L-O-V-E. In all its forms, love is the thesis of our existence.
(The night sky can seem so infinite, its darkness powerful and looming, its vastness alluring. And so I wandered outside tonight. There was something familiar out there, something I wanted to be with. It was Winter’s silence. I stood there for a while, listening to the quiet, hearing and remembering dusty memories…)
Munich, Germany:
Snow fell like glitter from the sky. There was no wind. The night was silent and Winter’s chill, gentle. With the moon as my only companion, I felt alone walking beneath the streetlights. The snow was so soft, not even my footsteps could be heard. It seemed as if the entire world, but me, was tucked away.
I was walking down a storefront street, the trees glowed with lights, and all around was a fresh blanket of snow. And then I saw him. He was huddled in one of the store doorways, dressed in scant and thin clothes, looking worn and disconnected from this world. At first I was scared, but suddenly my feet became not my own, and I walked towards him.
He didn’t move, but I knelt down and gave him my warm clothes and what I had in my wallet. Not knowing what else to do, nor to say, my hand tentatively moved to his, and I said, “I love you.” I’ve never said those words to a stranger, and I’m still not sure what compelled me to say them, but he didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. I don’t know what his mind was like, or if he understood my English, but I’ll never forget his eyes, and what they still tell me today…
Love dwells and pulses within us all. This is our greatest gift in life. And though it is both a steady and tumultuous journey, it cannot be denied that we are most alive when our hearts are conscious of this eclectic treasure.
Love is the gift that makes us more aware of what we have than what we don’t have. It is a gift that shows us how to cherish again and again all the wonderful things in life. And, of course, it’s not what we have in our life, but whom we have in our life, that reciprocates our love and brings us purpose and celebration.
Love is our greatest gift, as well as our greatest mission in life—to love and be loved. This is the greatest thing we’ll ever learn, and ever do. To break open our hearts is to contain the whole universe. Remember this…
Love is everywhere; it is alive every day and grows in every season. If we look for it, we will surely find it. We will find love in our self, and all around us.
Merry Christmas, may we live brightly; may we live in the spirit of love always.
“Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired.” ~Mother Teresa
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Saturday, December 25, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Guatemala: The Five Stages of Poverty
How does the sight of Poverty make us feel?
Like Grief, I believe Poverty also stirs within us stages of emotion. And that these stages of emotion can be presented in any order and can continuously be repeated. Now, there isn’t some published list, based off of extended studies by professionals, of these stages of emotion. The list below is only a developing reflection based off of my own recent experiences.
Stage One: Shock and Shame
Observing Poverty, there’s a lot I’m seeing that I’ve never seen before. It’s a “numbing” kind of shock, if that makes sense. I’m upset and disturbed by what I see, but the novelty of what I see seems to be in slow motion, and I’m so captivated, I can’t stop staring. And though I was well aware about some of the realities of Poverty before coming here, to actually stand in front of them is a shock that I’m not sure I could’ve prepared myself for.
In Guatemala City, the dump is an actual neighborhood. And where are all these people going to move? (At least for now an NGO has set up a school there.) Moving outside of the City, houses are made of scraps of wood, tin, and cardboard. On the highway I see woman and men, walking bare foot, and carrying about 100 pounds of “mimbre” (a special kind of wood used for cooking fires) on their backs. Children too—seven, eight, nine-year-olds—carry what looks to be their own weight and more. They’ve most likely spent hours collecting this “mimbre”, and are carrying it to the markets, to only be offered a low sales price.
In San Lucas I see an elderly man slowly walking up the street, his legs bent awkwardly, because they were broken and were never set to heal properly. Babies and toddlers, who should have black hair, have streaks of red-brown in their hair because of malnutrition. Daily I see the same blind man, on the same corner, wearing the same dirty clothes and shaking his can of coins. There are drunken men passed out in the middle of the street, as people step around them without a second thought; it’s a daily normality.
There are homes with running water next to ones without it, the sewage festering in dirt yards, and when it rains, then flowing down the stone streets into the Lake. Mothers and their children carry beaded necklaces, key chains, and bracelets, trying to sell them to the “gringos” (white people), hoping to make a few extra Quetzal to buy some beans and maize. People bathe in the lake after washing their clothes, waiting as their one or two sets of clothes dry on the rocks. There is so much poverty; it is impossible to describe it all.
And then there’s Maria, a 70-something-year-old woman, who lost her entire family in the 80’s during the civil war. Though her throat was slit too, she miraculously survived. Her vocal chords were cut, and I can always distinguish her raspy voice as she shuffles into the church, asking for food. I cannot imagine the struggle of her loss and loneliness. She doesn’t speak Spanish, but rather the Mayan language Cakchiquel. And I’m not sure whom she sees, if anyone, during her day. I often see her alone, followed by her two dogs. But whenever she’s around, we hug and kiss her, knowing she comes to meals not only seeking food, but also human touch. She smells and has greasy hair, and squats in a corner outside the church, with her skirt hiked, to relieve herself—these are things that would make me cry with shame if my own grandmother had to live like that.
And I feel shame. Not only in myself. But also shame for those who I see living in poverty. And then I feel shame for feeling shame. Like I’ve judged. Who am I to have the right to see these things and to have thoughts about what I see, about their reality, about a life that’s not my own? Who am I to feel these things?
Stage Two: Guilt
It’s when I’ve reached this point that guilt begins to grip at my heart. And what good does guilt do anyone? But I can’t help it. I feel guilty for the things I have, the opportunities I have…all the obvious good and ease of my life compared to theirs. I feel guilty for not thinking of poverty enough, for not trying to do more for those who suffer from poverty, for not trying to learn more about their history, for not understanding. I feel guilty for who I am, and for who they are.
But how self-righteous that sounds! These people aren’t asking for my guilt. They’re not asking for me to think that the standards of living of my society are the same ones that they seek. They’re not asking to exchange their traditions and values for those of my own culture. They’re not asking to have what I have (what my society has), to be who I am (who my society is). They’re not asking me to be provoked by our differences, to feel guilty for them and what they don’t have and who they aren’t. It’s demeaning.
Stage Three: Anger and Revulsion
Then anger begins to boil within me, and things get a little irrational. Oh, but it feels good to be irrational, to vent, and to feel revulsion. To find anyone to accuse—the fate of the world, myself, society, government, even the poor themselves.
I’m angry at the world, its inequity and its injustices, and its natural ability to marginalize so many people. I’m angry with myself for my lack of understanding, my insignificance, and my small influence (if any!) that I could have in this world. I’m disgusted with society and our values founded in consumerism, materialism, and individual achievement. And I loathe my own participation in all these things that seem so evil. Oh, and now I’m the hypocrite! And I’m bitter. I’m enraged with the governments and their corruption. But I’m annoyed, because I don’t so easily understand politics and economics, and I wonder if I’m easily duped. And then the poor, couldn’t they do more to help themselves? What are they doing? Whose fault is it! This poverty and this suffering, whose fault is it?
Stage Four: Cynicism and Idealism
Then cynicism begins to permeate my ideals. I never wanted to be the voice of a cynic. Of course, I have to learn to hear and understand cynicism, but I didn’t want to spread its disease. No. If anything’s going to get us anywhere, it’s criticism, not cynicism. There’s a difference.
Awe! But I’m discovering my inner cynic. And it’s f-ing negative. I read and hear (and even myself, write) such flowery phrases as: “They say that your fingerprints will never fade from the lives you touch.” (Sigh) doesn’t that sound nice? Seriously? Perhaps this phrase should follow: "But really, is that true for any of us, or just some poetic bullshit?"
It’s a battle. My ideals are constantly challenged. But some days, idealism prevails. I want my ideals to win. I want to believe that there is Good, that we are Good, that we can embrace the right changes and avoid the wrong ones, that we can appreciate and take care of creation and its beauty, that we can live in justice, peace, and understanding, that we can leave an exemplary legacy for the next generation. I want these things and more to happen. I don’t want to be a cynic, but rather to believe in idealism.
Stage Five: Realism and Empathy
But behind these thoughts is a waving red flag! That’s Reality saying, “HELLO, idiot.”
Or more delicately said, that’s reality reminding me that if I’m going to be a voice of idealism, then I better be one of realism as well. I better be able to look around, and see the realities of this place. My ideals will only meet inertia if they’re not matched with the world’s realities.
If we’re to be idealistic, we’ve got to be realistic. But also, we have to have some experience with our ideals. Gain some knowledge of the situation to gain some empathy. Read a book, read the news, study language and religion, immerse yourself in another culture, travel (international or national), ask questions, and listen, listen, listen. And we will gain some empathy.
In conclusion, there are many levels of poverty. There are groups of poor like the rural poor, the urban poor, and the third world poor. And I’m not sure what the solutions are, or if anyone has the answer. But I think there's a reason God allows for both Good and Evil to exist in our world. I don’t have a complete answer for why, but I think part of the reason has to do with how we react to injustice, adversity, and impunity. Part of that reason is about who we become, what we do, and what we believe is right and wrong.
Like Grief, I believe Poverty also stirs within us stages of emotion. And that these stages of emotion can be presented in any order and can continuously be repeated. Now, there isn’t some published list, based off of extended studies by professionals, of these stages of emotion. The list below is only a developing reflection based off of my own recent experiences.
Stage One: Shock and Shame
Observing Poverty, there’s a lot I’m seeing that I’ve never seen before. It’s a “numbing” kind of shock, if that makes sense. I’m upset and disturbed by what I see, but the novelty of what I see seems to be in slow motion, and I’m so captivated, I can’t stop staring. And though I was well aware about some of the realities of Poverty before coming here, to actually stand in front of them is a shock that I’m not sure I could’ve prepared myself for.
In Guatemala City, the dump is an actual neighborhood. And where are all these people going to move? (At least for now an NGO has set up a school there.) Moving outside of the City, houses are made of scraps of wood, tin, and cardboard. On the highway I see woman and men, walking bare foot, and carrying about 100 pounds of “mimbre” (a special kind of wood used for cooking fires) on their backs. Children too—seven, eight, nine-year-olds—carry what looks to be their own weight and more. They’ve most likely spent hours collecting this “mimbre”, and are carrying it to the markets, to only be offered a low sales price.
In San Lucas I see an elderly man slowly walking up the street, his legs bent awkwardly, because they were broken and were never set to heal properly. Babies and toddlers, who should have black hair, have streaks of red-brown in their hair because of malnutrition. Daily I see the same blind man, on the same corner, wearing the same dirty clothes and shaking his can of coins. There are drunken men passed out in the middle of the street, as people step around them without a second thought; it’s a daily normality.
There are homes with running water next to ones without it, the sewage festering in dirt yards, and when it rains, then flowing down the stone streets into the Lake. Mothers and their children carry beaded necklaces, key chains, and bracelets, trying to sell them to the “gringos” (white people), hoping to make a few extra Quetzal to buy some beans and maize. People bathe in the lake after washing their clothes, waiting as their one or two sets of clothes dry on the rocks. There is so much poverty; it is impossible to describe it all.
And then there’s Maria, a 70-something-year-old woman, who lost her entire family in the 80’s during the civil war. Though her throat was slit too, she miraculously survived. Her vocal chords were cut, and I can always distinguish her raspy voice as she shuffles into the church, asking for food. I cannot imagine the struggle of her loss and loneliness. She doesn’t speak Spanish, but rather the Mayan language Cakchiquel. And I’m not sure whom she sees, if anyone, during her day. I often see her alone, followed by her two dogs. But whenever she’s around, we hug and kiss her, knowing she comes to meals not only seeking food, but also human touch. She smells and has greasy hair, and squats in a corner outside the church, with her skirt hiked, to relieve herself—these are things that would make me cry with shame if my own grandmother had to live like that.
And I feel shame. Not only in myself. But also shame for those who I see living in poverty. And then I feel shame for feeling shame. Like I’ve judged. Who am I to have the right to see these things and to have thoughts about what I see, about their reality, about a life that’s not my own? Who am I to feel these things?
Stage Two: Guilt
It’s when I’ve reached this point that guilt begins to grip at my heart. And what good does guilt do anyone? But I can’t help it. I feel guilty for the things I have, the opportunities I have…all the obvious good and ease of my life compared to theirs. I feel guilty for not thinking of poverty enough, for not trying to do more for those who suffer from poverty, for not trying to learn more about their history, for not understanding. I feel guilty for who I am, and for who they are.
But how self-righteous that sounds! These people aren’t asking for my guilt. They’re not asking for me to think that the standards of living of my society are the same ones that they seek. They’re not asking to exchange their traditions and values for those of my own culture. They’re not asking to have what I have (what my society has), to be who I am (who my society is). They’re not asking me to be provoked by our differences, to feel guilty for them and what they don’t have and who they aren’t. It’s demeaning.
Stage Three: Anger and Revulsion
Then anger begins to boil within me, and things get a little irrational. Oh, but it feels good to be irrational, to vent, and to feel revulsion. To find anyone to accuse—the fate of the world, myself, society, government, even the poor themselves.
I’m angry at the world, its inequity and its injustices, and its natural ability to marginalize so many people. I’m angry with myself for my lack of understanding, my insignificance, and my small influence (if any!) that I could have in this world. I’m disgusted with society and our values founded in consumerism, materialism, and individual achievement. And I loathe my own participation in all these things that seem so evil. Oh, and now I’m the hypocrite! And I’m bitter. I’m enraged with the governments and their corruption. But I’m annoyed, because I don’t so easily understand politics and economics, and I wonder if I’m easily duped. And then the poor, couldn’t they do more to help themselves? What are they doing? Whose fault is it! This poverty and this suffering, whose fault is it?
