Yesterday morning I was on a tap tap heading to the airport. Exhaust fumes, loud cries, and pedestrians- everywhere!
This morning I woke up in my own bed. I'm sitting in the dining room, eating a bowl of homemade chili, drinking a cup of refreshingly good coffee.
The trees are naked. The sky is a shrouded gray and the outside air is fresh.
I can't get enough of it. My heart, my mind. They feel empty- or full- or empty. Vacant and present, open to the taking. Hollow, preserved- I don't know.
All I know- of what I feel- is present.
I feel present. Aware. I feel here.
In a way that is simple and mechanical.
In a peaceful and methodical way.
More often than not, we are able to look without seeing.
Thoughts flash in and out of our minds, consuming us, they're ravenous.
Today- I'm sitting and I'm looking at the naked trees. I'm tasting. And I'm seeing.
I'm trying to be.
I don't have much for you all, this first chapter over.
The thing is, what people are doing in Haiti- they're living.
And it's no better or worse, doesn't mean any less, it just is
Only it's no kind of living that I've ever done.
And I try as weigh the options. I don't understand it.
How nothing that matters in Haiti, matters here. And how that in itself doesn't matter.
The more I live outside of my skin, the less I understand.
And the less I understand, the more I feel.
Nothing in particular, just feel.
Alive.
And that, I hope, is the point.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Breathe easy
There is a freedom in simplicity. Here in Haiti, many of my natural impulses for attaining happiness are quelled.
Not because I have overcome my desire
But simply because it is not an option here.
I cannot make the choices that I lean on at home.
And I'm finding myself different.
My head is clear
And my body feels strong
The day here is so structured and concrete. It's meditative.
The best analogy I can make is when you are full but not satisfied.
It's a thin distinction,
But if you think about food as fuel and nothing more, it's transformative.
nothing more than what you need it to be.
Last night there were no guests at st. Joseph's so it followed that there was no meal.
Rummaging around in the house, I gathered a tangerine, a tomato, and a carrot stick.
Not a dinner of champions, but nevertheless, complete.
And satisfying in a different way from the satisfaction in consuming a lavish or savory dinner.
Satisfaction in simplicity. It's new and painful for me.
But as I struggle, I can feel myself growing stronger.
In the same sense that I am constantly purging my mind of thoughts of winter shopping.
I don't need to buy new clothes here, have no use for them, am happy without them.
And yet, I still feel compulsory magnetism.
The question weighs on my mind.
Why do we want things that we are happy without.
What is there beyond happiness?
Not because I have overcome my desire
But simply because it is not an option here.
I cannot make the choices that I lean on at home.
And I'm finding myself different.
My head is clear
And my body feels strong
The day here is so structured and concrete. It's meditative.
The best analogy I can make is when you are full but not satisfied.
It's a thin distinction,
But if you think about food as fuel and nothing more, it's transformative.
nothing more than what you need it to be.
Last night there were no guests at st. Joseph's so it followed that there was no meal.
Rummaging around in the house, I gathered a tangerine, a tomato, and a carrot stick.
Not a dinner of champions, but nevertheless, complete.
And satisfying in a different way from the satisfaction in consuming a lavish or savory dinner.
Satisfaction in simplicity. It's new and painful for me.
But as I struggle, I can feel myself growing stronger.
In the same sense that I am constantly purging my mind of thoughts of winter shopping.
I don't need to buy new clothes here, have no use for them, am happy without them.
And yet, I still feel compulsory magnetism.
The question weighs on my mind.
Why do we want things that we are happy without.
What is there beyond happiness?
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
sometimes
Sometimes the injustice of the world
Sometimes the cards we were dealt
That it just is what it is
The whys and the hows and the
Where is God?
In all of this.
Sometimes it is too sad.
And sometimes it just is what it is.
Sometimes the cards we were dealt
That it just is what it is
The whys and the hows and the
Where is God?
In all of this.
Sometimes it is too sad.
And sometimes it just is what it is.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
The Enkindled Spring
'THIS spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.'
-D.H. Lawrence
Monday, December 10, 2012
Glory, glory.
I've been thinking a lot about angels lately.
The word, and its meaning. Who they are, and who we think they are.
I think about the Christmas Pageant at church. About those beautiful children. Angels. Curly blond haired mops and sparkling blue eyes.
How sweet those four and five year olds are. How the Christmas pageant needs that abundance of angels.
To tell the story, and to bring the joy of the Christmas spirit.
It abounds from them.
Angels.
We don't know what they look like. And biblically speaking, they take so many different forms.
They sing and they worship. They protect and warn. They cast out demons and scatter plagues. They bring God's wrath and overwhelming love.
In truth, I think all I know of angels is that I believe in them.
I believe in them on earth, and in heaven.
And I think that with this season of impatience and peace. Of waiting for the
Christ child to come. We cannot hope without expectance.
And with our expectancy, there is the inevitability of Jesus' sacrifice on the cross.
He is coming to save us.
And I think about heaven.
I think about how a tiny baby was brought into the world, to die and be brought into eternal life.
For me.
And I think about the angels.
I think about seeing them.
And seeing him.
An entire lifetime of Christmas joy.
A world full of Christmas pageant angels.
All that He has done. All that I am.
And we will all be together,
praising God, in heaven.
So I think about the prayers in the mornings here in Haiti.
All of the children are given the opportunity to pray, the majority of whom are unable to articulate any words.
