Edition #188: Moments of Transcendence

Can you recognize them when they arrive? Plus, check in on those around you, the creative power of walking, and you should have a cacao ceremony.

May 29, 2025

A Note From the Editor

The first happened on a Saturday, and I almost flaked at the last minute. My typical Saturday goes like this: Wake up, coffee on my back porch, a supremely difficult pilates class taught by my friend, brunch afterward. Then I might have Spanish class, then I drive to the market on the beach to pick up my box of produce. I’ll usually take a beach walk as the sun sets. Saturday is my only weekend this regimented, the rest are loose and malleable.

On this particular Saturday, I considered the predictable ease of my typical plans as I rose earlier than usual, packing bug spray and a big jug of water, sunscreen and a swimsuit, pulling long socks over leggings, lacing up my sneakers. I had agreed to visit a finca owned by a man in town, accompanied by two friends. The man has lived here for over 30 years, back when this tiny town was nothing but trees and beach. He also has a large sauna and ice bath and it was during one of these sauna sessions that the man began to speak about his farm, the finca. I off-handedly mentioned I’d like to see it, and so that particular Saturday, the thing I asked for was happening.

Except, to be honest, I wasn’t in the mood. I knew there was a long hike involved. I enjoy hiking in theory, but often during a difficult hike, I think, why did I agree to this, I hate hiking. There was also the question of company, the energy required to chit-chat with people I didn’t know well. This would be a whole day affair, trumping my typical Saturday with something unknown. I wasn’t sure I had the energy for it and I felt inexplicably nervous.

We met at the man’s cavernous hang-out den. I took note of the extensive variety of chairs, the pool table, large projector screen. It was a cool space. He handed us smoothies which had little chunks of nuts in them. Into the pickup truck we piled: The man, a Canadian, in the front, his German assistant in the passenger seat. In the back, my two friends and me. An American, an Argentinian, and a Brit, and their two dogs, both Costa Rican. In the truck bed, bags and coolers packed with I don’t know what. I was certainly the least prepared attendee.

We set off with the windows rolled down, Led Zeppelin playing on the stereo. I relaxed in the way that is required when you're along for the ride; just show up and follow the leader. No expectations. These are some of my most fond experiences in life; the not knowing, not being in charge of the plan. Whatever comes after is fine with me.

On the drive, we pulled up next to a parked car and I saw a tall, handsome Frenchman. We had met at a birthday party two years ago, exchanged phone numbers, and gone on a date. With him was a pretty, tanned woman with curly hair. His girlfriend, maybe, I had no idea. They would be joining us on our adventure and I wasn’t sure how I felt about this unexpected twist. But again, I was just along for the ride.

We drove and drove, up an unpaved, winding mountain road. My two friends and I hopped in the bed of the truck, standing up shoulder-to-shoulder like little kids, the wind whipping our faces. We laughed, sucked in the crisp air. A few times we had to duck, all three of us in unison, to avoid getting our foreheads sliced by a stray branch. We hang on at every turn, bracing ourselves.

At the starting point for the hike, there was a small, humble house where a local family lived. They were helping the man develop the finca, along with a handful of others. There were three dogs, one with a deformed leg, though no less ferocious in his bark. There were bee boxes for fresh honey, a small greenhouse, a bridge connecting one piece of land to the other, a yoga chalet perched above the green abyss. A handful of simple cabins were near finished construction—this would, at some point, be a stripped-down digital detox center.

Before the hike began, we were each to choose a walking stick from the pile, all harvested from the land. We would attempt to reach the top today, but it would depend on the weather. Too much rain and we could lose our footing, slide right down the muddy mountain. And off we went.

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The second happened the following Friday, a mere six days later. I was freshly showered, my hair graced with a rare wash and blow dry, my features accentuated with a bit of makeup. We were back again in that cave-like hang-out den, the one with the big screen, except under very different circumstances.

I had been nervous all day, all week, and so I asked my friends if they wouldn’t mind arriving at the venue two hours before the event’s start time. There wasn’t much to be done and this became clear rather quickly. We set up the snack bar, lit some incense, arranged the melange of chairs in a way that every seat would have a clear view of the screen. I pulled up my Vimeo page and played the opening two seconds of my film, just to see if the sound worked. It did. I was sweating. All there was left to do was wait, and pop some popcorn closer to the time the guests would arrive.

