This newsletter is about finding paradise in ordinary moments. I don’t write about extraordinary things. I write about noticing ordinary things that most people rush past. When people arrive at Villa Migelita, many of them eventually take off their shoes. They don’t do it because there’s a sign. They do it because something shifts. They relax. They slow down. They feel at home. And they walk barefoot in the grass.
There’s something about the people who stay here. By the second day, many are walking barefoot. No one tells them to.
It just happens.
Maybe it’s the grass. Maybe it’s the mountain air. Maybe it’s because, for a little while, they stop worrying about looking polished and start feeling present.
I think that’s what paradise is. Not luxury. Not perfection. Just the freedom to kick off your shoes. I’ve realized I’ve become a little barefoot too. Not just in my shoes, but in the way I live. Less rushing. Less proving. More noticing.
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Nature always has a way of bringing balance to our lives.
Lately, I’ve been adopted by not one, but two Western Emerald hummingbirds.
One lives at the feeders outside my suite, and the other has claimed the feeders in the social area. If I’m not quick enough filling them, they don’t hesitate to remind me. They follow me to the kitchen, trail me down the stairs, and sometimes buzz around my head like tiny Fourth of July sparklers.
This isn’t the first time.
A few years ago, I had a little Western Emerald I named Magic. He lived here for nearly three years. Every time I drove home, he somehow knew I had arrived. I’d open the truck door, and there he’d be, waiting to greet me. We had our own little routine.
When Magic stopped coming, I missed him more than I expected. It’s funny how attached you can become to something so small.
Now, these two little emeralds have taken over the job. They greet me every day, chatter at me when breakfast is late, and yes… I talk to them.
How can I not when they make sure I know I am not fast enough to fill their feeder?
Here in the mountains of Colombia, I’ve learned that nature has its own language. Sometimes all you have to do is slow down long enough to hear it.
I’ve written before about how different homes are here in the Colombian countryside. Most of us don’t have air conditioning or central heat. Instead, we live with our doors open to the balconies, inviting the breeze to wander through. City life may be a little different, but not by much.
Living this way means accepting that nature doesn’t stop at your front door. A bee might buzz through the kitchen. A hummingbird may accidentally find its way inside. A giant grasshopper—considered good luck here—might appear on the wall. Every now and then, I’ll spot a witch moth quietly resting in a corner. And yes, the downstairs bathroom occasionally has a tiny toad tucked behind the door.
It isn’t unusual. It’s simply part of life.
There is no darkness at my house. Only light, glorious light.
Every morning, sunlight pours through the open windows, and I wake to the warmth of a new day. The breeze wanders through the hallway and across the balconies. It’s impossible not to feel connected to the world outside.
I believe there is something deeply healing about living this way.
We spend so much of our lives trying to separate from nature, when perhaps we were meant to be part of it all along.
My guests seem to understand that. They don’t complain about the occasional visitor with wings or long legs. In fact, many embrace it. I’ve watched couples head out after sunset with flashlights in hand, eager to discover what comes alive after dark. They’re not looking for luxury; they’re looking for an experience.
And that, to me, is the magic of this place.
Paradise isn’t perfect. It chirps, hops, buzzes, croaks, and sometimes flies right through your front door.
And somehow, that makes it feel even more like home.
You know what surprised me this week? Reading about the “simple” trend.
Apparently, I’ve been living it for years.
Everything here is simple. My life isn’t perfect, but it is peaceful. I still have problems. We all do. The difference is that I have a place that reminds me to slow down long enough to figure them out.
Maybe that’s what paradise has been trying to teach me all along.
What simple thing makes you feel at home?