Stage Four: Cynicism and Idealism
Then cynicism begins to permeate my ideals. I never wanted to be the voice of a cynic. Of course, I have to learn to hear and understand cynicism, but I didn’t want to spread its disease. No. If anything’s going to get us anywhere, it’s criticism, not cynicism. There’s a difference.
Awe! But I’m discovering my inner cynic. And it’s f-ing negative. I read and hear (and even myself, write) such flowery phrases as: “They say that your fingerprints will never fade from the lives you touch.” (Sigh) doesn’t that sound nice? Seriously? Perhaps this phrase should follow: "But really, is that true for any of us, or just some poetic bullshit?"
It’s a battle. My ideals are constantly challenged. But some days, idealism prevails. I want my ideals to win. I want to believe that there is Good, that we are Good, that we can embrace the right changes and avoid the wrong ones, that we can appreciate and take care of creation and its beauty, that we can live in justice, peace, and understanding, that we can leave an exemplary legacy for the next generation. I want these things and more to happen. I don’t want to be a cynic, but rather to believe in idealism.
Stage Five: Realism and Empathy
But behind these thoughts is a waving red flag! That’s Reality saying, “HELLO, idiot.”
Or more delicately said, that’s reality reminding me that if I’m going to be a voice of idealism, then I better be one of realism as well. I better be able to look around, and see the realities of this place. My ideals will only meet inertia if they’re not matched with the world’s realities.
If we’re to be idealistic, we’ve got to be realistic. But also, we have to have some experience with our ideals. Gain some knowledge of the situation to gain some empathy. Read a book, read the news, study language and religion, immerse yourself in another culture, travel (international or national), ask questions, and listen, listen, listen. And we will gain some empathy.
In conclusion, there are many levels of poverty. There are groups of poor like the rural poor, the urban poor, and the third world poor. And I’m not sure what the solutions are, or if anyone has the answer. But I think there's a reason God allows for both Good and Evil to exist in our world. I don’t have a complete answer for why, but I think part of the reason has to do with how we react to injustice, adversity, and impunity. Part of that reason is about who we become, what we do, and what we believe is right and wrong.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Guatemala: Monotony
I’m in the garden. Every morning. I’m pulling weeds. Possibly the same ones I pulled yesterday. Sometimes I’m tending to the coffee seedlings. Maybe I’m shoveling some dirt. Or pulling dead leaves off the carrots and radishes. I arrive at the same time. Leave at the same time. Take the same break. See the same people. The conversations seem to be the same. Even the jokes are the same. It’s monotonous.
But what if I said, that that’s okay. That in fact it’s actually been something beautiful, this monotony. I could retell the above description, in a different way—a way that could possibly reveal something extraordinary.
Every day the sun rises and sets. There is light and there is dark. The moon revolves around the rotating earth, another day gone by. The earth moves around the sun, another year gone by. The four seasons are planted, blossomed, harvested, and fallowed once again. This doesn’t change. Its purpose is always the same. Its rhythm is monotonous. But how many poems, songs, stories, and Classics have been written about the beauty, power, and mystery of these monotonous celestial movements. They give life, cause the tides, and harbor humanity. Therefore, couldn’t it be said that from this monotony comes something extraordinary.
So let me start again, let me retell you…
I’m in the garden. Every morning. And do you know what views constantly surround me? Do you know what I see? Mountains. Volcanoes. Old and twisted trees. Light and shadow on the mountainside. Flowers. Blue skies. Clouds. All of this passes before my eyes. Constantly. How monotonous!
I’m pulling weeds. Possibly the same ones I pulled yesterday. And do you know what’s beneath my hands? Do you know what I touch? Creation. My hands work the soil, taking care of the seeds that sustain us. I’m weeding the dirt. Touching the cool, damp earth. Touching life. All morning long. How monotonous!
Sometimes I’m tending to the coffee seedlings. And do you know who’s affected by this delicate work? A family. Someone else’s livelihood. The Mission gives these seedlings out to families in need; the families harvest the red coffee beans, and sell them back to the Mission (which pays better than Fair Trade); for many, this is a main source of yearly income. The meticulous care of the coffee seedlings teaches me patience, humility, and solidarity, over and over again. How monotonous!
Maybe I’m shoveling some dirt. Or pulling dead leaves off the carrots and radishes. And do you know what I’m doing? The same thing many Guatemalans do. Every day. Three-hundred some days a year. Year after year. Preparing the ground. Planting the seed. Helping something to grow. They live close to the Earth. Their history is one of respect and revere for Mother Nature. Every day they remember what She gives…and what She can take away. How monotonous!
I arrive at the same time. Leave at the same time. Take the same break. See the same people. The conversations seem to be the same. Even the jokes are the same. And do you know what we talk about? Do you know what I hear? Their story. They mostly talk about work and the things they have to do. They don’t talk about traveling, dancing, the book they just read, or the movie they just saw. But they talk about how the harvest will be. Or how someone is donating money so their son can go to school. They talk about the other things they do to make money to provide for their family. They talk about death, sickness, and loss. They share their struggles. Silence lingers for a while after these conversations. But then soon a familiar joke will be told. And everyone will be laughing. Just laughing and laughing. They won’t stop laughing. How monotonous!
It’s monotonous. But couldn’t it be said that life’s a routine. That we did yesterday what we’re doing today and what we’ll do tomorrow. If we don’t like routine, if we scoff at monotony, then what else do we think life is. We each have our own kind of monotony. But perhaps within the monotony of our work and daily lives is something extraordinary to discover.
It is through work that human beings both shape and build the world. We are stewards of creation. Our work, however humble, is important. It is how we develop ourselves, our society, and our world. And the monotony of our work and life is needed. Because often we don’t learn so quickly. It often takes a lifetime just to learn a few wisdoms from our monotony.
But what if I said, that that’s okay. That in fact it’s actually been something beautiful, this monotony. I could retell the above description, in a different way—a way that could possibly reveal something extraordinary.
Every day the sun rises and sets. There is light and there is dark. The moon revolves around the rotating earth, another day gone by. The earth moves around the sun, another year gone by. The four seasons are planted, blossomed, harvested, and fallowed once again. This doesn’t change. Its purpose is always the same. Its rhythm is monotonous. But how many poems, songs, stories, and Classics have been written about the beauty, power, and mystery of these monotonous celestial movements. They give life, cause the tides, and harbor humanity. Therefore, couldn’t it be said that from this monotony comes something extraordinary.
So let me start again, let me retell you…
I’m in the garden. Every morning. And do you know what views constantly surround me? Do you know what I see? Mountains. Volcanoes. Old and twisted trees. Light and shadow on the mountainside. Flowers. Blue skies. Clouds. All of this passes before my eyes. Constantly. How monotonous!
I’m pulling weeds. Possibly the same ones I pulled yesterday. And do you know what’s beneath my hands? Do you know what I touch? Creation. My hands work the soil, taking care of the seeds that sustain us. I’m weeding the dirt. Touching the cool, damp earth. Touching life. All morning long. How monotonous!
Sometimes I’m tending to the coffee seedlings. And do you know who’s affected by this delicate work? A family. Someone else’s livelihood. The Mission gives these seedlings out to families in need; the families harvest the red coffee beans, and sell them back to the Mission (which pays better than Fair Trade); for many, this is a main source of yearly income. The meticulous care of the coffee seedlings teaches me patience, humility, and solidarity, over and over again. How monotonous!
Maybe I’m shoveling some dirt. Or pulling dead leaves off the carrots and radishes. And do you know what I’m doing? The same thing many Guatemalans do. Every day. Three-hundred some days a year. Year after year. Preparing the ground. Planting the seed. Helping something to grow. They live close to the Earth. Their history is one of respect and revere for Mother Nature. Every day they remember what She gives…and what She can take away. How monotonous!
I arrive at the same time. Leave at the same time. Take the same break. See the same people. The conversations seem to be the same. Even the jokes are the same. And do you know what we talk about? Do you know what I hear? Their story. They mostly talk about work and the things they have to do. They don’t talk about traveling, dancing, the book they just read, or the movie they just saw. But they talk about how the harvest will be. Or how someone is donating money so their son can go to school. They talk about the other things they do to make money to provide for their family. They talk about death, sickness, and loss. They share their struggles. Silence lingers for a while after these conversations. But then soon a familiar joke will be told. And everyone will be laughing. Just laughing and laughing. They won’t stop laughing. How monotonous!
It’s monotonous. But couldn’t it be said that life’s a routine. That we did yesterday what we’re doing today and what we’ll do tomorrow. If we don’t like routine, if we scoff at monotony, then what else do we think life is. We each have our own kind of monotony. But perhaps within the monotony of our work and daily lives is something extraordinary to discover.
It is through work that human beings both shape and build the world. We are stewards of creation. Our work, however humble, is important. It is how we develop ourselves, our society, and our world. And the monotony of our work and life is needed. Because often we don’t learn so quickly. It often takes a lifetime just to learn a few wisdoms from our monotony.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Guatemala: 10/2 - Dia de los Muertos
“Death is no enemy, but the foundation of gratitude, sympathy, and art. Of all life’s pleasures, only love owes no debt to death.” ~Anita Diamant
The steel door bangs loudly behind me as I step out into the noise and traffic of San Lucas. Across the street a pack of stray dogs scampers up the street. A motorcycle rattles by, four people piled on its seat, followed by a huffing truck with Coca Cola bottles in the back. Dust blows up from the ground into my face; it dries my throat and makes me cough. The morning’s commotion seems to be moving in the same direction: towards the cemetery. I’m heading there too, to see the traditions of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), a holiday to pray for and to remember those friends and family members who have died.
On my way there, I walk through the market streets, where beneath the black tarps of shade, it is a world of color and movement. Everyone is there, or so it seems. It’s so crowded! There’s hardly any space, it’s shoulder-to-shoulder, and slow moving.
Women sit on blankets on the uneven stone street. In front of them are baskets full of fruits and vegetables. They yell at the passersby, “solo un quetzal, un quetzal…piñaaaaa, tres quetzal, tres quetzal…quiere bananooos, solo dos quetzal…” (only one quetzal, one quetzal (about $0.13)…pineapple, three quetzal, three quetzal…do you want bananas, only two quetzal…”). Buckets of fish sit in the shade, its smell pungent and lingering in the hot air. The man yells at me, “Gringa, canche, quiere camarónes…son baratos para ti” (white girl, blondie, do you want shrimp…they’re cheap for you”).
Spiced meat cooks on grills, and skillets warm tortillas. The smoke rises towards the blazing sun. Pastries, bread, and candy are all aligned on checkered table clothes. Traje— traditional Mayan clothing of bright threads woven into simple intricacies—hangs in the kiosks. A boy with a wooden box full of cigarettes and candy runs by me, yelling, “cigarillos, dulces, cigarillos, dulces…un quetzal, solo un quetzal!” Ranchero boots, caitos (traditional Mayan sandals), pointed-toe leather shoes, tennis shoes, and heels are in piles or displayed neatly. Soap, shampoo, dishes, thread, candles…all the necessities are sold on market day.
A short distance ahead I see the open gates of the cemetery. The crowd is pushing its way there, buying flowers, kites, and tamales along the way. Entering through the gates, the cemetery is alive with excitement and celebration. People and flowers are everywhere, there seems to be no organized layout of the grounds, no distinct walking rows. I weave between the rectangular and square cement altars that rise and fall at different heights. All around families are seated in front of gravesites, eating and talking. Many of them have been gathering since dawn, decorating the gravesites with flowers, grass, and fresh paint. Each year, the family repaints the faded cement altars, and they bring offerings of favorite foods and drinks to the deceased souls.
Los patojitos (little kids) run in front of me, over the graves that are flat with the ground. They hold strings to flapping barriletes (kites), made of plastic bags and sticks. Dia de los Muertos is more a day celebration than a day of mourning. And the graveyard is adorned with bright colors, play, smiles and happy chatter, the smells of cooking food, vibrant flowers, kites, and music. It is so different from the quiet, melancholy, and organized beauty of the cemeteries I’ve been to.
Indeed, sadness over lost ones grips the hearts of these people. Amidst the celebrating there are tears and shuddering shoulders. And family and friends are there, to embrace one another, and to find strength and love in. But it amazes me how this community, an entire culture, gathers every year for this occasion. They come together to mourn the death of loved ones, but more importantly to remember and to celebrate the life of the deceased, and to enjoy together the life they still have. There is no such holiday in our culture, where, with strangers and families, we share this kind of sorrow and joy.
From a hill, I look out one last time over the vivid colors and commotion of the graveyard. The place is packed. People are coming and going. Food is cooking, smoke rising. Flowers decorate the graves, their petals the dirt ground. Above, dozens of kites flutter and dive in the blue sky.
As I see all of this before me, I suddenly realize something that seems so evident to these people and of this celebration: In death we are in the midst of life. Death is not our enemy, but another reality, and an unknown moment. Its mystery is a cause for reverence and celebration of life itself. And the people that live and gather today are a powerful proof that love’s seed is immortal.
The steel door bangs loudly behind me as I step out into the noise and traffic of San Lucas. Across the street a pack of stray dogs scampers up the street. A motorcycle rattles by, four people piled on its seat, followed by a huffing truck with Coca Cola bottles in the back. Dust blows up from the ground into my face; it dries my throat and makes me cough. The morning’s commotion seems to be moving in the same direction: towards the cemetery. I’m heading there too, to see the traditions of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), a holiday to pray for and to remember those friends and family members who have died.
On my way there, I walk through the market streets, where beneath the black tarps of shade, it is a world of color and movement. Everyone is there, or so it seems. It’s so crowded! There’s hardly any space, it’s shoulder-to-shoulder, and slow moving.
