out there, and we can hear from them.

Is it enough, these virtual connections in the face of all that we lose in terms of physical safety? Is it enough, being able to scream any way we want, scream and rail and testify?

Will it get us through while our brothers fix what’s ailing them?

It will need to be. Our daughters will have to make it so.

Featured image from Facebook via Andrea Terán.

I’m a writer in San José, Costa Rica, on a year-long quest to share daily posts on inspiring people, places and ideas from my adopted home as a kind of tonic during a rough time in the world. Sign up (top right of this page) to receive a little dose of inspiration every weekday in your mailbox; tell a friend; check out past posts; learn how to join my Overwhelmed Writers’ League, every Saturday at 1 pm EST; and please connect with me on Instagram or Facebook! To learn more about how to support Costa Rica during the crisis, visit my COVID-19 section – or for ways to enjoy Costa Rica from afar, visit Virtual Costa Rica.

Force of habit

Posted on by stanleyobando

When you think about Costa Rica – whether it’s your home, a fond memory, a place you’d love to visit, or just an idea – do you think of a daily habit that would bring some joy to your life? That small morning plate of fresh fruit that’s so ubiquitous at hotels here; a slow unwinding over afternoon coffee; rituals that enhance family connections; a walk in nature?

All of that sounds great to me, but I am absolutely awful at doing things every day. In fact, aside from writing this Daily Boost and brushing my teeth, I can’t think of any commitment to do something every day where I’ve met my goal. Maybe ever.

I got a glimpse, therefore, of what more disciplined people know naturally: of the way in which, when something must be done every day, your mind starts to turn towards it naturally. Happily, in my case, this meant that I began to seek out little gems of Costa Rican life wherever I went, whether that was just a nice photo or piece of street art, or a story from an artisan or community leader.

In this month of Costa Rican Independence and as we approach the country’s bicentennial year, is there a little bit of Costa Rica you’d like to incorporate into your daily routine, or something that’s already there? I’d love to hear what it is.

Image from user jtoddpope via Shutterstock.

I’m a writer in San José, Costa Rica, on a year-long quest to share daily posts on inspiring people, places and ideas from my adopted home as a kind of tonic during a rough time in the world. Sign up (top right of this page) to receive a little dose of inspiration every weekday in your mailbox; tell a friend; check out past posts; learn how to join my Overwhelmed Writers’ League, every Saturday at 1 pm EST; and please connect with me on Instagram or Facebook! To learn more about how to support Costa Rica during the crisis, visit my COVID-19 section – or for ways to enjoy Costa Rica from afar, visit Virtual Costa Rica.

 

One last chance to share… before something new arrives!

Posted on by stanleyobando

Halloo there? How are things?

It’s been an amazing ride for me this year, sharing news & inspiration & musings from Costa Rica. I’m happy to tell you that on September 15th – which is Costa Rica’s Independence Day, and the finish line of my year-long quest to post every weekday – I’ll be sharing some big news about where the Daily Boost is going from here! (Hint: Better. Bigger. Much, much bigger. Yes, I’m excited.)

As we approach that date, I have a favor to ask. It’d be amazing to surpass 1,000 followers (we’re at 941 on Facebook) and attract a few new blog subscribers before the big news breaks. If you’ve liked these posts and have never shared with a friend, would you be willing to? Or, if you use Facebook, would you be willing to invite some friends to like the Facebook page? Starting on September 1st, some changes will start to take place, so this is the moment to get some new readers in the door!

(Also: If you’ve already liked the FB page but would like to see more of my posts, click the three dots at the top of the pages, select Follow or Following, and select See First.)

Thanks so much to all of you for your incredible support over the past year. (Or many years.) I can’t wait to continue on this adventure with you… and a few new friends.

I’m a writer in San José, Costa Rica, on a year-long quest to share daily posts on inspiring people, places and ideas from my adopted home as a kind of tonic during a rough time in the world. Sign up (top right of this page) to receive a little dose of inspiration every weekday in your mailbox; tell a friend; check out past posts; learn how to join my Overwhelmed Writers’ League, every Saturday at 1 pm EST; and please connect with me on Instagram or Facebook! To learn more about how to support Costa Rica during the crisis, visit my COVID-19 section – or for ways to enjoy Costa Rica from afar, visit Virtual Costa Rica.

 

Overwhelmed writers unite!

Posted on by stanleyobando

Today’s Boost is an invitation.

If you struggle to carve out time to write – but the LAST thing you need is another thing people are expecting you to do, or to face another round of anxiety-inducing introductions on another Zoom call – then my Zero-Commitment Overwhelmed Writers’ League, starting this coming Saturday, might be right for you. Here’s how it will work:

1. Those interested should send me their email address in the comments or at kstan.cr@gmail.com.

2. I will send everyone a recurring GCal invite with a Zoom link for Saturdays at 11 am Costa Rica time (during Daylight Savings, that’s 12 pm EST).

3. I will then proceed to… NEVER CONTACT YOU ABOUT THIS AGAIN. No reminders or chats. No supportive Facebook group. Zero follow-through, guaranteed. (Unless you really, really, really want an occasional additional nudge, in which case you and I can work out a special exception.)

