“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?
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Sunday, October 17, 2010
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.
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