Women sit on blankets on the uneven stone street. In front of them are baskets full of fruits and vegetables. They yell at the passersby, “solo un quetzal, un quetzal…piñaaaaa, tres quetzal, tres quetzal…quiere bananooos, solo dos quetzal…” (only one quetzal, one quetzal (about $0.13)…pineapple, three quetzal, three quetzal…do you want bananas, only two quetzal…”). Buckets of fish sit in the shade, its smell pungent and lingering in the hot air. The man yells at me, “Gringa, canche, quiere camarónes…son baratos para ti” (white girl, blondie, do you want shrimp…they’re cheap for you”).
Spiced meat cooks on grills, and skillets warm tortillas. The smoke rises towards the blazing sun. Pastries, bread, and candy are all aligned on checkered table clothes. Traje— traditional Mayan clothing of bright threads woven into simple intricacies—hangs in the kiosks. A boy with a wooden box full of cigarettes and candy runs by me, yelling, “cigarillos, dulces, cigarillos, dulces…un quetzal, solo un quetzal!” Ranchero boots, caitos (traditional Mayan sandals), pointed-toe leather shoes, tennis shoes, and heels are in piles or displayed neatly. Soap, shampoo, dishes, thread, candles…all the necessities are sold on market day.
A short distance ahead I see the open gates of the cemetery. The crowd is pushing its way there, buying flowers, kites, and tamales along the way. Entering through the gates, the cemetery is alive with excitement and celebration. People and flowers are everywhere, there seems to be no organized layout of the grounds, no distinct walking rows. I weave between the rectangular and square cement altars that rise and fall at different heights. All around families are seated in front of gravesites, eating and talking. Many of them have been gathering since dawn, decorating the gravesites with flowers, grass, and fresh paint. Each year, the family repaints the faded cement altars, and they bring offerings of favorite foods and drinks to the deceased souls.
Los patojitos (little kids) run in front of me, over the graves that are flat with the ground. They hold strings to flapping barriletes (kites), made of plastic bags and sticks. Dia de los Muertos is more a day celebration than a day of mourning. And the graveyard is adorned with bright colors, play, smiles and happy chatter, the smells of cooking food, vibrant flowers, kites, and music. It is so different from the quiet, melancholy, and organized beauty of the cemeteries I’ve been to.
Indeed, sadness over lost ones grips the hearts of these people. Amidst the celebrating there are tears and shuddering shoulders. And family and friends are there, to embrace one another, and to find strength and love in. But it amazes me how this community, an entire culture, gathers every year for this occasion. They come together to mourn the death of loved ones, but more importantly to remember and to celebrate the life of the deceased, and to enjoy together the life they still have. There is no such holiday in our culture, where, with strangers and families, we share this kind of sorrow and joy.
From a hill, I look out one last time over the vivid colors and commotion of the graveyard. The place is packed. People are coming and going. Food is cooking, smoke rising. Flowers decorate the graves, their petals the dirt ground. Above, dozens of kites flutter and dive in the blue sky.
As I see all of this before me, I suddenly realize something that seems so evident to these people and of this celebration: In death we are in the midst of life. Death is not our enemy, but another reality, and an unknown moment. Its mystery is a cause for reverence and celebration of life itself. And the people that live and gather today are a powerful proof that love’s seed is immortal.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Guatemala: Sinew and Sutures
It is nearly seven o’clock in the morning, and I’m waiting outside with a gathering crowd. Leaves the size of elephant ears hang down from the two-story hospital. They move in the slight breeze, light and shadow dancing behind their vein-y, iridescent surface.
Next to me sits Andrea and her petit mother, Olga. Doctor Will asked me to accompany them to the hospital this morning. Andrea’s fourteen, and was hit by a pick-up seven years ago, and suffered severe damage to her left foot. At the time, there was no orthopedic or podiatrist in town, and Olga could only afford to have her daughter’s wound cleaned and stitched. The growth plate of the fibula was broken, thus causing uneven growth with the tibia. As a result, it appears that she’s nearly walking on the outer ankle and side of her foot.
Dr. Will, an American podiatrist from Seattle, moved to San Lucas a little over a year ago. Teaming up with a medical group from Michigan that visits yearly, they’ll be performing nearly 100 surgeries in the next five days. Today Andrea is receiving her first operation, which will set her foot straight. In the future, she will have further surgeries done to the growth plate at her knee, to gradually bridge the three-inch gap between her two legs.
I’m here as a resource and a translator between the American medical group and the Guatemalan patients and nurses. From my pocket I pull out a list of medical terms. In the past couple days I’ve been studying the vocabulary for different organs, bones, body parts, types of surgeries, and medical instruments. I feel a bit under-qualified for this task and am nervous. Sighing, I stuff the paper back into my pocket; if I don’t know it by now, I don’t know it. So maybe a moment to zone out before the day begins…
I stare into the eastern sky. Strands of blonde swirl like gossamer around my face. They shimmer like sunlight on a spider’s web. As I squint into the light, my eyelashes blur the morning sun, and the scene of trees and mountains appears incandescent and timeless. The sun’s heat finds my arms and face. I feel its warmth inside my chest as I breathe. Dawn gone an hour ago, the morning chill has left and the day is bright.
No windows or doors, the wind moves through the hospital corridors. At the end of the hallway, white sheets billow in the breeze, the sun bright and shining behind them. It’s getting hot, and the sheets will at least block some of the heat from the area where the patients will be waiting. Orange flowers and ferns peek in-between the white cotton.
Amidst my daydreaming, I sense someone else with me, and turn to my left. The glossy eyes of an elderly woman stare into my own. Her wrinkled hand touches my knee, and she asks if I’m a doctor. I smile at the thought, and tell her no. She seems anxious, her eyes searching. I reach for her hand, and ask about her family and where she’s from. Her story brings me completely out of my daydreaming and back to the realities of the people around me.
Suddenly I sense the crowd stirring around me. Pablo, the hospital administrator, is calling people to gather in a circle of prayer. Twenty or more patients and their families and friends are on bended knee, all of them. I do the same.
The prayer that we bow our heads and clasp our hands to, it is a prayer so wholehearted, compassionate, and moving, that I open my eyes so they’ll stay dry. Everyone’s eyes are still closed in prayer; mine look out towards the stone road. An elderly, bow-legged man, wearing a dusty hat and appearing to be dressed in his best plaid shirt and slacks, is slowly making his journey to the hospital doors. Leaning heavily on a walking stick, he places it two feet in front of him, takes careful steps to it, and then places it two feet in front of him again. He is alone; I wonder where he’s come from.
The prayer finishes with gratitude for, and hope in the doctors, “que sus manos sean las manos de dios” (that their hands be the hands of God). Looking down at my own hands as I unclasp them, I silently pray for the same blessing.
God, may the fibers and unity of sinew not only be within my own body, but also between the conversations and relationships that I develop with these people. Please be with us and between us. And may the sutures of their wounds not only bind and heal the flesh, but also may they bind humanity’s suffering and healing.
Next to me sits Andrea and her petit mother, Olga. Doctor Will asked me to accompany them to the hospital this morning. Andrea’s fourteen, and was hit by a pick-up seven years ago, and suffered severe damage to her left foot. At the time, there was no orthopedic or podiatrist in town, and Olga could only afford to have her daughter’s wound cleaned and stitched. The growth plate of the fibula was broken, thus causing uneven growth with the tibia. As a result, it appears that she’s nearly walking on the outer ankle and side of her foot.
Dr. Will, an American podiatrist from Seattle, moved to San Lucas a little over a year ago. Teaming up with a medical group from Michigan that visits yearly, they’ll be performing nearly 100 surgeries in the next five days. Today Andrea is receiving her first operation, which will set her foot straight. In the future, she will have further surgeries done to the growth plate at her knee, to gradually bridge the three-inch gap between her two legs.
I’m here as a resource and a translator between the American medical group and the Guatemalan patients and nurses. From my pocket I pull out a list of medical terms. In the past couple days I’ve been studying the vocabulary for different organs, bones, body parts, types of surgeries, and medical instruments. I feel a bit under-qualified for this task and am nervous. Sighing, I stuff the paper back into my pocket; if I don’t know it by now, I don’t know it. So maybe a moment to zone out before the day begins…
I stare into the eastern sky. Strands of blonde swirl like gossamer around my face. They shimmer like sunlight on a spider’s web. As I squint into the light, my eyelashes blur the morning sun, and the scene of trees and mountains appears incandescent and timeless. The sun’s heat finds my arms and face. I feel its warmth inside my chest as I breathe. Dawn gone an hour ago, the morning chill has left and the day is bright.
No windows or doors, the wind moves through the hospital corridors. At the end of the hallway, white sheets billow in the breeze, the sun bright and shining behind them. It’s getting hot, and the sheets will at least block some of the heat from the area where the patients will be waiting. Orange flowers and ferns peek in-between the white cotton.
Amidst my daydreaming, I sense someone else with me, and turn to my left. The glossy eyes of an elderly woman stare into my own. Her wrinkled hand touches my knee, and she asks if I’m a doctor. I smile at the thought, and tell her no. She seems anxious, her eyes searching. I reach for her hand, and ask about her family and where she’s from. Her story brings me completely out of my daydreaming and back to the realities of the people around me.
Suddenly I sense the crowd stirring around me. Pablo, the hospital administrator, is calling people to gather in a circle of prayer. Twenty or more patients and their families and friends are on bended knee, all of them. I do the same.
The prayer that we bow our heads and clasp our hands to, it is a prayer so wholehearted, compassionate, and moving, that I open my eyes so they’ll stay dry. Everyone’s eyes are still closed in prayer; mine look out towards the stone road. An elderly, bow-legged man, wearing a dusty hat and appearing to be dressed in his best plaid shirt and slacks, is slowly making his journey to the hospital doors. Leaning heavily on a walking stick, he places it two feet in front of him, takes careful steps to it, and then places it two feet in front of him again. He is alone; I wonder where he’s come from.
The prayer finishes with gratitude for, and hope in the doctors, “que sus manos sean las manos de dios” (that their hands be the hands of God). Looking down at my own hands as I unclasp them, I silently pray for the same blessing.
God, may the fibers and unity of sinew not only be within my own body, but also between the conversations and relationships that I develop with these people. Please be with us and between us. And may the sutures of their wounds not only bind and heal the flesh, but also may they bind humanity’s suffering and healing.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Guatemala: Questions To Humble
“Spare me your judgments, and spare me your dreams. Because recently mine have been tearing my seams… Alone in the wind and the rain you left me… Corrupted by the simple sniff of riches blown… I begged you to hear me. There’s more than flesh and bones… Take the spade from my hands. And fill in the holes you’ve made. Plant your hope with good seeds. Don’t cover yourself with thistle and weeds. Rain down. Rain down on me. And I will hold on. I will hold on hope…” ~Mumford & Sons
Spare you my judgments and spare you my dreams? I thought that I had. I thought that I was with you, that I heard you, that I saw you. I thought that I could even be your hope, someone to lead you out of the wind and the rain. I thought all of this, I did.
Until now.
Will you forgive me?
It’s just that, I’m human, and it’s not easy. I only have my own reality. But can another person’s reality be my own? Not truly. Even if I hear, understand, and remember your story, I can’t experience and understand your reality in the way that you do.
And really, how do we understand something without comparing it to something that we already know? To compare and to contrast in life seems so natural. My own reality is what I already know; it’s what I have to compare with your reality, to try to understand.
But what happens when we start to compare, already assuming that one way is better? And if we don’t listen well, what happens then? What happens when our awareness beyond our self can only go so far? Or what happens to the people affected by our motives? Even if those motives are innocent and well intended, what happens if our “good-doings” have a negative impact? What are the consequences of this lack of awareness, and not understanding the true affects? What are the consequences of not realizing the level of our own self-centric interests in all that we do? Furthermore, what if we think our self to be immune from these selfish interests—the exception to the rest of humanity?
I’m more aware of these questions than I was before. But though I realize some of their answers, to gain this new perspective is still difficult, and I imagine will never truly be complete. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to completely release myself from my judgments and preconceived notions. But I still want to look for what is Good, and to do Good. And I want to understand, and to be there with you in some way.
Sometimes it seems so difficult and beyond me though. What can I do, who can I be in my lifetime? It’s so short, and seems not enough.
Though I feel discouraged and confused, at the same time I feel encouraged yet uncomfortable…and that feels right. I feel challenged in simple ways that I never thought of before, as well as in profound ways—of which some of those ideas I can grasp, and others are beyond me. But I haven’t given up on my ideals. Rather, my understanding and approach are transforming. My perspective is evolving. The questions I’m asking are changing.
Do I see poverty before I know the individual? When I met you, was my judgment there too? Have I offended you by assuming your life to be deprived? Did I ask myself if you even think that your life is deprived? Have I arrived with the assumption that the standard of living of my culture is what you aspire to? Do I know that you hold onto your beliefs just as strongly as I do to mine? And do I think that it’s my job to help those who have less to have more? What is less, and what is more? Have I realized that it’s about you, about your ownership in the development and changes of your life? Did I acknowledge what I don’t know? Did I discover and examine my own cultural assumptions? Am I aware of the impact that my presence here has on this culture? Do I know what your expectations are? Did I arrive with my dreams, or yours in mind? Have I asked you what your hopes and dreams are? Am I listening to you?
There has never been a more important time for us to look with dignity and respect on each other. Over and over again, I’m learning the questions to ask of myself, and of you. I’m learning the importance of humility, and how to listen with diplomacy and loyalty. Anew, I’m beginning to understand…how to be there with you, how to hear you, how to see you, how to hold on hope with you…and how to plant our hope with good seeds.
We are not the Creators, but are like gardeners that tend Creation. Nothing we do is complete. But we are part of something greater. We plant the seeds (our gifts and who we are) that one day will grow. We water those seeds already planted, believing in their future promise. And we hold on hope.
But still I wonder…
Will we hear your story? And if you can’t tell it yourself, then how will we tell it? Who will listen? How will we inspire them? Will we understand?
