Letting go and gaining hope: wisdom comes at base of Costa Rican volcano

"Come on, red rocks," I begged in the darkness. I held my breath and then held my eyes wide open, afraid to blink and miss what we had been waiting so patiently to see. I stared at the volcano looming in the distance, hoping to will it to produce its natural fireworks.

Hearing the hushed whispers around me, I was reminded that I was not alone. And though the people around me were mostly strangers, I was more than happy to share this moment with them. In fact, I felt incredibly blessed. In the middle of the Costa Rican jungle, in the middle of the night, there we stood, perfect strangers, waiting, wishing together to witness one of Costa Rica's natural wonders. We stood there small and in awe with no control, only hope.

And I realized that though we may not find ourselves in the middle of the Costa Rican jungle very often, there are indeed plenty of moments in life when we find ourselves feeling small and with no control, only hope.

Just weeks before, I had been sitting at my desk in my office in Hawaii, staring at my computer screen, choking back tears ... feeling small, with no control and very little hope. The school I was working at was struggling in the sluggish economy, and the stress and uncertainty were quite literally making me sick. I couldn't control the economy or the deteriorating situation at my school. I couldn't will these things to improve, just as I couldn't will the red rocks to come bursting from the volcano. But what I could do was hope. And look for a new job.

After spending seemingly endless hours scouring online job sites and several more hours tweaking my résumé and getting it out to potential employers, I secured a few interviews and along with them, some hope. My best prospects seemed to be in returning to teaching English in Asia. That is, until I found this:

Job opening: Program Coordinator

We are seeking professionals with a true passion for travel, cultural exchange, and helping communities in need.

Several interviews and a couple of weeks later, my bags were packed and I was headed to New York for a staff retreat with my new company — an organization that creates customized, international service learning and cultural and language immersion programs — called Sustainable Horizon.

I may be small. And I may not have had control of the economy or the future of the school I was working at. But what I did have was hope. And a new job.

After a week spent with my new co-workers learning about the past, present and future of the organization, and a week spent with my family regrouping and trying to process everything that was happening, I found myself on a Sustainable Horizon familiarization tour in Costa Rica, staring into the darkness with strangers, overwhelmed by the purely natural magic of the moment.

And I realized that what mattered was not whether the volcano put on a show for us. What mattered was that we had all come from our respective corners of the world to the same place for the same reason. What mattered was that in that moment, who we were, what languages we spoke, how much money we had or didn't have, our fears, hopes and dreams — these things were irrelevant. What mattered was the moment. Sharing it. Living in it.

Small, in awe, with no control. But with plenty of hope.

And wondering, "Just how did I get here?"

I recalled a quote a reader of my column had shared with me: "Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning how to dance in the rain."

And in spite of the storms in my life, both metaphorical and literal, dance I did — around my house in Hawaii when I received an e-mail outlining the job offer, the hokey pokey with the schoolchildren of a rural village in Costa Rica, and a little jig in the jungle when a few small red rocks finally burst from the volcano.

The economic "storm" couldn't stop me in Hawaii, nor did the torrential rains stop us in Costa Rica. In fact, I did a lot of dancing, among other things, in the very real rain there.

Outside a rural high school there was a constant drizzle while inside we chatted with the teens in a mix of broken Spanish and English. We learned about their hopes for the future, heard about past service projects done by Sustainable Horizon programs, and discovered how these projects have directly and positively impacted their community.

When the pounding overnight rains prevented us from completing our own service project, we made alternate plans. We visited local farms, learned about the importance of the local products for both self-sufficiency and for sale, picked fresh mangoes and guava in the forest, and tried our hand at grinding the sweet liquid out of sugar cane.

A sudden and deafening downpour threatened our afternoon plans for horseback riding. Yet somehow the storm passed as quickly as it came, leaving us drenched but still laughing and excited to see what other surprises the day would bring.

When the rains doused the front yard of a local primary school and the sole teacher there had an unexpected family emergency, we didn't hide out inside and wait for her return. Instead, we ran outside with the schoolchildren and played "futbol," barefoot in the mud. We taught them English songs from our childhood and they taught us their own in Spanish. Though none of us understood all that was said and sung, what we did understand was that we had only just moments together to enjoy, to sing, to laugh — and we weren't going to waste those moments with cares about our dirty toes, our drenched clothes or the words we couldn't comprehend.

The Costa Rican rain and the stubborn volcano reminded me that some things are simply out of our control. But a break in the clouds, an alternate plan, childhood games, and a moment shared with perfect strangers in the jungle reminded me that although we may not have control, what we do have is the choice to hope, to laugh, to beg a volcano to reveal a bit of its magic, and of course, to dance.

To cherishing the moments and learning to dance in the rain,

Ashley

Ashley M. Fitzgerald spent a year and a half in Thailand as a teacher, model and program coordinator. She is now a program coordinator for Sustainable Horizon in California. She is a 2000 graduate of Harrisville Central School and a graduate of Middlebury (Vt.) College. "Grown Local, Gone Global" is published monthly. Past columns are available at www.watertowndailytimes.com/section/grownlocalgoneglobal. Contact Ashley at afitzgerald@wdt.net.