But they are called, and they pray.
Given their different personalities,the prayers are as varied as the angels.
Some prayers are whispered into palms.
Some prayers are bold and guttural. Their hands spasm and they throw back their heads, shrieking and moaning.
Some children use all the energy down to the depths of their toes to wrap their tongues around one noise and simply expound any prayer at all.
Their eyes roll back in their heads and they laugh, in a choking, manic exuberance.
Some prayers go on and on. A child drones, their voice undulating. They roll their head from side to side, listening to the noises wash over their teeth.
One child screams and kicks. He stomps his feet, throws back his head, his laugh is an eruption. It contorts his face and ripples through his body. He doubles over and slaps his hands together. Together and against his forehead. Against his chest and clasped together again. He breathes in with all his might and the laughter that follows is thrown with the force of a fit of coughing.
I think about all the languages in the world.
I think about how God knows our thoughts before we know them ourselves.
How he knows every strand of hair on our heads.
And I think that this is what it means.
When I am told, God knows my prayers, even when I do not- or better yet-
When I pray, but my heart is asking for other things. God knows that too.
But more importantly. When Joyze wraps his hands around his ribs. When the veins in his neck bulge and his eyes roll back. When the screeches coming from his throat are strangled and compulsive. When words are smothered by his tongue as air gargles up through his lungs.
Jesus hears that prayer.
And God knows, I do too.
The angels are singing in heaven. And we are all going to be there.
The word, and its meaning. Who they are, and who we think they are.
I think about the Christmas Pageant at church. About those beautiful children. Angels. Curly blond haired mops and sparkling blue eyes.
How sweet those four and five year olds are. How the Christmas pageant needs that abundance of angels.
To tell the story, and to bring the joy of the Christmas spirit.
It abounds from them.
Angels.
We don't know what they look like. And biblically speaking, they take so many different forms.
They sing and they worship. They protect and warn. They cast out demons and scatter plagues. They bring God's wrath and overwhelming love.
In truth, I think all I know of angels is that I believe in them.
I believe in them on earth, and in heaven.
And I think that with this season of impatience and peace. Of waiting for the
Christ child to come. We cannot hope without expectance.
And with our expectancy, there is the inevitability of Jesus' sacrifice on the cross.
He is coming to save us.
And I think about heaven.
I think about how a tiny baby was brought into the world, to die and be brought into eternal life.
For me.
And I think about the angels.
I think about seeing them.
And seeing him.
An entire lifetime of Christmas joy.
A world full of Christmas pageant angels.
All that He has done. All that I am.
And we will all be together,
praising God, in heaven.
So I think about the prayers in the mornings here in Haiti.
All of the children are given the opportunity to pray, the majority of whom are unable to articulate any words.
But they are called, and they pray.
Given their different personalities,the prayers are as varied as the angels.
Some prayers are whispered into palms.
Some prayers are bold and guttural. Their hands spasm and they throw back their heads, shrieking and moaning.
Some children use all the energy down to the depths of their toes to wrap their tongues around one noise and simply expound any prayer at all.
Their eyes roll back in their heads and they laugh, in a choking, manic exuberance.
Some prayers go on and on. A child drones, their voice undulating. They roll their head from side to side, listening to the noises wash over their teeth.
One child screams and kicks. He stomps his feet, throws back his head, his laugh is an eruption. It contorts his face and ripples through his body. He doubles over and slaps his hands together. Together and against his forehead. Against his chest and clasped together again. He breathes in with all his might and the laughter that follows is thrown with the force of a fit of coughing.
I think about all the languages in the world.
I think about how God knows our thoughts before we know them ourselves.
How he knows every strand of hair on our heads.
And I think that this is what it means.
When I am told, God knows my prayers, even when I do not- or better yet-
When I pray, but my heart is asking for other things. God knows that too.
But more importantly. When Joyze wraps his hands around his ribs. When the veins in his neck bulge and his eyes roll back. When the screeches coming from his throat are strangled and compulsive. When words are smothered by his tongue as air gargles up through his lungs.
Jesus hears that prayer.
And God knows, I do too.
The angels are singing in heaven. And we are all going to be there.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Of love
I think that we take things for granted.
I don't think we do it on purpose.
I don't think we know,
that we take things for granted.
This morning, waking up early, for hours of reading and coffee drinking on the porch. A time to be, to myself.
I watch the boys run around. Some do their chores. Some are too busy chastising others to be concerned with their own chores. Some tuck their dress shirts into their pants, and they stand a little taller. They dust off each others shoulders and grab each other affectionately by the neck. Always in twos and threes. They frolic and giggle. There's always the exclamations of some hilarious occurrence, of some unsettled dispute.
On this morning, I watched them.
I watched them take care of each other.
Because they don't have anyone else.
Who has. Or who will.
And I think of home.
We are parents, we are children.
We are blessed.
We know that we are loved.
We didn't piece our families together.
We weren't found on the streets. Weren't abandoned by our mothers.
Our family is not 19 other children.
Thank God these boys are a family.
And thank God I will never know what that feels like.
I don't think we do it on purpose.
I don't think we know,
that we take things for granted.
This morning, waking up early, for hours of reading and coffee drinking on the porch. A time to be, to myself.
I watch the boys run around. Some do their chores. Some are too busy chastising others to be concerned with their own chores. Some tuck their dress shirts into their pants, and they stand a little taller. They dust off each others shoulders and grab each other affectionately by the neck. Always in twos and threes. They frolic and giggle. There's always the exclamations of some hilarious occurrence, of some unsettled dispute.
