Chasing Scarlet

Before I was a poet, I was a painter. And somewhere in between, I experienced the most transformative day of my life.

But to grasp the weight of the moment, you have to understand what led me there. You need the backstory—the story of Scarlet.

So let’s time machine to the beginning. Let’s drift back to when I was able to imagine my life in a different color.

I’ve always believed art is art, whether it’s prose or paint. And, no matter the medium, I’ve always been slow to finish my projects; hesitant to reveal my unfinished edges.

So when I get the question, every now and then, about why I ran away to Costa Rica, I give the carefully planned answer:

Because I wanted to immerse myself in another culture; to become so fluent in Spanish that I could dream in it. And, I wanted to paint the tropical landscapes that called to me.

However, my love for Latin American heritage, language, and acrylic pigment is only the bright-moon side of the story. The darker, more metaphorical reason is this:

I escaped to Costa Rica because the color blue was my captor.

You read that correctly. I was a prisoner—not by a person, but by a color. I fled my life—the world I’d known, and built, since childhood—because there was too much cerulean. Too much aquamarine. Too much timid, breakable seaglass in my personality—not enough fire. Not enough strength. Not enough red.

I’d been chasing Scarlet ever since I could remember. She was the version of me I wanted to be: bright, alive, full of warmth and confidence—full of flame. When I stood in the sun and closed my eyes, I could see her dance across the drape of my vision—a flush of rose, a surge of ruby—almost like an awakening. She was electric; I was a moth drawn to her blaze. I yearned to become her. To embody her brilliance. I wanted, so deeply, to be the color red.

I was 25 when I found myself too enthralled to resist her. I’d been living the life society expected of me. I’d graduated college. I’d gotten a plush job working for a fancy company. I’d signed up for my 401k and was busy architecting the perfect, picket-fence path for myself. My future looked promising. Stable. Safe—like blue.

In the back of my mind, however, she nipped at me. Scarlet was a faraway star, and I was a tangle of vines reaching for her light. On a certain level, all living creatures wander in pursuit of the driving force needed to stay, and feel, alive. Scarlet was my Roman Empire—my soul’s stretch for fulfillment. In the swept away corners of my existence, she lingered. Even while the hustle and bustle of life consumed me, Scarlet summoned me.

That’s because she knew I was dying. I didn’t realize it for a long time, but my world, as it was, was destroying me: the monotony of it. The dull, predictable routine. The office small talk, the endless bridal and baby showers—it was all eating away at me. I found myself unable to grow—not only because I was meek and stifled—but because I was deeply despondent. I was blue in every essence of the word.

So when I woke up one morning with the decision to risk it all for adventure, I never second-guessed myself. I packed up my suitcase and was on a plane within two weeks.

“I’ll teach English, I’ll finally learn to speak Spanish the way I’ve always dreamed, I’ll travel, I’ll paint—and then I’ll come home,” I told my family. “It will be good for me. Like… a fresh coat of life.”

Like a fresh coat of life, I told myself. That was it. Exactly it. I’d repaint my melancholy—my blue—into something new. Costa Rica was where I’d emerge from my chrysalis; break free from my cobalt captor. When I returned, I’d do so as something more beautiful. More liberated. More evocative of Scarlet.

And Scarlet was waiting for me the minute I stepped off the plane. She was there in the mango-hued sunsets, in the bougainvillea pinks of the breezy verandas—in the damp, iron-rich roads that disappeared, like hidden promises, into the tropical landscapes.

There was plenty of green, of course. There was emerald, jade, and peridot in every silhouette, pulse, and leaf of the land. But all artists know that green is complementary to red on the color wheel. Green exists to make red supernova.

And I was already beginning to feel like a firework. There, in the cradle of Central America, surrounded by acres of palm trees, I was in an Eden—the perfect nest—for my spiritual, cultural, and creative metamorphosis. I was among a people who spoke a language that struck my ears like poetry; an endless source of inspiration for my purpose and pigment. My soul felt electric. My heart was exploding.

But this was just the beginning. There was so, so much more to come.

Because I needed to make money—somehow—while abroad, I signed up for a TEFL program. It offered hands-on practice, providing the licensing needed to teach English. It was—at the time—one of the only ways someone on a tourist visa could work in the country. It was also the first way in which I noticed Scarlet igniting within me. Through the rhythm of the language, through the laughter of my students; by way of the boldness it required to stand at the front of a room—I felt myself stepping into her essence. Something inside of me was catching fire.

Between teaching gigs, I’d wander, travel, and paint. I’d carry my canvas under my arm—my pigments, my brushes, and my palette of sheer determination in a tote bag. I’d walk around for a bit, each day in a new direction, scouting out sun-dappled spots on beaches, the flowery terraces of open-air cafés, or inviting corners of the market square where I might spot just the right muse to master my use of one single color:

red.

