Every morning when I step out onto the balcony, I look for the horse. "I promise he's there," I tell Len. He has yet to see him, my San Jose mirage.
Maybe the horse is my lesson. He's obviously there, but the time has to be perfect in order to see him. The conditions have to be right. He has to be hungry to venture out beyond the cool shade of the trees and munch on the patchy grass. Plus, I must need fresh air and step onto my balcony at that exact moment when the little guy is hungry. We have synced twice; I hope to see him again before we leave.
It's our final week in Costa Rica.
Our first break between appointments was spent on the southern tip of Costa Rica, the Osa Peninsula. Or second break, in the mountains near La Fortuna.
We are back in San Jose, and I can honestly say, the days can not move swiftly enough. I'm not sure what my tongue will do with itself once there's nothing left to play with - no bumps, no posts, no exposed gums. Although, I'm willing to give it a try, but at this point, I find it hard to believe that my smile will look like the many finished portraits I see on hanging on Meza's wall. The distance between where I am right now to where I hope to end is ENORMOUS. My mind can't comprehend.
Again, blind faith that everything will come together at the perfect moment to produce the expected end result is the primary player in this scenario. All the prep work that began in September of last year had led to these final days, some six months later, when I hope to become whole again.
So here we go. Chair. Chair. Chair. Fly home on Saturday.
But by Friday, I predict, I'll see my horse once more - and hopefully, Len will see him, too - say goodbye, and thank him for teaching me that patience and hopefulness are a great combination. And it is not for me to know when the perfect moment is but to be willing to hang around and be willing to endure what transpires during the in-between.