On this morning, I watched them.
I watched them take care of each other.
Because they don't have anyone else.
Who has. Or who will.
And I think of home.
We are parents, we are children.
We are blessed.
We know that we are loved.
We didn't piece our families together.
We weren't found on the streets. Weren't abandoned by our mothers.
Our family is not 19 other children.
Thank God these boys are a family.
And thank God I will never know what that feels like.
Friday, December 7, 2012
The sky is the limit
Alright, I'm not sure if this ever happens to you. In fact, being the weirdo that I am, it seems unlikely. But, if it does, and you find yourself of a similar nature, then you, my friend, are in good company.
Sometimes. (Only sometimes). When I think about my tongue being in my mouth, I become all too aware of the limited space in which it dwells. Moreover, I wonder how it ever fit there in the first place. The longer I contemplate, the larger my tongue seems to become. Meanwhile my mouth takes on a 'no loitering' status, and my tongue can no longer find anywhere to rest comfortably.
It's a panic-inducing psychosis and generally lasts for a duration of time, indistinguishable from any other panic attack, until my attention is diverted.
This bizarre and vaguely embarrassing, 'ill-fitting-tongue syndrome' has happened to me, on and off, for a number of years. Publicly, I attribute it to the masochists over at Dr. King's Orthodontics. However, privately, I think it falls more under the realm of Elizabeth's emotional inertia. My family knows it well. Instead of imaging that how I feel is normal, and need not be examined further, I tend to take a distinctly contrasting position- this cannot be normal, and therefore is cause for panic.
And that's the thing. However ridiculous we may find this oral dilemma, we all have them.
Irrational fear.
And if not irrational, then inevitable.
There are two outcomes to the situation. My tongue is abnormally growing, and physically incapable of comfortably resting in my mouth, or, it is not.
One is a problem in need of a solution, and one is a self-induced problem, which naturally resolves itself every time, when I stop thinking about it.
And this is also how I have thought about Haiti. There are problems that are out of my control. That if in fact, they are happening, will need solutions.
And there are problems that come from within me. That don't exist here, and that naturally dissipate as I am able to outgrow them.
I think about this every time I get into a van to go down the mountain. The logic flows as such.
'The driver does NOT want to die either.'
'He does this all the time...'
'No one else is concerned.'
'Everyone goes the same speed'
'He clearly knows what he is doing'
And yet, still filled with an unbalanced rack of nerves, these rational defenses do not assure me.
And so I pray. It is a simple prayer. Lord, please keep us safe from harm.
Beyond comprehension, beyond rationale- a reassurance.
Faith.
Not because we won't crash. But because I've done everything in my power to command the situation, and it will be what it is- irrational or inevitable.
So far so good.
And I'm equally happy to report that my tongue is resting easily and appropriately where it should be, thank you very much.
Sometimes. (Only sometimes). When I think about my tongue being in my mouth, I become all too aware of the limited space in which it dwells. Moreover, I wonder how it ever fit there in the first place. The longer I contemplate, the larger my tongue seems to become. Meanwhile my mouth takes on a 'no loitering' status, and my tongue can no longer find anywhere to rest comfortably.
It's a panic-inducing psychosis and generally lasts for a duration of time, indistinguishable from any other panic attack, until my attention is diverted.
This bizarre and vaguely embarrassing, 'ill-fitting-tongue syndrome' has happened to me, on and off, for a number of years. Publicly, I attribute it to the masochists over at Dr. King's Orthodontics. However, privately, I think it falls more under the realm of Elizabeth's emotional inertia. My family knows it well. Instead of imaging that how I feel is normal, and need not be examined further, I tend to take a distinctly contrasting position- this cannot be normal, and therefore is cause for panic.
And that's the thing. However ridiculous we may find this oral dilemma, we all have them.
Irrational fear.
And if not irrational, then inevitable.
There are two outcomes to the situation. My tongue is abnormally growing, and physically incapable of comfortably resting in my mouth, or, it is not.
One is a problem in need of a solution, and one is a self-induced problem, which naturally resolves itself every time, when I stop thinking about it.
And this is also how I have thought about Haiti. There are problems that are out of my control. That if in fact, they are happening, will need solutions.
And there are problems that come from within me. That don't exist here, and that naturally dissipate as I am able to outgrow them.
I think about this every time I get into a van to go down the mountain. The logic flows as such.
'The driver does NOT want to die either.'
'He does this all the time...'
'No one else is concerned.'
'Everyone goes the same speed'
'He clearly knows what he is doing'
And yet, still filled with an unbalanced rack of nerves, these rational defenses do not assure me.
And so I pray. It is a simple prayer. Lord, please keep us safe from harm.
Beyond comprehension, beyond rationale- a reassurance.
Faith.
Not because we won't crash. But because I've done everything in my power to command the situation, and it will be what it is- irrational or inevitable.
So far so good.
And I'm equally happy to report that my tongue is resting easily and appropriately where it should be, thank you very much.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
10 days, 10 thoughts.