Spare you my judgments and spare you my dreams? I thought that I had. I thought that I was with you, that I heard you, that I saw you. I thought that I could even be your hope, someone to lead you out of the wind and the rain. I thought all of this, I did.
Until now.
Will you forgive me?
It’s just that, I’m human, and it’s not easy. I only have my own reality. But can another person’s reality be my own? Not truly. Even if I hear, understand, and remember your story, I can’t experience and understand your reality in the way that you do.
And really, how do we understand something without comparing it to something that we already know? To compare and to contrast in life seems so natural. My own reality is what I already know; it’s what I have to compare with your reality, to try to understand.
But what happens when we start to compare, already assuming that one way is better? And if we don’t listen well, what happens then? What happens when our awareness beyond our self can only go so far? Or what happens to the people affected by our motives? Even if those motives are innocent and well intended, what happens if our “good-doings” have a negative impact? What are the consequences of this lack of awareness, and not understanding the true affects? What are the consequences of not realizing the level of our own self-centric interests in all that we do? Furthermore, what if we think our self to be immune from these selfish interests—the exception to the rest of humanity?
I’m more aware of these questions than I was before. But though I realize some of their answers, to gain this new perspective is still difficult, and I imagine will never truly be complete. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to completely release myself from my judgments and preconceived notions. But I still want to look for what is Good, and to do Good. And I want to understand, and to be there with you in some way.
Sometimes it seems so difficult and beyond me though. What can I do, who can I be in my lifetime? It’s so short, and seems not enough.
Though I feel discouraged and confused, at the same time I feel encouraged yet uncomfortable…and that feels right. I feel challenged in simple ways that I never thought of before, as well as in profound ways—of which some of those ideas I can grasp, and others are beyond me. But I haven’t given up on my ideals. Rather, my understanding and approach are transforming. My perspective is evolving. The questions I’m asking are changing.
Do I see poverty before I know the individual? When I met you, was my judgment there too? Have I offended you by assuming your life to be deprived? Did I ask myself if you even think that your life is deprived? Have I arrived with the assumption that the standard of living of my culture is what you aspire to? Do I know that you hold onto your beliefs just as strongly as I do to mine? And do I think that it’s my job to help those who have less to have more? What is less, and what is more? Have I realized that it’s about you, about your ownership in the development and changes of your life? Did I acknowledge what I don’t know? Did I discover and examine my own cultural assumptions? Am I aware of the impact that my presence here has on this culture? Do I know what your expectations are? Did I arrive with my dreams, or yours in mind? Have I asked you what your hopes and dreams are? Am I listening to you?
There has never been a more important time for us to look with dignity and respect on each other. Over and over again, I’m learning the questions to ask of myself, and of you. I’m learning the importance of humility, and how to listen with diplomacy and loyalty. Anew, I’m beginning to understand…how to be there with you, how to hear you, how to see you, how to hold on hope with you…and how to plant our hope with good seeds.
We are not the Creators, but are like gardeners that tend Creation. Nothing we do is complete. But we are part of something greater. We plant the seeds (our gifts and who we are) that one day will grow. We water those seeds already planted, believing in their future promise. And we hold on hope.
But still I wonder…
Will we hear your story? And if you can’t tell it yourself, then how will we tell it? Who will listen? How will we inspire them? Will we understand?
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Guatemala: Finding Solidarity
If we were all the same, then living in solidarity wouldn’t exist. How will we develop from our efforts in the presence of one another’s lives?
A cold, damp wind wraps around my neck, and shivers down my spine. Leaning against the white wall, I cross my arms tightly across my body. I hear wood on stucco, as they prop a ladder against the building, one man holding it, while another climbs to the top. He grabs a metal bar.
The bell rings loudly. So loudly, I have to cover my ears, as he vigorously hits it twenty times or more, and then again. People are slowly gathering. Inside are wooden benches and tile floors that echo the sounds of a marimba and tambourine. I hear the pluck and slide of guitar strings too. Mass is starting soon.
I’m in Panimaqui, an “aldea” (a small town in the hills) a couple miles up from the highway back to San Lucas. Father Rich invited me to accompany him here. Looking towards the valley, I try to grasp the realities of this world.
This place, this life, is so different from my own, from all my instincts. I know we’re the same, and not; that we have commonalities, and differences; that we’re part of humanity, and that we respect and honor each other just as much as we disregard and hurt one another. I know each place, each person, is its own, nothing better, nothing worse. Life has its beauty and virtue, as well as its suffering and iniquity.
This polarization, it’s nothing new or unheard of. But of lately I’ve felt lost in the differences and adversities of this place. As much as I see the happiness and goodness that’s alive here, I can’t help but to see even more the glaring poverty, corruption, and insurmountable obstacles.
And I get to thinking: I’ll never come from where these people come from; my culture and upbringing seem so different; I didn’t survive a civil war that killed and kidnapped my family and friends; my childhood wasn’t in poverty; I have a different government and am guaranteed different rights; my citizenship gives me different opportunities; some of my dreams and hopes are much more tangible; I’m educated, fed and never hungry; I live in comfort, and have certain securities not available to some here.
How did we come to be who we are, from where we are, where we are now, and why? Consumed by these thoughts—the differences in where we come from, and my life’s realities compared to theirs—how do I begin to live in solidarity with these people?
Stirred from these ponderings, my distant gaze focuses on the man now standing in front of me. Abruptly I uncross my arms and put my hand out to “grip” (they don’t shake) his hand. How old is he? I wonder. He’s the oldest Guatemalan I’ve seen. And I haven’t seen very many elders, considering that the Mayan life span is about 64 years, but also that practically a generational genocide occurred in the 1980’s during the civil war.
Lightly holding my elbow with his other hand, he smiles, and says, “Mucho gusto” (Nice to meet you). He has dirt beneath his nails, and his hands are spotted with age, large and weathered from a laborious life. His brown, calloused hand around my small, pale hand, it’s so obvious that mine are nimble, smooth, and soft from an easy life. I can’t stop comparing and contrasting, trying to find solidarity. “Mucho gusto” I say, my expensively aligned, white teeth smiling back at his few crooked, yellow ones.
I watch him as he slowly shuffles into the church. Probably four of his carefully focused steps for each one of mine. How old is he? I still wonder. He greets Father Rich, and as if I’d asked it out loud, Rich excitedly says to me, “This guy’s 89-years-old! And he still climbs that hill for Mass!” One of the few Maya men I’ve seen still wearing traditional clothing, I watch his bright clothes disappear into the church.
Most of the crowd inside, I head in to look for a seat. Rows of lace hang down from the ceiling, and paintings of Saints decorate the white walls. At the Alter, two candles are lit, the music group still playing. People are singing now. Women and children sit on one side, the men on the other.
Near the back I take a seat. Almost to the front now, the arthritic hands of the 89-year-old man grasp the wooden bench, and on bended-knee, he does the sign of the cross. In awe, I watch what the frail body and powerful spirit of this man still fights to do. I notice his cracked and calloused feet hanging over his worn sandals.
Suddenly, something little and soft bumps against my side. I look down into the dark eyes of a child. His pupils are large, and seem to be filled with a deep curiosity as he stares back at me. I wonder what he’s thinking. He reaches up and touches my hair, just staring at me. I smile back. He shies away, but then moves close again, and fidgets with my skirt. Throughout Mass he wriggles and squirms at my side, a warm kind of comfort that only a child can give.
Mass nearly over, Father Rich asks that we stand and share peace with one another. I grip the women’s hands, saying, “paz contigo.” They smile at me, thanking me for being there, “Gracias por venir, por estar aquí.” A little embarrassed, I wonder, Why are they thanking me?, and say, “No, gracias a usted” (No, thank you).
Beneath my feet is a rugged stone road, patiently and laboriously hand-made-and-laid. We’re on our way back down the seven-foot wide road that we climbed to get here. On either side, built tightly together, are cement homes, covered with a metal or tarp roof. Chickens cluck and roosters crow as they cross the road, picking at the ground. Dogs bark. Hours of hand-washed laundry hang in-between the gray walls. Smoke rises between the buildings, fires warming up dinners of beans and hand-made tortillas.
Passing all this, I’m reminded of our different lives. Again I wonder, “How do I begin to live in solidarity with these people? It seems we come from such different worlds. How can I understand?”
At a cliff I pause to take in the view. In the ravine below, a green canopy of trees rustles slightly in the breeze. Further out, the valley is yellow with the corn harvest. There are rows of green coffee trees, a couple months yet until the berries are red. As primitive farmers, without machines, this land is tended and harvested by hand. Across these farmlands the mountains look down on us.
“Why did they thank me?” My earlier thoughts repeat themselves. I haven’t done anything. And then I realize…“I’m here.” I’m here, thinking, and trying to understand this concept of solidarity. It’s not necessarily about “doing”, but more about being with these people, meeting them, listening to their stories, sharing experiences together, and learning from one another. That is their gift to me; that is what I can bring back.
Solidarity is just as much (if not even more so) about our differences, as it is about our similarities. For if we were all the same, then living in solidarity wouldn’t exist. And without our differences, the difficult, but beautiful, personal and worldly changes that can come from trying to live in solidarity, wouldn’t exist. It’s how we’ll develop from our efforts in the presence of one another’s lives, who we’ll be and what we’ll do, to promote justice and peace—that is what we can hope for from trying to live in solidarity.
A cold, damp wind wraps around my neck, and shivers down my spine. Leaning against the white wall, I cross my arms tightly across my body. I hear wood on stucco, as they prop a ladder against the building, one man holding it, while another climbs to the top. He grabs a metal bar.
The bell rings loudly. So loudly, I have to cover my ears, as he vigorously hits it twenty times or more, and then again. People are slowly gathering. Inside are wooden benches and tile floors that echo the sounds of a marimba and tambourine. I hear the pluck and slide of guitar strings too. Mass is starting soon.
I’m in Panimaqui, an “aldea” (a small town in the hills) a couple miles up from the highway back to San Lucas. Father Rich invited me to accompany him here. Looking towards the valley, I try to grasp the realities of this world.
This place, this life, is so different from my own, from all my instincts. I know we’re the same, and not; that we have commonalities, and differences; that we’re part of humanity, and that we respect and honor each other just as much as we disregard and hurt one another. I know each place, each person, is its own, nothing better, nothing worse. Life has its beauty and virtue, as well as its suffering and iniquity.
This polarization, it’s nothing new or unheard of. But of lately I’ve felt lost in the differences and adversities of this place. As much as I see the happiness and goodness that’s alive here, I can’t help but to see even more the glaring poverty, corruption, and insurmountable obstacles.
And I get to thinking: I’ll never come from where these people come from; my culture and upbringing seem so different; I didn’t survive a civil war that killed and kidnapped my family and friends; my childhood wasn’t in poverty; I have a different government and am guaranteed different rights; my citizenship gives me different opportunities; some of my dreams and hopes are much more tangible; I’m educated, fed and never hungry; I live in comfort, and have certain securities not available to some here.
How did we come to be who we are, from where we are, where we are now, and why? Consumed by these thoughts—the differences in where we come from, and my life’s realities compared to theirs—how do I begin to live in solidarity with these people?
Stirred from these ponderings, my distant gaze focuses on the man now standing in front of me. Abruptly I uncross my arms and put my hand out to “grip” (they don’t shake) his hand. How old is he? I wonder. He’s the oldest Guatemalan I’ve seen. And I haven’t seen very many elders, considering that the Mayan life span is about 64 years, but also that practically a generational genocide occurred in the 1980’s during the civil war.
Lightly holding my elbow with his other hand, he smiles, and says, “Mucho gusto” (Nice to meet you). He has dirt beneath his nails, and his hands are spotted with age, large and weathered from a laborious life. His brown, calloused hand around my small, pale hand, it’s so obvious that mine are nimble, smooth, and soft from an easy life. I can’t stop comparing and contrasting, trying to find solidarity. “Mucho gusto” I say, my expensively aligned, white teeth smiling back at his few crooked, yellow ones.
I watch him as he slowly shuffles into the church. Probably four of his carefully focused steps for each one of mine. How old is he? I still wonder. He greets Father Rich, and as if I’d asked it out loud, Rich excitedly says to me, “This guy’s 89-years-old! And he still climbs that hill for Mass!” One of the few Maya men I’ve seen still wearing traditional clothing, I watch his bright clothes disappear into the church.
Most of the crowd inside, I head in to look for a seat. Rows of lace hang down from the ceiling, and paintings of Saints decorate the white walls. At the Alter, two candles are lit, the music group still playing. People are singing now. Women and children sit on one side, the men on the other.
Near the back I take a seat. Almost to the front now, the arthritic hands of the 89-year-old man grasp the wooden bench, and on bended-knee, he does the sign of the cross. In awe, I watch what the frail body and powerful spirit of this man still fights to do. I notice his cracked and calloused feet hanging over his worn sandals.
Suddenly, something little and soft bumps against my side. I look down into the dark eyes of a child. His pupils are large, and seem to be filled with a deep curiosity as he stares back at me. I wonder what he’s thinking. He reaches up and touches my hair, just staring at me. I smile back. He shies away, but then moves close again, and fidgets with my skirt. Throughout Mass he wriggles and squirms at my side, a warm kind of comfort that only a child can give.
Mass nearly over, Father Rich asks that we stand and share peace with one another. I grip the women’s hands, saying, “paz contigo.” They smile at me, thanking me for being there, “Gracias por venir, por estar aquí.” A little embarrassed, I wonder, Why are they thanking me?, and say, “No, gracias a usted” (No, thank you).