4. On any given week, if you pop in, we won’t all introduce ourselves or anything. We’ll just say “Hi!” and write – cameras and mics on or off as you please. My camera will be on to keep me honest (you are encouraged to cough disapprovingly if you see that I’ve been seized by a sudden desire to clean the office or sort my Post-Its by size). Maybe sometimes I’ll get a little crazy and put on some coffeehouse ambient noise in the background, or wear a tiara, or get a little creative with my Zoom wallpaper. But basically, I will just sit there and write, for God’s sake.

5. After precisely 30 minutes, anyone who doesn’t feel like chatting can just exit, and anyone who’d like to say something about what s/he’s writing or read a couple sentences can do so. At 40 minutes or so we’ll sign off (or get kicked off if there are 3+ people… one of the greatest things about Zoom, in my opinion).

If you sign up and never, ever come, you will STILL be doing me a big favor, because simply the expectation that someone might be waiting for me on the call will get me there to write every week. (I know, I’m weird, and a full-fledged Gretchen Rubin Obliger.) If you DO come when you can, that will of course be extra awesome. Or if the idea appeals but the selected time will never work for you, I’d love to stay in touch with you about what you’re up to with your writing, because the more writerly accountability and inspiration and prodding I can get, the better.

That’s all, folks! 

I’m a writer in San José, Costa Rica, on a year-long quest to share daily posts on inspiring people, places and ideas from my adopted home as a kind of tonic during a rough time in the world. Sign up (top right of this page) to receive a little dose of inspiration every weekday in your mailbox; tell a friend; check out past posts; and please connect with me on Instagram or Facebook! If you want to learn more about how to support Costa Rica during the crisis, visit my COVID-19 section – or for ways to enjoy Costa Rica from afar, visit Virtual Costa Rica.

A Northern Zone artist, now churning out fabulous stickers

Posted on by stanleyobando

Creativity Week continues with a look at an artist who has been churning out tons of new pieces during the quarantine, including art in a very accessible new format: stickers. I love the idea of being able to add a Costa Rican hummingbird to any surface I like.

I featured Vivian Víquez, who hails from San Carlos in the Northern Zone, in February – when she told me that her goal was “ to help make species more visible and educate the public” – and have been loving her Instagram feed ever since (while I tend to be drawn to her birds, there are beetles and mammals and all kinds of creatures wandering there).

Honestly, that’s about all I have to say today. Well done, Vivian; thank you; and to anyone who needs a splash of Costa Rican color in their lives on the regular, look no further. (Check her out on Instagram.)

I’m a writer in San José, Costa Rica, on a year-long quest to share daily posts on inspiring people, places and ideas from my adopted home as a kind of tonic during a rough time in the world. Sign up (top right of this page) to receive a little dose of inspiration every weekday in your mailbox; tell a friend; check out past posts; and please connect with me on Instagram or Facebook! If you want to learn more about how to support Costa Rica during the crisis, visit my COVID-19 section, updated regularly – or for ways to enjoy Costa Rica from afar, visit Virtual Costa Rica.

 

How a tiny cat launched a creative empire

Posted on by stanleyobando

Next up in this Creativity Week is Priscilla Aguirre. She’s one of my favorite local artists, the force behind the Holalola brand and the illustrator of my book back in 2016, much to my eternal delight. During the pandemic, she’s been putting forth lots of new designs. This week she unveiled a new website that goes behind the scenes of her creative process.

While it’s brand-new, it’s already full of great stuff, from a recipe for coconut pancakes (what? Yes, please), to tips to creating a gallery wall in your home, to a beautiful essay about how Holalola came to be. It turns out Priscilla adopted a cat years ago, Lola, and that cat changed everything.

That little cat changed my life. At first, I was afraid of hurting her – she was so small – and then she gave me allergies and scratched me up plenty. But something about her fascinated me, and as she grew, I fell in love with her “cattitude,” her independence, her adventurous spirit, the way she set limits. And I began to transform, too, little by little. I started trying things that had been unthinkable with the anxiety to which I was so accustomed. Saying no. Listening to myself more. Having more confidence. Paying attention to what I wanted to do.

So confident did Lola make Priscilla that she – the artist, that is, not the cat – even managed to take a trip to San Francisco with her young son. There, at an exhibit, she saw the artwork that eventually inspired Holalola, a business named for the cat that made it all possible. The cat has gone, but “now, I am Lola,” Priscilla writes.

In this time of great stress and tremendous creativity, here’s to the Lolas who make it possible for us to change and strive. And, if you’re a Spanish speaker, please check out lolaturquoise.com. You’ll be glad you did.

I’m a writer in San José, Costa Rica, on a year-long quest to share daily posts on inspiring people, places and ideas from my adopted home as a kind of tonic during a rough time in the world. Sign up (top right of this page) to receive a little dose of inspiration every weekday in your mailbox; tell a friend; check out past posts; and please connect with me on Instagram or Facebook! If you want to learn more about how to support Costa Rica during the crisis, visit my COVID-19 section, updated regularly – or for ways to enjoy Costa Rica from afar, visit Virtual Costa Rica.