1. Christmas!
2. Going home.
3. Living here.
4. Asthma? Black lung? Plague?
5. Shower.
6. Hot water.
7. Muscle spasms.
8. Faith
9. Pedicure
10. Red wine
11. Sweet baby niece, Elli Mariah.
2. Going home.
3. Living here.
4. Asthma? Black lung? Plague?
5. Shower.
6. Hot water.
7. Muscle spasms.
8. Faith
9. Pedicure
10. Red wine
11. Sweet baby niece, Elli Mariah.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Be quiet, be still.
We tell our kids here all the time. Sit down. Be quiet. Stop moving. Be still.
But are we ever still?
Today I sat out on the balcony of my home-drinking tea. My mind wandering.
Absently gazing, I found myself focused on watching the clouds on their constant and easy voyage behind several tall pines.
Carefree and nonchalant, consistent. They cruised by. Playing tricks on my mind, in and out of focus. And then I thought.
You are tiresome Elizabeth.
You can't even stare at the sky without a full mind.
Leave those harmless clouds alone.
And it's true.
I find it beautiful, the calm and fixed march of the clouds. I don't worry that they aren't in a hurry. That they won't arrive to their destination in time. I'm not preoccupied with their methods, nor wary of their disposition. I simply sit back and enjoy the sky.
And why should my life be any different. Can I not sit still and be.
Life is swirling all around me. So easily distracted, I'm often unable to be with myself. I'll get this drink, this novel. I'll check my phone, I'll run this errand, I'll answer this email. And then.
Then I'll be ready.
Then.
As if when all of those tasks are checked off our list- then we will be able to be with ourselves.
We will watch the clouds pass behind the trees as the sun disappears behind the mountain, and we will know we are a part of it, too.
But are we ever still?
Today I sat out on the balcony of my home-drinking tea. My mind wandering.
Absently gazing, I found myself focused on watching the clouds on their constant and easy voyage behind several tall pines.
Carefree and nonchalant, consistent. They cruised by. Playing tricks on my mind, in and out of focus. And then I thought.
You are tiresome Elizabeth.
You can't even stare at the sky without a full mind.
Leave those harmless clouds alone.
And it's true.
I find it beautiful, the calm and fixed march of the clouds. I don't worry that they aren't in a hurry. That they won't arrive to their destination in time. I'm not preoccupied with their methods, nor wary of their disposition. I simply sit back and enjoy the sky.
And why should my life be any different. Can I not sit still and be.
Life is swirling all around me. So easily distracted, I'm often unable to be with myself. I'll get this drink, this novel. I'll check my phone, I'll run this errand, I'll answer this email. And then.
Then I'll be ready.
Then.
As if when all of those tasks are checked off our list- then we will be able to be with ourselves.
We will watch the clouds pass behind the trees as the sun disappears behind the mountain, and we will know we are a part of it, too.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
You better watch out
Today we took care. To decorate our Haitian home. Garlands and lights were hung, the tree was decorated, and away in a manger was belted as loud as we could manage.
I turned to Sadraque. I asked him if he had been a bon garson. I asked him is Santa Claus was bringing him anything special this year.
Jackie gave me a strange look.
'Wait, Haitians celebrate Christmas.. Children believe in Santa Claus right?'
'Well, it's more of a holiday for God...'
'Yes, but what about Santa Claus?!'
'We call him Tonton Noel.'
'Oh, ok, so it's the same.'
'No.'
'No?'
'It's a holiday about Jesus.'
'And Santa Claus?'
'But he doesn't bring them anything. He can't.'
Feeling strange, feeling sad.
That the Santa Claus I grew up with, well apparently his 'around the world journey' on Christmas Eve...it took a couple detours, say, around all the third world countries. No wonder he could pull it off...
Where was that in the fine print?
a palpable sadness.
Sad that I had assumed that everyone was able and blessed enough to shower their families with gifts on Christmas Day. And gifts brought by a reindeer wielding stranger, at that.
sad that I was SO preoccupied. So alarmed. So agitated and forlorn that the holiday only centered around God.
A holiday only for God?
Where was the Christmas spirit in that.
Which begs the questions, if you stripped away the lights and the trees. The parties and the fancy clothes. The carols and the traditions. The midnight mass dress.
The peace of the Lord be always with you. Where the lights dim and we light our candles. Where we sing silent night, holy night, and there is a low and constant warming in my chest. A brightness in my eyes. Where we put on our coats and kiss each other's wintry cheeks. And we walk out into the night. Joyful. Expectant. Abundantly filled.
But were we to wake up the next morning to just that, another morning. Jesus is born, hallelujah!
Under all that dressing, could I solely celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ?
And would it be enough.
I turned to Sadraque. I asked him if he had been a bon garson. I asked him is Santa Claus was bringing him anything special this year.
Jackie gave me a strange look.
'Wait, Haitians celebrate Christmas.. Children believe in Santa Claus right?'
'Well, it's more of a holiday for God...'
'Yes, but what about Santa Claus?!'
'We call him Tonton Noel.'
'Oh, ok, so it's the same.'
'No.'
'No?'
'It's a holiday about Jesus.'
'And Santa Claus?'
'But he doesn't bring them anything. He can't.'
Feeling strange, feeling sad.
That the Santa Claus I grew up with, well apparently his 'around the world journey' on Christmas Eve...it took a couple detours, say, around all the third world countries. No wonder he could pull it off...
Where was that in the fine print?
a palpable sadness.
Sad that I had assumed that everyone was able and blessed enough to shower their families with gifts on Christmas Day. And gifts brought by a reindeer wielding stranger, at that.
sad that I was SO preoccupied. So alarmed. So agitated and forlorn that the holiday only centered around God.