Beneath my feet is a rugged stone road, patiently and laboriously hand-made-and-laid. We’re on our way back down the seven-foot wide road that we climbed to get here. On either side, built tightly together, are cement homes, covered with a metal or tarp roof. Chickens cluck and roosters crow as they cross the road, picking at the ground. Dogs bark. Hours of hand-washed laundry hang in-between the gray walls. Smoke rises between the buildings, fires warming up dinners of beans and hand-made tortillas.
Passing all this, I’m reminded of our different lives. Again I wonder, “How do I begin to live in solidarity with these people? It seems we come from such different worlds. How can I understand?”
At a cliff I pause to take in the view. In the ravine below, a green canopy of trees rustles slightly in the breeze. Further out, the valley is yellow with the corn harvest. There are rows of green coffee trees, a couple months yet until the berries are red. As primitive farmers, without machines, this land is tended and harvested by hand. Across these farmlands the mountains look down on us.
“Why did they thank me?” My earlier thoughts repeat themselves. I haven’t done anything. And then I realize…“I’m here.” I’m here, thinking, and trying to understand this concept of solidarity. It’s not necessarily about “doing”, but more about being with these people, meeting them, listening to their stories, sharing experiences together, and learning from one another. That is their gift to me; that is what I can bring back.
Solidarity is just as much (if not even more so) about our differences, as it is about our similarities. For if we were all the same, then living in solidarity wouldn’t exist. And without our differences, the difficult, but beautiful, personal and worldly changes that can come from trying to live in solidarity, wouldn’t exist. It’s how we’ll develop from our efforts in the presence of one another’s lives, who we’ll be and what we’ll do, to promote justice and peace—that is what we can hope for from trying to live in solidarity.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Guatemala: Something Sensual
“The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.” ~E.E. Cummings
Rain—its gentle and fierce sound, its dusty smell, its boundless power, its necessity to life. It reminds me how sensual our world is. No other element can put me in such a state of reverie, pondering the textures of life.
There are two seasons in Guatemala: winters of rain and summers of drought. It’s winter, the mornings sunny, and the afternoon rains falling until November. And though I love the carefree and mellow sun, it’s the pensive and musing rain that makes me feel most akin to Nature.
Guatemala means “land of trees.” There could be no truer name. An emerald land, everything is green. GREEN! Dense with this iridescent shade, how the rain intensifies it all. The glistening beads of dew never really leave; the slimy moss never dries. Its winter earth is soft, damp and lush; so precious, wild, and unruly. It’s something sensual.
A rooster crows nearby. Particles of dust orbit in rays of gray sunlight. Tweeting birds hop thunderously on the echoing roof. Rainwater from the gutters splashes to the muddy ground. I know it’s still early, probably just before six o’clock, because there is no traffic to be heard and the barking dogs are yet silent. Rains from Hurricane Matthew, which hit Honduras last night, have now arrived in Guatemala. The weekend forecast is rain.
Perhaps I needed a reason to stay inside. Time to reflect and to write. But where to begin? With colorful and poetic descriptions of the land and people here, I do not mean to breeze over the difficult realities of this place. Poverty and corruption haunt these highlands. It is a laborious life. For many, it is a monotonous, immobile existence—they are bound by poverty. But the deeper questions and thoughts I have of this place are still too overwhelming to publicly confront. But an objective, vivid description of this place, right now I could more easily continue…
San Lucas lives on the edge of Lake Atitlan, in the shadow of two volcanoes. Steep, daunting, and creating a sense of awe, Volcán Atitlan and Volcán Tolimán. They are symbolic of the antiquity, beauty, and lingering danger of this place.
Like bloody claw marks scratched down the volcanoes’ southern sides, tracks of red soil and fallen trees are an eerie reminder of the violent rains and brutal mudslides. These wounds are still fresh—San Lucas still hurting—from the devastation of Hurricane Agatha that hit Guatemala’s Pacific side in late May. San Lucas suffered greatly: ten dead, hundreds of homes destroyed, roads demolished…and in a place as impoverished as this, possibly decades of development washed away.
As the morning fog drifts over the lake, a bright blue paints the morning sky. This clearing of mist and shade, and the unhindered sun, seems to illustrate the hope of this place and the vibrant faith of these people. Like the bold colors of their traditional Maya clothing, valiantly and conspicuously they wear their beliefs on their sleeves. Faith is thread throughout, powerfully manifesting itself in the daily lives of the locals.
Nearing eight o’clock, the main drag is breathing and bustling with the morning’s clamor and commotion. The cobbled streets are narrow, and lined with faded, mud-bottom buildings, with no grassy spaces in-between. Rattling pick-ups, in route to the fields with twenty-or-so campesinos hanging on in back, zigzag through the people and kiosks. If walking in the streets, for safety reasons and preventative decapitation measures, keep your arms tucked in, and your head tilted towards the buildings. Tuc-tuc’s (rickshaw-like, but motorized, taxis) honk and speed by. Club-like music blares from any speakers available: in shops, from cars, tuc-tuc’s, pick-ups, cell-phones, and headphones. This place is loud and echoing.
The market is crowded, fresh produce, spices, newspapers, and necessities for sale. Vendors sell breakfasts of black beans, bread, and fried plantains. Sickly stray dogs lounge in the sun and fight over scraps. Watch your step! Fresh droppings (“caca”) from the dogs (“chuchos”) litter the streets. Garbage scraps stick to the damp ground and moldy sidewalks.
In San Lucas, few men wear traditional clothing, but rather jeans and a t-shirt or polo, sometimes with a sombrero. However, the majority of the women wear the traditional clothing, the “traje”: a huipil and a corte (colorfully hand-woven shirt and skirt), held up by a faja (belt or sash). With her weavings and other traditional roles, the woman is believed to be the keeper of the Mayan Culture.
A baby is held on a woman’s back with a scarf tied over her chest. She holds the hand of a younger child, a shopping basket in her other hand, and a basket balanced on her head. She walks with strength and grace. The day has begun. The streets are filled with people; everybody is moving. In the town center, the color and life of these people—their sepia and amber skin, bright and detailed clothing, animated conversations, and good-natured, playful bargaining—create a spirited and rich social space.
Down the street, to the north, is Lake Atitlan. Though the runoff from surrounding pueblos is dangerously polluting the water and endangering its ecosystem, it’s still acclaimed one of the most beautiful lakes in the world. With the clearing of the morning haze, the vast waters become a clear sapphire, its ripples winking at you as they glimmer beneath the sun.
The mountain air is mild, warm and breathable. Into the early afternoon, the sun dries the farmland and laundry, and warms our faces and spirits. Then suddenly and predictably, a chilling breeze finds your neck and arms. Wispy clouds become dark and heavy, the sky ominous. The earlier crowded streets are now silent.
And the rain falls. And falls. Cascading from the sky. How deafening it is! In cycles it lets up and gets stronger. Two to three hours pass by before it becomes a stagnant mist. Now evening, life in the streets begins again.
Dusk setting, the mountains are distant dark masses. Their peaks are not rocky, but thick with bush. A scene I’ve never seen, trees silhouetted at the very top of the mountains. Nightly clouds hide the stars, but Jupiter burns brightly, floating between the two looming volcanoes. The shouts and noise of night rising, San Lucas is yet to be awake until the first hours of tomorrow. But unfortunately, with nightfall lingers danger, and I have to say, “Good night.”
http://www.sanlucasmission.org/
Rain—its gentle and fierce sound, its dusty smell, its boundless power, its necessity to life. It reminds me how sensual our world is. No other element can put me in such a state of reverie, pondering the textures of life.
There are two seasons in Guatemala: winters of rain and summers of drought. It’s winter, the mornings sunny, and the afternoon rains falling until November. And though I love the carefree and mellow sun, it’s the pensive and musing rain that makes me feel most akin to Nature.
Guatemala means “land of trees.” There could be no truer name. An emerald land, everything is green. GREEN! Dense with this iridescent shade, how the rain intensifies it all. The glistening beads of dew never really leave; the slimy moss never dries. Its winter earth is soft, damp and lush; so precious, wild, and unruly. It’s something sensual.
A rooster crows nearby. Particles of dust orbit in rays of gray sunlight. Tweeting birds hop thunderously on the echoing roof. Rainwater from the gutters splashes to the muddy ground. I know it’s still early, probably just before six o’clock, because there is no traffic to be heard and the barking dogs are yet silent. Rains from Hurricane Matthew, which hit Honduras last night, have now arrived in Guatemala. The weekend forecast is rain.
Perhaps I needed a reason to stay inside. Time to reflect and to write. But where to begin? With colorful and poetic descriptions of the land and people here, I do not mean to breeze over the difficult realities of this place. Poverty and corruption haunt these highlands. It is a laborious life. For many, it is a monotonous, immobile existence—they are bound by poverty. But the deeper questions and thoughts I have of this place are still too overwhelming to publicly confront. But an objective, vivid description of this place, right now I could more easily continue…
San Lucas lives on the edge of Lake Atitlan, in the shadow of two volcanoes. Steep, daunting, and creating a sense of awe, Volcán Atitlan and Volcán Tolimán. They are symbolic of the antiquity, beauty, and lingering danger of this place.
Like bloody claw marks scratched down the volcanoes’ southern sides, tracks of red soil and fallen trees are an eerie reminder of the violent rains and brutal mudslides. These wounds are still fresh—San Lucas still hurting—from the devastation of Hurricane Agatha that hit Guatemala’s Pacific side in late May. San Lucas suffered greatly: ten dead, hundreds of homes destroyed, roads demolished…and in a place as impoverished as this, possibly decades of development washed away.
As the morning fog drifts over the lake, a bright blue paints the morning sky. This clearing of mist and shade, and the unhindered sun, seems to illustrate the hope of this place and the vibrant faith of these people. Like the bold colors of their traditional Maya clothing, valiantly and conspicuously they wear their beliefs on their sleeves. Faith is thread throughout, powerfully manifesting itself in the daily lives of the locals.
Nearing eight o’clock, the main drag is breathing and bustling with the morning’s clamor and commotion. The cobbled streets are narrow, and lined with faded, mud-bottom buildings, with no grassy spaces in-between. Rattling pick-ups, in route to the fields with twenty-or-so campesinos hanging on in back, zigzag through the people and kiosks. If walking in the streets, for safety reasons and preventative decapitation measures, keep your arms tucked in, and your head tilted towards the buildings. Tuc-tuc’s (rickshaw-like, but motorized, taxis) honk and speed by. Club-like music blares from any speakers available: in shops, from cars, tuc-tuc’s, pick-ups, cell-phones, and headphones. This place is loud and echoing.
The market is crowded, fresh produce, spices, newspapers, and necessities for sale. Vendors sell breakfasts of black beans, bread, and fried plantains. Sickly stray dogs lounge in the sun and fight over scraps. Watch your step! Fresh droppings (“caca”) from the dogs (“chuchos”) litter the streets. Garbage scraps stick to the damp ground and moldy sidewalks.
In San Lucas, few men wear traditional clothing, but rather jeans and a t-shirt or polo, sometimes with a sombrero. However, the majority of the women wear the traditional clothing, the “traje”: a huipil and a corte (colorfully hand-woven shirt and skirt), held up by a faja (belt or sash). With her weavings and other traditional roles, the woman is believed to be the keeper of the Mayan Culture.
A baby is held on a woman’s back with a scarf tied over her chest. She holds the hand of a younger child, a shopping basket in her other hand, and a basket balanced on her head. She walks with strength and grace. The day has begun. The streets are filled with people; everybody is moving. In the town center, the color and life of these people—their sepia and amber skin, bright and detailed clothing, animated conversations, and good-natured, playful bargaining—create a spirited and rich social space.
Down the street, to the north, is Lake Atitlan. Though the runoff from surrounding pueblos is dangerously polluting the water and endangering its ecosystem, it’s still acclaimed one of the most beautiful lakes in the world. With the clearing of the morning haze, the vast waters become a clear sapphire, its ripples winking at you as they glimmer beneath the sun.
The mountain air is mild, warm and breathable. Into the early afternoon, the sun dries the farmland and laundry, and warms our faces and spirits. Then suddenly and predictably, a chilling breeze finds your neck and arms. Wispy clouds become dark and heavy, the sky ominous. The earlier crowded streets are now silent.
And the rain falls. And falls. Cascading from the sky. How deafening it is! In cycles it lets up and gets stronger. Two to three hours pass by before it becomes a stagnant mist. Now evening, life in the streets begins again.
Dusk setting, the mountains are distant dark masses. Their peaks are not rocky, but thick with bush. A scene I’ve never seen, trees silhouetted at the very top of the mountains. Nightly clouds hide the stars, but Jupiter burns brightly, floating between the two looming volcanoes. The shouts and noise of night rising, San Lucas is yet to be awake until the first hours of tomorrow. But unfortunately, with nightfall lingers danger, and I have to say, “Good night.”
http://www.sanlucasmission.org/
Guatemala: I Confess
http://www.sanlucasmission.org/
A person who stays a week here could write a book; a person who stays a month might write a chapter; and a person who stays a year wouldn’t know where to begin.
Does that make sense? If not, read it again.
If so, then this thought leads to my first confession: I will not even come close to seeing the reality of Guatemala. As soon as I arrived to San Lucas, I began to feel the presence of this looming fact. It is frustrating not to be able to understand…but maybe at least something to know that I won’t. But I want to try my best while I am here. And with accurate words, I hope to share with you my observations, and what I learn.
Now to my second confession: My words will not be a truly authentic and accurate telling of this place. Not on purpose though! Of course, I will try my best to share the truth of this place—its beauty and its sadness, its strengths and its weaknesses. But I am not from here, and for this I will fail in many ways. This country is one with a shadowy past, and one, where even in the present day, it’s still difficult to find the truth. The complexities of the people, cultures, politics, and history are beyond me. I am an outsider, naïve and ignorant, and I will surely make unknown mistakes in what I write and say.