My friends started a game of pool. I rearranged some chairs, then rearranged them again. Took some deep breaths, changed into my nicer outfit. We ordered dinner, though I would not eat my half a mahi burrito until that evening, at home, after all the adrenaline drained from my body and I realized I was wine drunk. At 7:00pm, the musician arrived. I greeted her and showed her where to set up, asked her to sing in both Spanish and English.

At 7:15pm, the first guests arrived. I felt, as I always do when guests arrive early, a mild irritation—showing up early to a social event should be illegal. At precisely 7:30, the others began to arrive. I realized I should hover near the door and personally greet people, thanking them for coming, encouraging them to drink some wine or kombucha until the film started. Somehow I did not disassociate; I greeted each guest, quietly amazed as more and more bodies filed in. 10 people, then 25, then 30, then 40, 45, 50. Every person who RSVPed arrived. A few extras, too.

The room buzzed with the hum of collected conversation, the soft croon of live music in the background. Now I was really sweating, I accepted the cup of red wine handed to me despite my plan to remain sober all of May. This was a special occasion. Around 8:15pm, I relived the singer from the stage. I would say a few words; I had rehearsed them on my beach walk that morning. I asked the crowd whether I really needed the microphone and they shouted, in unison, YES, like a bunch of paid actors.

I started with an admission: I’m nervous, so let’s all take a deep breath together. Silence blanketed the room. In and out we all went. I closed my eyes. And then I began to speak.

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Though not easy, the hike wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. Once your legs get moving, a certain rhythm kicks in. We alternated between speaking to comfortable silence, our bodies coated in hard-earned sweat. It rained on us a few times, each time the rain a cooling relief. The dogs chased each other around our feet.

At some point, the handsome Frenchman was in line behind me, and he inquired after my film, Did you ever make it? How did it go? I recalled our date, being unable to stop talking about the idea I had for a short film, which I was about to start. I imagined if we liked each other, he would be one of the first to see it—but he was moving to Paris to work for the upcoming Olympic games and we would not see each other again. I told him we had finally finished the film, it took much longer than I anticipated, but I was proud of the result. In fact, I said, I wanted to plan a screening in town. If he was around, I’d invite him to join.

There were many standout moments from that day at the finca. When we made it to the top, the entire mountain was covered with a dense, moving cloud of fog. The man apologized for the lack of view, but I was secretly glad. It felt like we were in a dream. Later, on the way down, we stopped at a 500-year-old ceiba tree. In Mayan tradition, the tree was believed to be the center of the earth, connecting the terrestrial world to the spirit world above. I crawled into the large, open space at its roots and imagined living in their abundant shelter. The longer I looked at the tree, the more I could see it growing legs, standing up like a great tree in a storybook, and slowly tromping around the forest. Its voice would be deep, its lessons many. You would first be afraid, excepting something so large to be insidious, but you would soon realize it was a good tree.

At the bottom of the trail, a large sauna awaited us. It was the hottest sauna I’d ever been in, but my tense muscles breathed a sigh of relief. We alternated between dipping in an icy river and cooking in the sauna. We dumped buckets of river water on each other’s heads, drank from the fresh stream. Dried and back at the starting point was a massive tin bowl of porridge, plus bowls of diced apples, coconut, and papaya, a glug of honey from the finca’s bees, a jug of fresh coconut water, and some cinnamon. We sat on some couches, changed into our spare sets of clean clothes. I had a huge T-shirt on and some biker shorts, my feet bare. I filled my bowl with every available accouterment. Never has porridge been so sweetly satisfying.

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After my speech, the crowd applauded, a few ambient whoops, and then it was time. To this point, the only people who had seen my film were the editor, the cinematographer, and the composer. Not another soul. Even the starring actor, who was seated in the room, hadn’t seen it. I was so glad to have him there, for he was the only person who could come close to understanding the electric shock of nerves that ran through me.

I refilled my cup of wine and climbed up the platform to the director's chair; a worn recliner perched above the room. The lights went down. Below me, the heads of people I had met over recent weeks, some months, some years. All seated in silent anticipation, waiting for me to press play.

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Here is the first moment of transcendence: My stomach is full of warmed porridge, my body is delightfully spent, and I am seated in the back of the truck. We’re driving back to town and have been driving for some time, enough time for the body to fully relax, for the mind to wonder. The Frenchman and his friend are following behind us. He returns to Paris tomorrow morning.

As we get closer to town, there again comes that stop off where we must pull onto the beach. An old rock-and-roll song is playing but it’s low-key. All the windows are down and now we’re driving on the sand. I’m staring out into the darkness, hand flung out the window, air on my face. I hear the crash of the ocean and smell the salt air. I look up at the sky; all stars, and a voice in my head says this: You are on a great adventure in a faraway land. And, you are living out your childhood dream.