A holiday only for God?
Where was the Christmas spirit in that.
Which begs the questions, if you stripped away the lights and the trees. The parties and the fancy clothes. The carols and the traditions. The midnight mass dress.
The peace of the Lord be always with you. Where the lights dim and we light our candles. Where we sing silent night, holy night, and there is a low and constant warming in my chest. A brightness in my eyes. Where we put on our coats and kiss each other's wintry cheeks. And we walk out into the night. Joyful. Expectant. Abundantly filled.
But were we to wake up the next morning to just that, another morning. Jesus is born, hallelujah!
Under all that dressing, could I solely celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ?
And would it be enough.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Of seasons, part one.
I.
In the wintertime, in the Appalachian mountains, the sun comes crackling over snow covered peaks. So close one can hear the buzz of frost bitten excitement. Winter. I can see those mountains from my window. I sit really close with a blanket over my shoulders and my face turned toward the open air. Outside. The draft swirls and whirs about like a scratchy cloth, it wisps about my coffee-intertangling with the steam rising from the cup.
The cold is all encompassing, and I like how it holds me together. When you lift your face to the winter sun, the wind subsides, and the sun dedicates a single beam to your skin. Hold on to it, if you can. I squeeze the last ounces of heat out onto the table I prop my knees against.
The snow sparkles so bright that there's a film over the landscape and you can see everything- so clearly, and not at all. A mirage of sunlight and cold. These mountains have been my home since years past. I remember the calm glaze of summer. The paralyzing and cruel midday heat, respited only by the sweet and metallic crush of a dripping corona on the front porch.
I remember the way the streets were alight with anticipation for the fall of autumn, and I remember when the first leaf fell. The first, and the last as well. Yellow and glistening, too proud of their heritage and mountain back drop to be anything less than lasting. They fell into the December month. For weeks the sky has looked like a banana float, the yellow leaves swinging on the white mountain flats, so far behind them.
And I have left this place. But I remember the way the Blue Ridge responds to seasons. With vigor. With challenge. And with patience. And I can do the same.
It is not winter because one day, an old man looked at his calendar and saw it written so. It is winter because on that single morning, when I drank coffee in the frost of my window, my heart opened up and welcomed in a taste of the solstice sun. It is so because it is so, and not because anybody has said.
And above all, the seasons are miraculous for this. We may wait and we may yearn and we may hope. But the seasons wake up every day. Taking one day at a time. Until one day. Overnight. They change. It's gradual, but it's unforeseen. Magic, even.
In the wintertime, in the Appalachian mountains, the sun comes crackling over snow covered peaks. So close one can hear the buzz of frost bitten excitement. Winter. I can see those mountains from my window. I sit really close with a blanket over my shoulders and my face turned toward the open air. Outside. The draft swirls and whirs about like a scratchy cloth, it wisps about my coffee-intertangling with the steam rising from the cup.
The cold is all encompassing, and I like how it holds me together. When you lift your face to the winter sun, the wind subsides, and the sun dedicates a single beam to your skin. Hold on to it, if you can. I squeeze the last ounces of heat out onto the table I prop my knees against.
The snow sparkles so bright that there's a film over the landscape and you can see everything- so clearly, and not at all. A mirage of sunlight and cold. These mountains have been my home since years past. I remember the calm glaze of summer. The paralyzing and cruel midday heat, respited only by the sweet and metallic crush of a dripping corona on the front porch.
I remember the way the streets were alight with anticipation for the fall of autumn, and I remember when the first leaf fell. The first, and the last as well. Yellow and glistening, too proud of their heritage and mountain back drop to be anything less than lasting. They fell into the December month. For weeks the sky has looked like a banana float, the yellow leaves swinging on the white mountain flats, so far behind them.
And I have left this place. But I remember the way the Blue Ridge responds to seasons. With vigor. With challenge. And with patience. And I can do the same.
It is not winter because one day, an old man looked at his calendar and saw it written so. It is winter because on that single morning, when I drank coffee in the frost of my window, my heart opened up and welcomed in a taste of the solstice sun. It is so because it is so, and not because anybody has said.
And above all, the seasons are miraculous for this. We may wait and we may yearn and we may hope. But the seasons wake up every day. Taking one day at a time. Until one day. Overnight. They change. It's gradual, but it's unforeseen. Magic, even.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Servant, sike.
It's wheelchair washing day. This is of course, unbeknownst to me. (Language barrier). I wake up at a leisurely 8:30 am. Brush my teeth, recompose my Title 42 style mop of hair, and am thrilled to find the electricity roaring. This can only mean one thing. Coffee. Made in a coffee pot. For the first time since TUESDAY. You can probably see where this one is going. By Friday morning at 8:42 a.m., I'm already proud of myself. Proud that I survived a week without coffee, (3 days), and proud that coffee from the coffee maker is a pronounced luxury. Proud...
But we'll come back to that.
Fridays around here are a kicked-back, low key day for the kids and caretakers. Typically speaking, there's a drum circle-dance party- sing along at 9, followed by a prayer service, followed by watching some Disney movie (yes, English!) on a projector, and ending in free time. Maybe we play soccer, maybe we watch soccer, maybe the kids find quiet places to sit in the sunshine.