But with such confessions, that’s not to say that my time here is wasted. Even if the profundity of Guatemala is beyond me, at the very least, my time here is an introduction. Though it is a mere one. Nonetheless, may it be a step towards understanding another way, our commonalities and our differences.
At the moment, I am hesitant of where to begin. What stories and thoughts do I share? I have only been here a short while, but (if it makes sense to say so) I feel so much already…and my mind is clouded with many thoughts and questions. But I think it would be better if I were to settle with this commotion a bit more, before I begin to share any further impressions of this place.
Please know it is with good intentions that I mean to share these perspectives and observations. But also, please forgive me for my misperceptions and inaccuracies, and may they not be detrimental.
"Sanity may be madness but the maddest of all is to see life as it is and not as it should be." ~Don Quixote
A person who stays a week here could write a book; a person who stays a month might write a chapter; and a person who stays a year wouldn’t know where to begin.
Does that make sense? If not, read it again.
If so, then this thought leads to my first confession: I will not even come close to seeing the reality of Guatemala. As soon as I arrived to San Lucas, I began to feel the presence of this looming fact. It is frustrating not to be able to understand…but maybe at least something to know that I won’t. But I want to try my best while I am here. And with accurate words, I hope to share with you my observations, and what I learn.
Now to my second confession: My words will not be a truly authentic and accurate telling of this place. Not on purpose though! Of course, I will try my best to share the truth of this place—its beauty and its sadness, its strengths and its weaknesses. But I am not from here, and for this I will fail in many ways. This country is one with a shadowy past, and one, where even in the present day, it’s still difficult to find the truth. The complexities of the people, cultures, politics, and history are beyond me. I am an outsider, naïve and ignorant, and I will surely make unknown mistakes in what I write and say.
But with such confessions, that’s not to say that my time here is wasted. Even if the profundity of Guatemala is beyond me, at the very least, my time here is an introduction. Though it is a mere one. Nonetheless, may it be a step towards understanding another way, our commonalities and our differences.
At the moment, I am hesitant of where to begin. What stories and thoughts do I share? I have only been here a short while, but (if it makes sense to say so) I feel so much already…and my mind is clouded with many thoughts and questions. But I think it would be better if I were to settle with this commotion a bit more, before I begin to share any further impressions of this place.
Please know it is with good intentions that I mean to share these perspectives and observations. But also, please forgive me for my misperceptions and inaccuracies, and may they not be detrimental.
"Sanity may be madness but the maddest of all is to see life as it is and not as it should be." ~Don Quixote
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Family Farewells
Departure for Guatemala is in days. This is where I’ll be for three months: http://www.sanlucasmission.org/
These parting words are telling of what I most love about my family.
Kyle said it simple, “So, are you ready to get the fuck out of here?”
And if you know my twin, then you know that Kyle sounded more like this: “Sahw, ‘r ya ready ta ghet the fuck outta hehr?” He says this to me in his scratchy voice, as he’s wearing his Ray Ban’s, and driving the boat. That’s Kyle: simple, chillin’, in control, likes nice stuff, on-the-fly, and perhaps a little brooding. These are the things I love about Kyle. (Oh, and also the fact that if he actually reads this, he’ll probably roll his eyes at that last sentence…and yep, that makes me smile.)
Brother Reid. Humorous and a bit aloof, if the topic is serious, sad, or personal, he doesn’t like to talk about it too much or for too long. But an observer, he sees more than most. He’s insightful and lets people be. Funny, sensitive, and way laid back, his company is easy and always a good time. Reid is peaceful and kind, an easy person to be with and to love. Conversations with him are lighthearted, sarcastic, relaxed, and direct when need be.
He says to me, “Just get there. And be safe.”
My brother Ryan is a whole other story. He’s got his ideas and thoughts, and whatever you’ve got to say, well that can come later. That’s not to say he isn’t a good listener. He’s probably one of the best listeners I know. But he also believes he’s more often right than not, and because of that, he thinks he should be heard first. And you know what (though I wouldn’t be so quick to tell him this), as the parental older brother, he is indeed insightful, bright, and does have the wisdom and experience that usually makes him right. (But, shhh, don’t tell him I said that.)
So this is what Ryan says to me (and if you don’t infer this from the conversation, then let me tell you: he’s a bit protective of his “little” 23-year-old sister.)
Ryan: So where are you going?
Me: It’s an hour or so west of Guatemala City.
Ryan: You have to stay in Guatemala City one night by yourself? Did you know that’s a dangerous place? You have to know your surroundings. Have you been talking to the people there? Do you know what to bring? Do you have a cell phone?
Me: Yeah, I have—
Ryan interrupts me: I’ll tell you what you should do. You’re paying to go down there, tell them to book your hotel. They can at least do that. This isn’t some casual thing; you’re a girl traveling alone. That’s not safe. I’ll call them if they haven’t. Do you want me to call them? I’ll call them. They should have this shit organized.
Me: No, Ryan, don’t call—
Interrupted again, Ryan says: Do you know who you’re driving with out to the Mission? What the vehicle looks like? The person’s name? You should be asking them this. Do you want me to call them? I’ll call them.
Me: No, don’t, Ryan. Yeah, I have—
Ryan again: What do you have to protect yourself? You know, you’re going to stick out as a tall blonde. You have to be aware of who’s around you. Are you bringing Mace or something?
Me: Yeah, and a knife.
Ryan: What? A knife? You’ll probably hurt yourself with a knife. You have to be careful. Maybe just the Mace.
Me: OK.
And that’s how those kinds of conversations have to end with Ryan. Just say, “OK.” Just agree. Otherwise, it could go on and on. But his concern is his interest, is his love. And that’s what I love about Ryan, his: instincts to protect and to provide, smarts and negotiation skills, common sense, loyalty, and most of all…his sense of adventure. For in the end, I knew Ryan would say this:
“Arrrgh, Kel, you’re gonna have a good time; I think it will be good for you. It’s one of the most beautiful countries I’ve been to. Make sure you go to Lake Atitlan, Antigua, see the ruins…” And again he continues with his brotherly advice, and telling me what he thinks I should do.
Then Andrea (my sister-in-law), after patiently and intently listening to Ryan, (and knowing that I don’t need another “lecture”) says in her enthusiastic and compassionate manner: “It’s going to be amazing, Kelly! But be safe, okay. And send me e-mail’s when you can. We love you.”
And Holly (Reid’s girlfriend), a genuine and sensitive person (and another much welcomed sister amongst all the Horazdovsky brothers), has a way of making a person feel needed and included. Perhaps it’s vain to want to be missed, but I’m happy when she says to me: “Kelly, I’m going to miss you! I want to see you before you go, I love you.”
Driving in the car, my dad says to me with a sigh, “What am I going to do with you; now I have three months to worry about you.”
Then he and my uncle begin to discuss as if I’m not sitting in the backseat.
Dad: She could bring that bear Mace that she got in Montana last summer.
Me: Dad, that’s the size of a hairspray bottle, and I don’t know if it’s legal to use on people. Really this place is safe.
Dad: Who cares!
Uncle Bruce: She’ll probably want a smaller one though, easier to carry around. The knife’s not a bad idea.
Dad: (sigh)
Uncle Bruce: Why can’t she just get a Taser? Put some distance between her and the attacker.
Dad: (sigh)
Then the concerned words of my mother:
“You know Kelly, you don’t have to go. You can just stay home. Is this necessary? This seems so extreme. You’ve been traveling so much. I worry. You could just stay home. Why don’t you just stay home?”
The reasons I love my parents are infinite. Even the things that frustrate me about them, I know that I love, because without them they wouldn’t be who they are. But sometimes their worry gets overwhelming, and especially my mother, who gets a bit irrational. Daily, she’s been asking me a dozen questions, and telling me about all the bad dreams and thoughts she’s been having of “what could happen to me.” She worries as if I’m going into a war zone! But I’m not going into a war zone. The place I’m going is a relatively safe and stable community.
And I tell my mom, “I’m aware of the risks, and I’ll be safe. But I want to go. I’m just trying to see places and meet people, do something good, be changed, gain perspective. There’s nothing tying me down, I feel free; this is what I feel moved to do.
These parting words are telling of what I most love about my family.
Kyle said it simple, “So, are you ready to get the fuck out of here?”
And if you know my twin, then you know that Kyle sounded more like this: “Sahw, ‘r ya ready ta ghet the fuck outta hehr?” He says this to me in his scratchy voice, as he’s wearing his Ray Ban’s, and driving the boat. That’s Kyle: simple, chillin’, in control, likes nice stuff, on-the-fly, and perhaps a little brooding. These are the things I love about Kyle. (Oh, and also the fact that if he actually reads this, he’ll probably roll his eyes at that last sentence…and yep, that makes me smile.)
Brother Reid. Humorous and a bit aloof, if the topic is serious, sad, or personal, he doesn’t like to talk about it too much or for too long. But an observer, he sees more than most. He’s insightful and lets people be. Funny, sensitive, and way laid back, his company is easy and always a good time. Reid is peaceful and kind, an easy person to be with and to love. Conversations with him are lighthearted, sarcastic, relaxed, and direct when need be.
He says to me, “Just get there. And be safe.”
My brother Ryan is a whole other story. He’s got his ideas and thoughts, and whatever you’ve got to say, well that can come later. That’s not to say he isn’t a good listener. He’s probably one of the best listeners I know. But he also believes he’s more often right than not, and because of that, he thinks he should be heard first. And you know what (though I wouldn’t be so quick to tell him this), as the parental older brother, he is indeed insightful, bright, and does have the wisdom and experience that usually makes him right. (But, shhh, don’t tell him I said that.)
So this is what Ryan says to me (and if you don’t infer this from the conversation, then let me tell you: he’s a bit protective of his “little” 23-year-old sister.)
Ryan: So where are you going?
Me: It’s an hour or so west of Guatemala City.
Ryan: You have to stay in Guatemala City one night by yourself? Did you know that’s a dangerous place? You have to know your surroundings. Have you been talking to the people there? Do you know what to bring? Do you have a cell phone?
Me: Yeah, I have—
Ryan interrupts me: I’ll tell you what you should do. You’re paying to go down there, tell them to book your hotel. They can at least do that. This isn’t some casual thing; you’re a girl traveling alone. That’s not safe. I’ll call them if they haven’t. Do you want me to call them? I’ll call them. They should have this shit organized.
Me: No, Ryan, don’t call—
Interrupted again, Ryan says: Do you know who you’re driving with out to the Mission? What the vehicle looks like? The person’s name? You should be asking them this. Do you want me to call them? I’ll call them.
Me: No, don’t, Ryan. Yeah, I have—
Ryan again: What do you have to protect yourself? You know, you’re going to stick out as a tall blonde. You have to be aware of who’s around you. Are you bringing Mace or something?
Me: Yeah, and a knife.
Ryan: What? A knife? You’ll probably hurt yourself with a knife. You have to be careful. Maybe just the Mace.
Me: OK.
And that’s how those kinds of conversations have to end with Ryan. Just say, “OK.” Just agree. Otherwise, it could go on and on. But his concern is his interest, is his love. And that’s what I love about Ryan, his: instincts to protect and to provide, smarts and negotiation skills, common sense, loyalty, and most of all…his sense of adventure. For in the end, I knew Ryan would say this:
“Arrrgh, Kel, you’re gonna have a good time; I think it will be good for you. It’s one of the most beautiful countries I’ve been to. Make sure you go to Lake Atitlan, Antigua, see the ruins…” And again he continues with his brotherly advice, and telling me what he thinks I should do.
Then Andrea (my sister-in-law), after patiently and intently listening to Ryan, (and knowing that I don’t need another “lecture”) says in her enthusiastic and compassionate manner: “It’s going to be amazing, Kelly! But be safe, okay. And send me e-mail’s when you can. We love you.”
And Holly (Reid’s girlfriend), a genuine and sensitive person (and another much welcomed sister amongst all the Horazdovsky brothers), has a way of making a person feel needed and included. Perhaps it’s vain to want to be missed, but I’m happy when she says to me: “Kelly, I’m going to miss you! I want to see you before you go, I love you.”
Driving in the car, my dad says to me with a sigh, “What am I going to do with you; now I have three months to worry about you.”
Then he and my uncle begin to discuss as if I’m not sitting in the backseat.
Dad: She could bring that bear Mace that she got in Montana last summer.
Me: Dad, that’s the size of a hairspray bottle, and I don’t know if it’s legal to use on people. Really this place is safe.
Dad: Who cares!
Uncle Bruce: She’ll probably want a smaller one though, easier to carry around. The knife’s not a bad idea.
Dad: (sigh)
Uncle Bruce: Why can’t she just get a Taser? Put some distance between her and the attacker.
Dad: (sigh)
Then the concerned words of my mother:
“You know Kelly, you don’t have to go. You can just stay home. Is this necessary? This seems so extreme. You’ve been traveling so much. I worry. You could just stay home. Why don’t you just stay home?”
The reasons I love my parents are infinite. Even the things that frustrate me about them, I know that I love, because without them they wouldn’t be who they are. But sometimes their worry gets overwhelming, and especially my mother, who gets a bit irrational. Daily, she’s been asking me a dozen questions, and telling me about all the bad dreams and thoughts she’s been having of “what could happen to me.” She worries as if I’m going into a war zone! But I’m not going into a war zone. The place I’m going is a relatively safe and stable community.
And I tell my mom, “I’m aware of the risks, and I’ll be safe. But I want to go. I’m just trying to see places and meet people, do something good, be changed, gain perspective. There’s nothing tying me down, I feel free; this is what I feel moved to do.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Guatemala: First Thoughts
Departure for Guatemala: September 15, 2010.
Length of stay: 11 weeks.
Purpose: The San Lucas Mission. http://www.sanlucasmission.org/
Goal: To gain new perspectives.