Once settled, I’d sink into a trance with my paintbrush. I’d paint the bright ginger, hibiscus, and bougainvillea blossoms that bordered the wild gardens like rouge stars. I’d paint the ripe, slit-open guavas and papaya fruits—the red, un-roasted coffee cherries that caught sunlight, like jewels, in the ferias. And, I’d paint the crimsons adorning traditional costumes: the ones worn by men, women, and children who twirled in street festivals in a firestorm of culture, love, and happiness—in a celebration of red. Sometimes I even wore red lipstick while I painted so I'd see myself in the color I was chasing. It was like my own little celebration—an honoring of who I'd soon be.

With each image I painted, I felt the spirit of Scarlet intermingling with mine. I felt myself becoming less blue—moving closer to red on the color palette:

indigo…

violet…

lilac: a liminal purple—somewhere between longing and full-fledged transformation.

On lazy, non-travel days, there was a place I’d resort to:

Café Tinta y Tierra. It was a charming, eclectic café in an artsy neighborhood down the street from where I was living. It offered patio-style seating—ideal for people and wildlife watching: perfect for sunsets and sightings of scarlet macaws.

It was also where I met Zafira.

Part of me likes to believe Scarlet led me to her. The other part wonders if I manifested her somehow—or that perhaps our friendship was destiny. Either way, the universe works with mysterious brilliance. I knew then that one day, the poetry of being pushed into the path of someone whose very name echoed fire—in my own search for Scarlet—would be something I’d write about.

“You paint like you only see one color,” she said to me in Spanish.

My heart skipped a beat. I hated when my work was observed before it was perfect. However, I also resented my own shy nature. I despised my timid, introverted blue.

I glanced at her, attempting to be non-standoffish.

“My current collection’s about red. I’ve done dart frogs, red fruits from the market, sunsets, festival dresses—”

“I know,” she said, “I’ve watched you.”

I put down my paintbrush, not quite sure what to say.

“My name’s Zafira,” she said, “I own an art studio a few blocks from here. You should come teach an art class. We’re curating a seasonal series—each week inspired by a different palette from the rainforest. So far we have artists committed to yellow, purple, orange, green, and blue… no one’s been interested in red yet. You’d be perfect—I see red in your spirit.”

Her dark eyes smiled as she watched my reaction, and her long brunette curls glowed in the rose-stained sunlight.

Red in my spirit, I thought. My expression lightened.

“That does… seem interesting.” My voice trailed off. I was horrible at expressing myself—at interacting with humans.

But she smiled.

“So you’ll do it?”

I nodded with hesitance.

“Yes, it sounds—“

I was interrupted as she grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd of strangers.

Stunned, I watched her pluck an apron off a hook and hand it to me.

“Oh, you mean… now,” I choked.

I glanced around as we wove further and further away from the main parlor. We came to a canopy-covered alleyway that smelled like citrus and clay.

“I thought you said your art studio was down the street…”

“Not tonight,” she said, “here, let me tie your apron. Your students are waiting.”

The sash wasn’t half-knotted around my waist when she pushed back a tapestry. Behind it, an audience of locals holding palettes awaited us.

You know when cartoon characters gulp and their Adam’s apple pops out of their throat? Yeah—that was me. I realized that not only was I about to teach an art class with zero preparation—I was about to do it completely in Spanish.

“Go on,” said Zafira, nodding with a grin.

I shot her a look of panic before stepping toward the front.

“Hi…” I squeaked, “Hola. We’re going to paint with red today…” I shuddered at the sound of my accent. My Spanish was horrible tonight. And, my cheeks were now the shade of a tomato.

I picked up a paintbrush and glanced around the alley, desperate to find something red.

“Today we’re going to paint, um…”

“Let’s paint your lips!” Someone exclaimed.

Confused, I reached up to touch my mouth, then remembered my red lipstick.

“You want to paint my… yes, great idea, let’s paint my lips!”

I smiled and signaled to Zafira to bring me a mirror.

And, we did just that. We painted my lips. My scarlet, Spanish-speaking lips. But… that wasn’t the end.

Suddenly, someone flicked a brush. To this day, I know not who it was. But as a streak of crimson hit my cheek, I knew this much—it was war.

Red began to fly in all directions, hitting our clothes, our hair, the alleyway walls—our faces.

I screamed and giggled, ducking behind easels, dripping palettes—yelling in Spanish.

Laughter and squeals filled the air. The alleyway felt like a fever dream.

Then, it happened: someone brought out a bucket of blue.

I don’t know where they found it. It wasn’t supposed to be there. But before I knew it—blue was all over my head. The entire bucket was dumped on me.

I stood there—a bewildered, wet statue. The paint on my skin couldn’t decide if it wanted to be red. Or blue. Or purple.

So I decided—then and there—that I could be everything.

And, with the fire of a scarlet rocket, I ran out of the café and bolted to the beach down the street. Everyone followed me.

I was the first there—the first to jump in the blue waves. Others soon joined me. Paint streamed from our clothes into the tide, our Spanish and laughter channeled by the ocean.

And I never had to chase Scarlet again. She was part of me now: a spark of wild sunlight to balance my stillness, my moon—my blue.