My kind of day, people. I usually drink my coffee and lounge against a wall. Laughing with the teachers at the dance moves and sipping coffee. Joining in the prayers in English, and listening for new creole words to add to my battalion. Then I throw a few things in a bag and trek down to the bus station, down the mountain, and to St. Joseph's for the weekend. It's a relaxing day, excluding the mountain voyage, (see previous blog explanations).
Today, however, was wheelchair washing day. I made my coffee, glad to be alive, and sauntered over to the other building to greet the kids and wait for the activities to start. Mayhem. Teachers were streaming in every which way. Children were being hoisted from their chairs and placed in their beds, and a pronounced line of wheelchairs was processing down the stairs, out the doors, and into the driveway.
'What is going on' I thought.
' sa k ap fe' I said, roughly translated,
'What is going to do?!'
I don't need this, I thought to myself. And it was true. I, much like the children who live here- I needed the consistency and routine. I needed things to be like they had been last friday, and the Friday before that, and the Friday before that. I needed to understand.
Not to say that I'm a creature of habit- but I have found in myself- when my boundaries are pushed. When my comfort zone's threshold is exceeded- when I don't understand- routine. 'Normalcy.' This is what holds me together. I can rise to the occasion, I can get with the program, but the program cannot waiver.
John Baptiste, (really that's his name), turns expectantly to me. He wipes his forehead on the back of his sleeve and hoists another wheelchair onto the ramp.
'We wash. You are helping us?'
'Yes, of course.'
And there it was. For the second time that day.
Pride.
Proud of myself for volunteering. Proud to lend a hand. Proud to put in my day's hard work. To be a part of the team. To do what needed to be done.
Buckets filled with water, scrub brushes handed out, rags and tooth brushes, bleach and soap. And as I doused my first wheelchair with water mixed with soap and Clorox, I thought, ' I want these children to have clean chairs.' I thought, ' this is disgusting.' I thought, 'I don't want to be doing this.'
But all the other teachers were. Why wouldn't I? And so I did. The water and suds hit the chairs. Three strokes of the brush, brown water splashing and spraying all over the place. I rolled up my sleeves, both literally and metaphorically speaking, and committed myself.
And in the same breathe, I thought, 'I am proud that I'm doing this.'
'I'm a servant.'
I think we can all agree, that thinking one is a servant whilst being a servant, quite possibly negates said servanthood.
They talk about this stuff in the bible right? Of course. John 13. Right after Jesus gets on his knees to wash the feet of the disciples, he stands up, proclaiming, ' You guys should seriously consider spa treatments, and Holy **** I am awesome. You're welcome!'
Right.
Shoes off, and one mental apology for such short-sided thoughts, I got back to work. Having had a fever for 2 days, and mindful that I'm teaching English for 8 hours on Saturday, I did not want to push myself, but I did not want to quit.
These children deserve clean chairs. And we are the ones who have to clean them. And then my mother's words rang out in my head...
'Elizabeth who do you think is going to wash your dishes if you don't...Do you think you just set them in the sink and they magically disappear... Sometimes...
Look at me now, momma!
And on to the next chair. Again- a foul and withering excuse for a vehicle of transport, again an internal struggle against pride.
Winning the battle against myself, humming the Haitian national anthem, and wiping sweat off my forehead, I tackled the project whole heartedly. Face inches from the wheel and back of the chair, I scrubbed with fervor. I would clean this chair.
Then came the bugs. Flying earwigs from hell came streaming and soaring out of holes in the back of the chair- inches from my face and unsuspecting hands that had been scrubbing said seat only seconds before. I suppose that when I poured the bucket of soapy water on the chair, I must have submerged their motherland, rendering it uninhabitable, and out they came.
Shrieking and backstepping into one of the other teachers. I could not control the auditory shudders and convulsions of my system. Several teachers came to my rescue, lambasting the chair with some pesticide spray or other, they went to war.
Dousing the chair again with more water, the onslaught continued. Three thoughts.
This is fritz's chair.
This is a nightmare.
I am a servant.
And in the midst of the terror and repulse, I found myself asking God. Why?
Already parentless and wheelchair bound, already living within a certain realm of chaos and filth, why must a legion of disgusting creatures live in his chair.
So unfair.
And then another thought.
' I don't want to be doing this.'
But what was the alternative? To not clean the chair? To not attempt to evacuate the squatters?
My stomach rolled, my face felt hot. Kicking the chair upside down, pouring bucket after bucket of water onto it. Spraying it with murderous chemicals.
All the while fighting back vomit. And tears. And pride.
Which brings me to my final question of this round.
Why am I of the mindset that helping others, no matter how disgusting, no matter how difficult, how extreme...
Why is this pride worthy?
And if it is not- how can I seek to be a servant because I am one- and not because I'm proud and conscientious of being one.
Jesus died on the cross to forgive us, the entire world, of our sins.
In this season of Advent, impatiently waiting the arrival of our Lord. In this season of holiday. Of prayer and thanksgiving. Of celebration and expectancy. Of joy.
Imagine if Jesus was holding this sacrifice over our heads.
If he was rubbing our noses in it.
If he was proud. If he was an Indian giver.
If he washed an infested wheel chair, and thought, 'look at me.'
But we'll come back to that.
Fridays around here are a kicked-back, low key day for the kids and caretakers. Typically speaking, there's a drum circle-dance party- sing along at 9, followed by a prayer service, followed by watching some Disney movie (yes, English!) on a projector, and ending in free time. Maybe we play soccer, maybe we watch soccer, maybe the kids find quiet places to sit in the sunshine.