Home is soon to be behind (though, I am always happy to return), and another world ahead (and it is that new place, with all its uncertainty, that always draws me to leave in the first place).
But before my acceptance to the Mission, I was required to write a “life experience essay”, in which I am asked to answer some specific questions. Along with this task, some required reading material has been assigned as well, in which I have found a quote to guide my thoughts while I am at the Mission: “If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”
So the reflection begins…
Life Experience Essay
1. What do you believe are the three most important social justice issues?
Three social justice issues of great concern include: hunger, healthcare, and violence against women.
Food and healthcare are such basic human needs, and ones that the world has the resources to meet. It is simply intolerable that people suffer from starvation while other parts of the world are throwing out leftovers, or walking into grocery stores with over 20 kinds of jars of pickles to choose from. And to know that people are dying from illnesses, that would only take someone like me a drive to the pharmacy to cure, is another issue for which we must hold ourselves responsible to solve.
As for violence against women, perhaps it’s valid to say that the countries with oppressive traditions against their women are the ones to be most weary of. For, if they are able to treat people of their own country and culture with such disregard and violence, why would they not treat other countries—and those not related to them by tradition and patriotism—with even greater violence and oppression. And if the children of these women grow up learning that it’s okay to treat people like this, then yet another future generation’s education is founded in violence and injustice. Then this is what they will pass onto their children. And so, it becomes a vicious cycle.
2. What is your concept of global solidarity, and what does it mean to live our faith in solidarity?
Global solidarity begins with thinking about ourselves “intercommunally” instead of internationally. To start seeing the whole world instead of just our “corner” of it. To be a global citizen, instead of just a local citizen. I believe that to begin to understand issues of global solidarity begins with this thought process. We must think of how our commonalities—and even our differences—can bring us together. In this way, we can build relationships and strong communities with similar goals, for the success and health of the whole world, that will keep us united by, and attuned to, the world’s needs (and not just our own).
I believe that to “live our faith in solidarity” means to find our commonality to one another, whether we have the same faith or not. That commonality being defined as those simple truths such as: we all have families and friends; hopes, dreams, and aspirations; fears and uncertainties; and a mind full of thoughts, beliefs, interests, and passions. And, if we do not have the same faith, but “live our faith in solidarity”, then—because we will look for what we have in common—we will learn to respect our differences, and to seek to understand a person—another faith—instead of meeting them with only the intention to change them. “To live our faith in solidarity” is to firstly think of what we have in common, and to see our commonality as what unites and supports us in this life, and our faith.
3. What is your understanding of the concept of subsidiarity?
I believe the subsidiary approach of the San Lucas Mission is a concept based on a humble, open-minded, selfless approach to life and our interactions with others. What can we learn from one another, so to teach to each other?
We must first be a student before we can teach—we must first be a follower before we can lead. There is a rhythm here. And though I am experienced in some ways and able to part knowledge onto others, I am still a stranger to this world, still very young. I am still very much a student (and in fact will always be, for the world cannot be learned in one lifetime).
So to continue with my understanding of the concept of Subsidarity, it is to understand that we are everyday students, and that we must be humble and patient, ready to learn and to understand. And that for the cycle and rhythm of knowledge and wisdom to be acquired and passed on, there must always be a student and a teacher. I come to the Mission as a student.
4. Tell about a challenging situation or conflict caused by diversity, and how you resolved it.
This is a difficult question for me to think of a response to. I’ve saved it for the last one to answer.
People have told me that one of my greatest gifts is that I am able to be at peace with many different people. I hope that is true, for I hope that I am people-oriented and understanding of people and our differences.
That’s not to say this makes life without challenges. For sure I have been presented with challenging experiences in life, but in their effect on me, in earnest, I cannot think of such an experience that was truly significant on the issue of diversity.
Perhaps, all this said, makes me appear arrogant, self-righteous, ignorant, and small-minded. But those are things far from true. And neither am I saying that I’m incapable of experiencing challenges based on diversity.
It’s just that, I believe I’m inexperienced. Even in my travel, work, and academic experiences, I still perceive myself to be inexperienced in this world. I don’t know if I’ve really pushed myself beyond the limits of my “comfort zone.” In a way, I feel like I’ve been sheltered from certain realities, and that I haven’t been exposed to many true (unselfish) challenges.
The “diversity” challenges that some of my experiences might be able to be labeled as, in my mind have not been significant, or challenging. Compromise was easily reached, and there was no inner-struggle that I felt I had to overcome. So I wouldn’t want to try to exaggerate one of those experiences into something that was “challenging.” I think this is true of my experiences, because, yes I may be an understanding person, but also my experiences have been more easy than not, with the truth that the people and cultures that consistently surround me are more similar to me than not.
But as an open-minded, resilient, and compassionate person, I do believe I come prepared to face some of the deeper challenges of diversity, even if I’m not yet experienced in what their true depth may be, and is capable of.
5. Describe your values, and the significant relationships (other than family) that have influenced them.
First, to describe my values, I will use the image of a tattoo. For, if I were to get a tattoo, I would want it to be telling of humanity’s purpose, to be a symbol of my beliefs, and to detail my values.
The image I would choose to have imprinted on my body for life would be of a dove, carrying an olive branch. It is an image of simplicity and beauty.
I would have the tattoo drawn on my right rib cage—where the fifth and final wound was inflicted on Christ—as a representation of the importance of faith in my life. The dove itself, with the olive branch, is a universal symbol of peace and innocence. It is the purity and lack of corruption in innocence that I value. And my value of peace does not only mean the absence of war, but it is a deeper peace that includes my values of gratefulness, forgiveness, and love. The Biblical story of the dove returning to Noah’s ark with an olive branch represents loyalty, another one of my values. And most importantly, the dove also symbolizes the Holy Spirit—God spiritually active, his good deeds done through our hands in this world. And just as people are most important to God, they are a significant value of mine as well.
There have been many people and experiences that have influenced the development of these values. Of course, I have to acknowledge my family for the role they play in my life. They have been most influential in the values I listed above.
Other significant people are: my high school Spanish teacher, Barbara; my high school volleyball coach, Erika; and a professor I had—Magdaleña—while studying in Spain. Barbara was not only my teacher, but has also become a great friend to me. She was the first to inspire my international endeavors, and to inspire my value for being a global citizen. Erika—who I still call Coach—was a consistent role model during my four years in high school. In the way that she coached, treated the team, and communicated with me, I learned to value honesty, hard work, and fierce courage. Magdaleña is a professor who I will always remember. She told me something we all need to hear: “You’ve got it in you.”
Length of stay: 11 weeks.
Purpose: The San Lucas Mission. http://www.sanlucasmission.org/
Goal: To gain new perspectives.
Home is soon to be behind (though, I am always happy to return), and another world ahead (and it is that new place, with all its uncertainty, that always draws me to leave in the first place).
But before my acceptance to the Mission, I was required to write a “life experience essay”, in which I am asked to answer some specific questions. Along with this task, some required reading material has been assigned as well, in which I have found a quote to guide my thoughts while I am at the Mission: “If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”
So the reflection begins…
Life Experience Essay
1. What do you believe are the three most important social justice issues?
Three social justice issues of great concern include: hunger, healthcare, and violence against women.
Food and healthcare are such basic human needs, and ones that the world has the resources to meet. It is simply intolerable that people suffer from starvation while other parts of the world are throwing out leftovers, or walking into grocery stores with over 20 kinds of jars of pickles to choose from. And to know that people are dying from illnesses, that would only take someone like me a drive to the pharmacy to cure, is another issue for which we must hold ourselves responsible to solve.
As for violence against women, perhaps it’s valid to say that the countries with oppressive traditions against their women are the ones to be most weary of. For, if they are able to treat people of their own country and culture with such disregard and violence, why would they not treat other countries—and those not related to them by tradition and patriotism—with even greater violence and oppression. And if the children of these women grow up learning that it’s okay to treat people like this, then yet another future generation’s education is founded in violence and injustice. Then this is what they will pass onto their children. And so, it becomes a vicious cycle.
2. What is your concept of global solidarity, and what does it mean to live our faith in solidarity?
Global solidarity begins with thinking about ourselves “intercommunally” instead of internationally. To start seeing the whole world instead of just our “corner” of it. To be a global citizen, instead of just a local citizen. I believe that to begin to understand issues of global solidarity begins with this thought process. We must think of how our commonalities—and even our differences—can bring us together. In this way, we can build relationships and strong communities with similar goals, for the success and health of the whole world, that will keep us united by, and attuned to, the world’s needs (and not just our own).
I believe that to “live our faith in solidarity” means to find our commonality to one another, whether we have the same faith or not. That commonality being defined as those simple truths such as: we all have families and friends; hopes, dreams, and aspirations; fears and uncertainties; and a mind full of thoughts, beliefs, interests, and passions. And, if we do not have the same faith, but “live our faith in solidarity”, then—because we will look for what we have in common—we will learn to respect our differences, and to seek to understand a person—another faith—instead of meeting them with only the intention to change them. “To live our faith in solidarity” is to firstly think of what we have in common, and to see our commonality as what unites and supports us in this life, and our faith.
3. What is your understanding of the concept of subsidiarity?
I believe the subsidiary approach of the San Lucas Mission is a concept based on a humble, open-minded, selfless approach to life and our interactions with others. What can we learn from one another, so to teach to each other?
We must first be a student before we can teach—we must first be a follower before we can lead. There is a rhythm here. And though I am experienced in some ways and able to part knowledge onto others, I am still a stranger to this world, still very young. I am still very much a student (and in fact will always be, for the world cannot be learned in one lifetime).
So to continue with my understanding of the concept of Subsidarity, it is to understand that we are everyday students, and that we must be humble and patient, ready to learn and to understand. And that for the cycle and rhythm of knowledge and wisdom to be acquired and passed on, there must always be a student and a teacher. I come to the Mission as a student.
4. Tell about a challenging situation or conflict caused by diversity, and how you resolved it.
This is a difficult question for me to think of a response to. I’ve saved it for the last one to answer.
People have told me that one of my greatest gifts is that I am able to be at peace with many different people. I hope that is true, for I hope that I am people-oriented and understanding of people and our differences.
That’s not to say this makes life without challenges. For sure I have been presented with challenging experiences in life, but in their effect on me, in earnest, I cannot think of such an experience that was truly significant on the issue of diversity.
Perhaps, all this said, makes me appear arrogant, self-righteous, ignorant, and small-minded. But those are things far from true. And neither am I saying that I’m incapable of experiencing challenges based on diversity.
It’s just that, I believe I’m inexperienced. Even in my travel, work, and academic experiences, I still perceive myself to be inexperienced in this world. I don’t know if I’ve really pushed myself beyond the limits of my “comfort zone.” In a way, I feel like I’ve been sheltered from certain realities, and that I haven’t been exposed to many true (unselfish) challenges.
The “diversity” challenges that some of my experiences might be able to be labeled as, in my mind have not been significant, or challenging. Compromise was easily reached, and there was no inner-struggle that I felt I had to overcome. So I wouldn’t want to try to exaggerate one of those experiences into something that was “challenging.” I think this is true of my experiences, because, yes I may be an understanding person, but also my experiences have been more easy than not, with the truth that the people and cultures that consistently surround me are more similar to me than not.
But as an open-minded, resilient, and compassionate person, I do believe I come prepared to face some of the deeper challenges of diversity, even if I’m not yet experienced in what their true depth may be, and is capable of.
5. Describe your values, and the significant relationships (other than family) that have influenced them.
First, to describe my values, I will use the image of a tattoo. For, if I were to get a tattoo, I would want it to be telling of humanity’s purpose, to be a symbol of my beliefs, and to detail my values.
The image I would choose to have imprinted on my body for life would be of a dove, carrying an olive branch. It is an image of simplicity and beauty.
I would have the tattoo drawn on my right rib cage—where the fifth and final wound was inflicted on Christ—as a representation of the importance of faith in my life. The dove itself, with the olive branch, is a universal symbol of peace and innocence. It is the purity and lack of corruption in innocence that I value. And my value of peace does not only mean the absence of war, but it is a deeper peace that includes my values of gratefulness, forgiveness, and love. The Biblical story of the dove returning to Noah’s ark with an olive branch represents loyalty, another one of my values. And most importantly, the dove also symbolizes the Holy Spirit—God spiritually active, his good deeds done through our hands in this world. And just as people are most important to God, they are a significant value of mine as well.
There have been many people and experiences that have influenced the development of these values. Of course, I have to acknowledge my family for the role they play in my life. They have been most influential in the values I listed above.
Other significant people are: my high school Spanish teacher, Barbara; my high school volleyball coach, Erika; and a professor I had—Magdaleña—while studying in Spain. Barbara was not only my teacher, but has also become a great friend to me. She was the first to inspire my international endeavors, and to inspire my value for being a global citizen. Erika—who I still call Coach—was a consistent role model during my four years in high school. In the way that she coached, treated the team, and communicated with me, I learned to value honesty, hard work, and fierce courage. Magdaleña is a professor who I will always remember. She told me something we all need to hear: “You’ve got it in you.”
To Be Consumed
Thoughts from a sleepless night…
May you find yourself at liberty not only to nurture what you’ve become, but also to continue to form new aspects of yourself. For to have this kind of freedom, surely is a gift. But do not waste this freedom—this ability to be multifaceted—by the consumption of only one aspect of yourself. The result will only do to squander that said aspect, and to compromise you as a whole person.
As C.S. Lewis rightly said, “The worst thing that we can do for our self is to take any one impulse, and set it up as the one aspect of our nature that we follow at all costs.”
In his book, East of Eden, John Steinbeck also wrote of our obsessions and impulses, and of what sometimes is the duty of friends to free each other from such consuming thoughts.
