Snow White

Last week we, four tenants of Casa las Playas, were all eating dinner at Tacos Locos in Jaco, Costa Rica. Having all ordered the smallest tacos I've ever been served, I know now the answer to my question posed in October 2022. 

These tacos. These tacos were smaller.

The whole taco game here has been mildly disappointing, but the burrito game makes up for it.

Anyway, we were discussing Dawson's profession. You see, he is a miner in Canada. His line of work was so baffling to Mike and I because it actually exists. This guy actually works in mines, uses dynamite for excavation, pans for gold, the whole dig. 

The only mining concepts Mike and I have ever known are from '90s Loony Toons and vague imagery from fairy tales. Naturally, Mike was inquisitive and I was just there making jokes. Dawson was describing the order of a dig, the permits, the processes, and I was just like, "So when do they send the dwarves in?"

After a good chuckle, Mike was still asking questions trying to imagine how this could be real life for someone, somewhere, and asked how many men worked on a mining site at a time.

Without missing a beat, quiet Randy, the retired rancher from Denver, Colorado, answered beneath his Hulk Hogan mustache, "Seven".

Mining rocks,

TWS

Homeowner's Association

What is right and what is wrong

Am I a joyful noise or a spiteful gong

A wayward wind or a righteous song

Its tune depends on the receiver

Fear not the sound that you have heard

Truth springs forth from every word

Awakening the conscious-stirred

Who calls themselves a believer

The freedom to know truth in themselves

Like pulling ancient books off of the shelves

The wisdom into each one of us delves

I find scripture written within me 

See, things do grow in sidewalk cracks

Forgotten, except for those who ask

And also those that have the knack

For tasking what 'ought' should be

From there to seek out, weed, and pull

What naturally would grow to full

Instead separate, shiv, and hull

And sever all its blooming

Sure, it's not a garden, and yet

To not know is still greater a threat

Consciousness is not a "give" or "get"

My soul it is consuming

So then we in conjugation

Better off in separation

Or instead complementation

Though we may not agree

I am never apart from the Divine

Its knowing, its energy, therein my spine

The will is not yours, but mine

To create what I should be

I am but the daffodil

Bulbous and yet growing still

Finding my way, wherever and will

Determined I will grow

Despising fines and subjugation

My god is not the homeowners association

I'm not here for propagation

That's only for me to know

But I was not sown in decrepit soil

From that concept, I recoil

So I will grow and will not spoil

Grounded and rooted, I will stay

And by conviction, follow the call within

Though shunned, heralded the greatest 'sin'

So much that when you do not even want to call me kin

It will all be okay

TWS

It Cannot Be Contained

If a snake could not cast its skin, consider

It would no longer grow or slither

And so stagnant, dry up, shrink, and wither

Should nature not be blamed

Yet just like skin that's shed behind

A soul journey is often serpentine

A winding path, never defined

For it cannot be contained

A bird comfortable within its cage

Lives like an actor upon a stage

Playing out its role until it's aged

Because of belief in its restraint

Yet when doors open with a renewed eye

Limitations are the only lie

Birds remember they're supposed to fly

For they cannot be contained

So wise as serpents, doves innocent

Skins we outgrow, with wings ascend

Into the worlds for which we're meant

And growing might be pained

Though suffer may, yet not succumb

We live the truth of where we're from

In faith and courage overcome

For we cannot be contained

Fifth dimension poetry,

TWS