My kind of day, people. I usually drink my coffee and lounge against a wall. Laughing with the teachers at the dance moves and sipping coffee. Joining in the prayers in English, and listening for new creole words to add to my battalion. Then I throw a few things in a bag and trek down to the bus station, down the mountain, and to St. Joseph's for the weekend. It's a relaxing day, excluding the mountain voyage, (see previous blog explanations).
Today, however, was wheelchair washing day. I made my coffee, glad to be alive, and sauntered over to the other building to greet the kids and wait for the activities to start. Mayhem. Teachers were streaming in every which way. Children were being hoisted from their chairs and placed in their beds, and a pronounced line of wheelchairs was processing down the stairs, out the doors, and into the driveway.
'What is going on' I thought.
' sa k ap fe' I said, roughly translated,
'What is going to do?!'
I don't need this, I thought to myself. And it was true. I, much like the children who live here- I needed the consistency and routine. I needed things to be like they had been last friday, and the Friday before that, and the Friday before that. I needed to understand.
Not to say that I'm a creature of habit- but I have found in myself- when my boundaries are pushed. When my comfort zone's threshold is exceeded- when I don't understand- routine. 'Normalcy.' This is what holds me together. I can rise to the occasion, I can get with the program, but the program cannot waiver.
John Baptiste, (really that's his name), turns expectantly to me. He wipes his forehead on the back of his sleeve and hoists another wheelchair onto the ramp.
'We wash. You are helping us?'
'Yes, of course.'
And there it was. For the second time that day.
Pride.
Proud of myself for volunteering. Proud to lend a hand. Proud to put in my day's hard work. To be a part of the team. To do what needed to be done.
Buckets filled with water, scrub brushes handed out, rags and tooth brushes, bleach and soap. And as I doused my first wheelchair with water mixed with soap and Clorox, I thought, ' I want these children to have clean chairs.' I thought, ' this is disgusting.' I thought, 'I don't want to be doing this.'
But all the other teachers were. Why wouldn't I? And so I did. The water and suds hit the chairs. Three strokes of the brush, brown water splashing and spraying all over the place. I rolled up my sleeves, both literally and metaphorically speaking, and committed myself.
And in the same breathe, I thought, 'I am proud that I'm doing this.'
'I'm a servant.'
I think we can all agree, that thinking one is a servant whilst being a servant, quite possibly negates said servanthood.
They talk about this stuff in the bible right? Of course. John 13. Right after Jesus gets on his knees to wash the feet of the disciples, he stands up, proclaiming, ' You guys should seriously consider spa treatments, and Holy **** I am awesome. You're welcome!'
Right.
Shoes off, and one mental apology for such short-sided thoughts, I got back to work. Having had a fever for 2 days, and mindful that I'm teaching English for 8 hours on Saturday, I did not want to push myself, but I did not want to quit.
These children deserve clean chairs. And we are the ones who have to clean them. And then my mother's words rang out in my head...
'Elizabeth who do you think is going to wash your dishes if you don't...Do you think you just set them in the sink and they magically disappear... Sometimes...
Look at me now, momma!
And on to the next chair. Again- a foul and withering excuse for a vehicle of transport, again an internal struggle against pride.
Winning the battle against myself, humming the Haitian national anthem, and wiping sweat off my forehead, I tackled the project whole heartedly. Face inches from the wheel and back of the chair, I scrubbed with fervor. I would clean this chair.
Then came the bugs. Flying earwigs from hell came streaming and soaring out of holes in the back of the chair- inches from my face and unsuspecting hands that had been scrubbing said seat only seconds before. I suppose that when I poured the bucket of soapy water on the chair, I must have submerged their motherland, rendering it uninhabitable, and out they came.
Shrieking and backstepping into one of the other teachers. I could not control the auditory shudders and convulsions of my system. Several teachers came to my rescue, lambasting the chair with some pesticide spray or other, they went to war.
Dousing the chair again with more water, the onslaught continued. Three thoughts.
This is fritz's chair.
This is a nightmare.
I am a servant.
And in the midst of the terror and repulse, I found myself asking God. Why?
Already parentless and wheelchair bound, already living within a certain realm of chaos and filth, why must a legion of disgusting creatures live in his chair.
So unfair.
And then another thought.
' I don't want to be doing this.'
But what was the alternative? To not clean the chair? To not attempt to evacuate the squatters?
My stomach rolled, my face felt hot. Kicking the chair upside down, pouring bucket after bucket of water onto it. Spraying it with murderous chemicals.
All the while fighting back vomit. And tears. And pride.
Which brings me to my final question of this round.
Why am I of the mindset that helping others, no matter how disgusting, no matter how difficult, how extreme...
Why is this pride worthy?
And if it is not- how can I seek to be a servant because I am one- and not because I'm proud and conscientious of being one.
Jesus died on the cross to forgive us, the entire world, of our sins.
In this season of Advent, impatiently waiting the arrival of our Lord. In this season of holiday. Of prayer and thanksgiving. Of celebration and expectancy. Of joy.
Imagine if Jesus was holding this sacrifice over our heads.
If he was rubbing our noses in it.
If he was proud. If he was an Indian giver.
If he washed an infested wheel chair, and thought, 'look at me.'
