It began with rain and stairs. Seventy steps up to registration. Then seventy steps down. A golf cart carried me to my room at the far end of the property—fifty more steps up. I dropped my bag, rummaged for yoga pants, and hurried outside. Huge, sporadic raindrops slapped my face as I dashed down the path to join fifty-seven fellow yogis in the Ocean Shala for evening yoga.

Arriving breathless and soaked, I pushed wet hair from my face and caught sight of an arrow: five flights–seventy additional steps—to reach the shala. I wanted to feel joyful, but instead I felt weary, hungry, and questioned the wisdom of booking a yoga retreat during Costa Rica’s rainy season.

After class, I traced my way back to the open-air terrace for dinner. Most seats were taken—until I saw Greta, with one open chair by her side.

Greta—a 92-year-old guru of life—had welcomed me back to yoga after a long absence. With her by my side, I thought I could fall flat on my mat and still rise into downward dog with grace. Asking permission to join her, she nodded in quiet affirmation, serene as a monk.

I snaked through the dinner line, piling greens and steamed plantains (and a few mysterious foods) onto my plate. When I slid into the chair beside her, she was sipping coconut soup scented with lemon.

“I have an olive oil allergy—and the buffet actually labeled which dishes contained it!” I announced. “I’ve never seen that before.”

“How did you find out you were allergic?” Greta asked, surprised.

I told my story.  I rewarded myself, after leaving high school teaching, with a trip to northern Spain to see the art I’d spent years teaching. Gazing at Bilbao’s undulating Guggenheim, driving out to Dalí’s house to see his whimsical garden eggs, and sitting in the Sagrada Familia, contemplating how blues, greens, and reds of the stained-glass dance inside the cathedral.

Greta nodded, listening wide-eyed.

“I did it,” I continued. “One of the best days of my life ended in a local tapas bar—empanadas, calamari, gambas, and bowls upon bowls of olives: Manzanilla, Gordal, and Hojiblanca, marinated with garlic and spices. I ate too many. Suddenly, my throat closed. I couldn’t breathe. A stranger pounded my back and, finally, I could gulp in air—air that never tasted so sweet.”

“Were you tested for an allergy?” Nancy, across from Greta, chimed in.

“Yes. And now I know– no more olive-popping. I have an allergy.” I inhaled the cool night and glanced at Greta. “What about you—any surprising travel stories?”

She drew back and seemed slightly put-off. “I am not telling those stories. Not here. Not now.” Nancy’s fork paused in midair; Greta simply focused on her food, eating with complete attention. Her words, brusque but not mean, brought a heavy silence.

After a while, Greta turned to me. “I didn’t come to Costa Rica to tell my story. I am here to breathe the air after the rain, to enjoy the earthy scent of orchids and lilies, to savor this exquisite meal—so vibrant and nourishing.”

It became a moment to hold. I was there, in the NOW. I noticed Greta’s joy in her meal. I studied my plate—lettuces, carrots, beets, corn, nuts—and ate slowly, intentionally. The white fish melted on my tongue.

After a few silent, mindful minutes, I turned to Greta and said, “This meal is truly remarkable. Thank you for silencing me.”

She nodded, then looked at me directly. “I came to Costa Rica to be here. To experience it. Life is hard, yes—so many people here have shared their broken stories with me. But it’s beautiful here, too, if you pause and truly live in it.”

“Thank you,” I said, bowing my head slightly. In that moment I knew that while we are shaped by our stories, sometimes we must step beyond them to listen, to notice the beauty of living—of NOW.

When we stood, I hugged Greta. “I love your wisdom.”

She grinned. “Keep walking this path. You’re making the journey to your own wisdom.”

I breathed in the crisp night air, I felt both gratitude and hope. I leaned down and kissed the top of Greta’s head. She kissed my cheek in return.