Samuel said satirically, “It’s my duty to take this thing of yours and kick it in the face, then raise it up and spread slime on it thick enough to blot out its dangerous light…. I should hold it up to you muck-covered and show you its dirt and danger. I should warn you to look closer until you can see how ugly it really is. I should ask you to think of inconstancy and give you examples. I should give you Othello’s handkerchief. Oh, I know I should. And I should straighten you out of your tangled thoughts, and show you that the impulse is gray as lead and rotten as a dead cow in wet weather. If I did my duty well, I could give you back your old life and feel good about it, and welcome you back… It is the duty of a friend. I had a friend who did the duty once for me.”
However, the reality is that we probably already have been, and will continue to be consumed in many ways in life. That is an unavoidable part of our humanity. But may we recognize these impulses and obsessions, and be prepared to battle them bravely. So that we may nurture all formed and potential aspects of whom we are, and could be.
Interpret these words—as you will—to your own consumptions…
When it comes…
What will it do?
Rush through my veins?
Burst my transparent walls?
Exist in my heart?
Pound heavy against my life?
Shiver upon my skin?
Exploit my vulnerability?
When it comes…
How will it arrive?
Without warning?
Already a part of me,
Before I could decide?
Or will it creep slowly?
Will I sense it, and
Have time and strength
To fight it?
When it comes…
What will it be?
My life?
My death?
All that I see?
All that I breathe?
But why should it become
Anymore than what it is?
A burden it has no right to be.
When it comes…
Will it take over?
Will it be my only?
My everything?
Does it have to be my obsession?
Could I be so consumed?
So distracted from all else?
A prisoner of my own passions?
Unchain me!
Please! I pray.
Do not let it alter
My life all together.
Please! I pray.
Let me escape
From this wicked parasite.
Please! I pray.
Let me be.
LET ME BE!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
In Transition
A western sun lingers. Shadows reach eastward, while another today nears tomorrow. There she sees a swing. Beneath her feet she feels the change of earth, as she moves from pavement to grass…
With empty fields and unheard voices, she is alone in this place. Choosing a swing, her legs begin to work. She falls forward and then backward, rising up each time. Like a pendulum. Her own weight her momentum, briefly defying gravity.
The warm breeze brushes across her skin and through her hair. As she rises towards the sky, she sees only quivering treetops and a clear blue. And as she falls back, she sees the grasses rush by below her feet.
Her thoughts stray and she thinks of something recently said to her. Though said innocently, the words haunt her: “I’ve just been in this transition for months now; I feel like I’ve been in a limbo, just waiting, and so unproductive; I’m ready for what’s next.”
“Transition.” Still swinging, the girl contemplates this word and she thinks, “How often it seems to be a word misused.” Transition means to change, but (herself included she perceives) it seems people misconstrue this word—transition—as a more dignified word for waiting.
But transition is active—a period of change, life happening. It does not mean a time of waiting, of idleness or delay. Life—our life—is not in limbo. There is no lull, or some hiatus or intermission. It is what it is. We are where we are. We are who we are. We live right now. To live is to change. From one transition to another. If we are waiting, then how are we living?
The girl swings. Back and forth, back and forth. Rising up, then falling down, and rising up again. As her legs pump to move the swing, and Earth’s gravity pulls her back, she realizes this swing is like a life. Her world, just as this swing, is set into motion because of her own strength and will to move it, the forces of Earth as controls, and most of all, God (she believes) as the Creator of all.
Life is like a pendulum—like this girl on a swing. We swing from high-to-low-to-high points. Always moving. Rising up, falling down, rising up, falling down. Both the Good and the Bad. When we swing high on one end, we see the wide-open blue, and we feel free and invincible. That’s good. Love those feelings and times. And when we swing back and high to the other end, we see the grasses and dusts. Perhaps this reminds us that we are earthbound and mortal. This is beautiful too. We are alive.
If we can swing from one end of the pendulum to the other, then we can live to the high points in life, get through the low points, and still end on a high point. Ultimately though, our pendulum will stop. There will be an empty, and still swing. Our life is not forever in this place. But while we are here, may we be conscious that Time is continuous and Life always changing, always present, and never waiting. It is here. We don’t have an intermission.
Don’t wait. Swing high. Do life.
With empty fields and unheard voices, she is alone in this place. Choosing a swing, her legs begin to work. She falls forward and then backward, rising up each time. Like a pendulum. Her own weight her momentum, briefly defying gravity.
The warm breeze brushes across her skin and through her hair. As she rises towards the sky, she sees only quivering treetops and a clear blue. And as she falls back, she sees the grasses rush by below her feet.
Her thoughts stray and she thinks of something recently said to her. Though said innocently, the words haunt her: “I’ve just been in this transition for months now; I feel like I’ve been in a limbo, just waiting, and so unproductive; I’m ready for what’s next.”
“Transition.” Still swinging, the girl contemplates this word and she thinks, “How often it seems to be a word misused.” Transition means to change, but (herself included she perceives) it seems people misconstrue this word—transition—as a more dignified word for waiting.
But transition is active—a period of change, life happening. It does not mean a time of waiting, of idleness or delay. Life—our life—is not in limbo. There is no lull, or some hiatus or intermission. It is what it is. We are where we are. We are who we are. We live right now. To live is to change. From one transition to another. If we are waiting, then how are we living?
The girl swings. Back and forth, back and forth. Rising up, then falling down, and rising up again. As her legs pump to move the swing, and Earth’s gravity pulls her back, she realizes this swing is like a life. Her world, just as this swing, is set into motion because of her own strength and will to move it, the forces of Earth as controls, and most of all, God (she believes) as the Creator of all.
Life is like a pendulum—like this girl on a swing. We swing from high-to-low-to-high points. Always moving. Rising up, falling down, rising up, falling down. Both the Good and the Bad. When we swing high on one end, we see the wide-open blue, and we feel free and invincible. That’s good. Love those feelings and times. And when we swing back and high to the other end, we see the grasses and dusts. Perhaps this reminds us that we are earthbound and mortal. This is beautiful too. We are alive.
If we can swing from one end of the pendulum to the other, then we can live to the high points in life, get through the low points, and still end on a high point. Ultimately though, our pendulum will stop. There will be an empty, and still swing. Our life is not forever in this place. But while we are here, may we be conscious that Time is continuous and Life always changing, always present, and never waiting. It is here. We don’t have an intermission.
Don’t wait. Swing high. Do life.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Todo tiene su derecho y su revés
Siempre hay dos lados…vea usted el que sea feo y también el que sea hermoso.
EL FUEGO
El fuego de Andalucía
siempre quema en Sevilla.
Entra en erupcioón con furia y lava mortal.
Es el sol, freíendo y chisporroteando la tierra,
que hace morir abrasado este desierto.
El fuego de Andalucía
nunca deja de quemar todo el año.
No lluvía de primavera puede apagarlo.
Las plazas son placas para las flores en el verano.
En el otoño su calor hace húmedo el piel y seca la boca,
y todavía te asfixiona en el invierno.
El fuego siempre quema en Sevilla.
Sevilla se encuentra en este fuego,
rescándose y metiédose sus quemaduras.
El aire huele de pelo quemado y piel ampollado;
y caca funde y endurece por todos sitios.
Los trabajadores de la ciudad limpian las calles,
consumiendo el agua solo para propagar la mugre.
El fuego siempre quema en Sevilla.
El fuego andaluz separa la gente.
El aire calor atraganta entre la gente,
con el humo ardiente de los cigarrillos.
Los piropos queman la dignidad y respeta.
La gente mira fijamente y es sospechosa;
y te cicatriza en las calles, con llamas de codos afilados.
El fuego siempre quema en Sevilla.
El fuego de Andalucía
hace ser pasto de las llamas los tardes.
Su calor ahuyenta la gente por tres horas,
y esconde en siestas, perdiendo tiempo.
El sol quema la gente con vientos calores,
que soplan el polvo escocer sus quemaduras.
Todo es crujiente como una costra.
El fuego siempre quema en Sevilla.
El fuego de Andalucía siempre quema.
EL SOL
El sol de Andalucía
siempre brilla en Sevilla.
Es una estrella que brilla en el cielo,
que con su calor, luz y energía,
crea este paraíso sureño.
El sol de Andalucía
irradia con la primavera, el verano, otoño y invierno.
Las flores florecen en su luz,
descansa con la gente en la playa,
se sonrie a los escolares en las plazas
y su calor todavía trae la energía a la noche.
El sol siempre brilla en Sevilla.
Sevilla florece en el sol andaluz.
Las naranjas reflejan el color soleado,
redondas y vivas brillando en las hojas.
Todo el día los olores floreados respiran.
Y cuando llega el anochecer, y desaparece el sol,
hay el incienso de las Damas de la Noche.
El sol siempre brilla en Sevilla.
El sol andaluz unifica la gente.
Juntos hace palmas con la guitarra flamenca,
es una voz a los partidos de fútbol
y va con pasión a las corridas de toros.
En la Semana Santa, todo es silento para oir una saeta;
y en la Ferria, baila los Sevillanos por la noche.
El sol siempre brilla en Sevilla.
El sol de Andalucía
hace más fría una cerveza por el rio,
y sierve las sangrias en San Salvador.
Su amarillo es el color de paella,
y su calor hace gazpacho fresco.
La gente camina despacio en su luz,
y toma una siesta en los parques.
El sol siempre brilla en Sevilla.
El sol de Andalucía siempre brilla.
Cuando allí había momentos en que vi "el fuego", pero más que vi y viví "el sol." Es una cosa para ver a ambos lados, pero otra cosa para buscar ambos lados y que usted elige ver más.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
I Don't Want This Feeling To Go Away
The day was nearing five o’clock. Crimson and orange set aflame the sky, and shadows of passersby grew longer. The sand glistened with the ebb of the tide. A northern wind blew crisp upon my face; its coldness burned my throat. And the formidable and vast Pacific bared its teeth at us all—its whitecaps daunting and unwelcoming.
It was Sunday, Valentine’s Day. I left my father’s side, a few paces ahead of him with my camera in hand. Facing the ocean, I looked both ways down Cannon Beach. Children played and ran from the tide, couples sauntered hand-in-hand, families stood together, friends gathered with kites, Frisbees and footballs, and dogs ran in between them all. There were hundreds of people, but still so much space and open beach to move and to be free.
Mesmerized by the ebb and flow of the ocean, I felt small and unseen as I looked down the beach. How the fierce waves seemed alive—how they inhaled, and with a deafening boom crashed loudly, and rushed toward their unsuspecting prey on the sands. Watching the fragile beings that moved along the water’s edge, none seemed to notice the lurking power from the West.
As the Pacific crept upon the shore, it flowed in steadily and evenly. Unlike the waves that roared and swelled further out, this creeping water was smooth and welcoming. Enchanted, I felt lured—if only to let my toes be touched. But then slowly the ocean pulled back, and then more quickly it retreated, until suddenly with great urgency and purpose, the waters rushed back out to sea, sucked into unknown depths.
The receding waters seemed to bubble and gurgle, as if they had gotten what they wanted. But what did these waters take from us? Caught in the moment, I hadn’t noticed that my father was at my side. The waves, they drowned out any noise that might be, and I could just hear him as he said,
“Look at all these people. But you can’t hear a single person over the pounding waves. It’s as if the sound of the ocean is the noise of their worries, their stress, and fears. As if the waves take these heavy thoughts from them. Even if just for today, they are free from their realities. Here, they get to forget and be carefree.”
I looked at these people with this thought in mind. It was true. The powerful sound of the ocean seemed to be the same weight and force of our worries being taken out to sea. Everything else, but the swells and thrashing of the sea, was calm and in a state of silent reverie.
And then without notice, a feeling expanded in my chest, the cold sea air rushed in and I held my breath. I felt light, almost as if I wasn’t there, and weak as I tried to grasp for something that was already slipping away.
How can I begin to describe this emotion—there may be no better way than to describe it with a question: Do you ever find yourself, all of a sudden, yearning for the very moment that you’re in? Wishing for that moment to go on until you’re ready to move on? That’s how I felt—I didn’t want to move from that beach or that moment. Still present in that moment, but knowing that hour would soon pass, I already missed it. I yearned for it to stay as it was.
This wasn’t nostalgia or déjà-vu. But, perhaps this feeling is better described as the deepest meaning of what it means to “live in the moment.” Only rarely have I felt this deep longing. In a way, it is a sad feeling, yet there is a peace that lingers on from it.
I don’t know what you may take from this story just told, but if anything, may it be a simple reminder to enjoy the present—to live each single moment as you can—and to enjoy the feelings of these moments.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
She once said to me, “I hope I am what others need me to be to them.”
She is my earth.
I saw her when my eyes first opened to this world.
And finally now I realize the roots I have in her.
The roots she still, and will always let me plant within.
She is a feeling of trust and stability.
As a child, with angel hair and wild excitement,
I told her blue eyes everything.
And still do.
She gave me these feathered breaths.
With love to fill my lungs,
And her wisdom to swell my heart,
I can count on her to know what matters most of all.
She is my breath of this fragile life.
My warmth and my health and my shelter,
My haven when the night grows cold.
She is a place where I am always me.
Holding onto my roots,
She lets me grow as a wildflower.
With a love unconditional but not binding,
She lets me choose my own way.
She tells me the secrets of life,
Sharing this world with me.
Casting me into this beautiful depth of life,
To believe, to dream, to live, and to just be.
She has showed me the winds,
Gave me the wings to my imagination,
And with fearless grace, let me go.
To fly into the great wide open.
She is the only person in the whole world,
A whole lifetime,
Who can be these things to me.
Even her clothes feel different.
Only to touch her skirt or her sleeve,
I can feel the power, the mystery, the love…
Of my mother.
Mother’s Day will soon be here. See her. Think of her. Remember her.
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