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Here is the second moment of transcendence: I am seated in the director's chair. The room is entirely silent, like a real movie theatre, and I can feel the energy of 50 pairs of eyes directed at the screen, the miracle of full attention given to something that I made. A vision I had in my head for many years, a man digging a hole, transformed into this moment. The entire, arduous process, all of the moments of deep insecurity and satisfaction it stirred, all done behind closed doors, with no eyeballs or accolades to motivate me. A project I was sure, at points, I would abandon completely.

And now it was being seen, so I was being seen. I was filled with the most sincere wave of awe. After scrutinizing and picking and perfecting for many months, I anticipated seeing only what I had deemed as marks of my novice on the large screen. Instead, I was proud of it. It was good. Afterward, many hugs, many congratulations, but also something else. Keep going, friends said, keep going, acquaintances said. What's next? And, I expect to see more of these from you.

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Cheers, my dears, and as always, thank you for reading. On moments of transcendence—I believe we all encounter them, but that the superpower is being tuned in enough to recognize when they are happening in real-time and not after the fact. That is the magic of life.

Tomorrow, I head back to the States for a month in New York. It’s going to be a busy month filled with lots of fun friend time—a grad school graduation, a handful of parties, a book club, a wedding, a 30th birthday, and a very special meeting with a very special baby. Not to mention everything I want to eat, all the movies I was to see, all the plays, and all the bookstores I want to visit. I cannot wait.

Have a wonderful weekend! Smell the top of a baby’s head, make a list of your favorite things, invite friends over for dinner, and play a card game afterward. This one is the best.

Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming

Would You Fly Around the World For Your Favorite Food Creator? After traveling on a group trip in Uganda last summer, I realized what an insanely bustling niche creator-led travel was. The girlies are hosting trips on trips on trips, and the people are buying. Retreat travel was major last year but this year it’s tapered down, so it’ll be interesting to see if creator-led trips continue to be popular in the years to come. There really is something sticky about group travel, especially for groups who have something (say, a creator they love) in common. I’d low-key love key go on this trip even though I don’t know the influencer. Looks très magnifique.
Check In On Those Around You. If there is one thing you consume in today’s edition, make it this. Be sure to watch through to the end (its >3 minutes). I am eternally grateful to have people I love and trust who check in on me and who I check in on. On that note: if you need help, please send me a note. We have to look out for each other <3
Craig Mod On The Creative Power of Walking. If you’re a book lover and consume anything New York media landscape adjacent, you’ve likely heard/read/seen something about Craig Mod’s new book, chronicling a 300-mile walk across Japan in a narrative/photo essay hybrid. Mod’s writing is beautiful and I’ve followed his pop-up newsletters for a while now. In them, he writes an essay and shares some photos at the end of a long day’s walk (typically through a region of Japan) for some time. Once that allotted time is over the entire pop-up newsletter archive is deleted. I like his approach to creation; it is singular and feels defiant of the “more is more” digital culture. If I was in NYC on 30 May, I’d be going to this. There’s also one on 6 June in Beacon.

Perhaps You Should…Have Your Own Cacao Ceremony

I am currently attempting a task I previously thought impossible: giving up coffee first, and eventually, caffeine at large. I have been coffee-sober since Monday—I’ll write about the reasoning and process another time. For now, I’m replacing my coffee with a morning cacao, and it’s been lovely.

I’ve participated in a few cacao ceremonies during my time in Central America, but I never felt especially connected to the heart-opening ritual. I purchased a bar of 100%, ceremonial grade cacao on a whim—the OG, unprocessed version of chocolate in its purest form, with no sugar or additives—and decided to have myself a little morning cacao ceremony to ease off the coffee.

I mixed half a mug of oat milk and half a mug of water onto a saucepan, added some vanilla, cinnamon, and honey, whisked it around, and then chopped up some cacao and whisked it in. The good cacao is crumbly, it takes some power to chop from the bar. For the “ceremony,” I set my yoga mat outside in the sun, lit palo santo, and turned on this playlist.

I take my time drinking it, closing my eyes, listening to the sounds of the birds and bugs, and feeling my body. If this all sounds very hippie because it is, but I can nearly guarantee you’d love it if you gave it a try. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the energy the cacao gives me; no crash, no jitters. Come July, I’m going to get off the cacao as well and see how my body fares. God speed!