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Of my father
My father leaves trails of guitar picks in his wake. Not only guitar picks, he also leaves half-drunk coffee cups with semi-circular stains below. He leaves trails of sheet music. Of post-it note notes to himself-an illegible squall of half thought-half written words or notes, often written in felt-tipped marker or even sharpie, of ping pong paddles and golf balls, fishing lures and pocket knives. In truth, the trail of a man who celebrates being alive.
If you miss his trail, however, you can sometimes catch him at the next destination. Listen for a whistle, a confident and bravado-ed salutation, or a disparaging 'you must have been out of town last Sunday because I know Henry would not have wanted to miss choir.'
Listen as he clears his throat and proceeds to sing at the top of his lungs, not for show, but because he loves to hear notes ring out.
Watch him know the name of every child under the age of 7 in church. Shake hands and know the names of every 85 year old widow or gentleman after church, as they pull him aside to banter about the music or scold him about the hymn choices. His is a blind love. He does not discriminate between the 8 year old and the 87 year old. Everyone can take a joke, everyone can shake a hand. Everyone can talk about the music.
Listen for his tired sigh as he pulls into the driveway at the end of the day. Hear him lock away the day's worries and regrets, step out of the car, and dramatically exclaim 'Dizzy, what the heck, why didn't you visit me today!' As if nothing could make him happier. As if there is no one in the world he would rather share his time with than his family.
And I know there isn't.
Fall asleep as he drinks a glass of wine and plays the guitar on the front steps. playing only for himself, sometimes the same song over and over again. To me, the most beautiful music.
Sometimes I follow the guitar picks and I am met by a man who puts his job, his exhaustion, his pain, and any inkling of personal endeavor on hold to smile at me and be glad I am there.
And in your 61st year on this earth, from across an ocean, 1600 miles away, I'm sending all my love to you- my best friend.
If you miss his trail, however, you can sometimes catch him at the next destination. Listen for a whistle, a confident and bravado-ed salutation, or a disparaging 'you must have been out of town last Sunday because I know Henry would not have wanted to miss choir.'
Listen as he clears his throat and proceeds to sing at the top of his lungs, not for show, but because he loves to hear notes ring out.
Watch him know the name of every child under the age of 7 in church. Shake hands and know the names of every 85 year old widow or gentleman after church, as they pull him aside to banter about the music or scold him about the hymn choices. His is a blind love. He does not discriminate between the 8 year old and the 87 year old. Everyone can take a joke, everyone can shake a hand. Everyone can talk about the music.
Listen for his tired sigh as he pulls into the driveway at the end of the day. Hear him lock away the day's worries and regrets, step out of the car, and dramatically exclaim 'Dizzy, what the heck, why didn't you visit me today!' As if nothing could make him happier. As if there is no one in the world he would rather share his time with than his family.
And I know there isn't.
Fall asleep as he drinks a glass of wine and plays the guitar on the front steps. playing only for himself, sometimes the same song over and over again. To me, the most beautiful music.
Sometimes I follow the guitar picks and I am met by a man who puts his job, his exhaustion, his pain, and any inkling of personal endeavor on hold to smile at me and be glad I am there.
And in your 61st year on this earth, from across an ocean, 1600 miles away, I'm sending all my love to you- my best friend.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Grin and bear it.
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed yesterday. The kind of morning where from the first moment you open your eyes, you're filled with discontent. A subtle, yet palpable discomfort, a general lack of enthusiasm for any and all events that may ensue in the following moments, hours, and god forbid, day.
Unfortunately for both of us, this internal aggression did not wane. You all know what I'm talking about. Not one of those days that you understand why you're frustrated, angry even. The kind of day where you have no idea why you're in such a foul mood, you can't put your finger on it, and you're angry about that too, thanks very much.
On those kind of days, I seem to welcome unhappy occurrences with open arms. Over sleeping for class, getting a bad grade, falling off my bike. Spilling coffee. Even trying to brush tangled hair or stubbing my toe would send me over the edge. And it did not stop after college. The kid I nanny would be a terror, or maybe I'd accidentally pour gasoline on my hand at the Exxon. You get the idea. It's as if the universe knows you're having a rough time of it, and wants to consolidate all of the bad things that might happen over the span of a month into that single, solitary, bad day.
I have also been known to have a temper on these aforementioned 'bad' days. Things rock and roll and culminate into frustration that generally results in my feeling heavy chested and quick tongued. I've always been able to spit fighting words. With my fervor for wit and sarcasm, and a naturally sardonic humor, being obnoxious and insulting when frustrated comes ever so naturally.
But what happens when you're angry at someone that cannot help themselves? And even if they could, it's not their fault you're angry in the first place.
Consider the evidence.
Yesterday when I woke up, I immediately hit my head on the banister of my bed. I couldn't get the sheets off my feet to sit upright, and in the process of detanglement I managed to kick over my water bottle.
The power was out, I would have to make coffee on the stove, I burnt my hand, the gas ran out- I couldn't find my singular English speaking cohort to inquire about a new can of gas. I went to the kids' kitchen, I burnt the coffee on the stove, it's 6:47 am.
Coffee managed, a bitterly cold shower, and an apple later, I'm sitting on the front porch- drinking my coffee and trying to gather myself. I can feel the internal discord rumbling, and not knowing how to silence it, I opt for the ever unfortunate method of self oblivion.
'No, I'm not in a bad mood, dammit.'
Then come the kids. Seraphina hits me in the arm with her water bottle. She doesn't mean to hurt me, but she cannot speak, is wheelchair bound, and has limited mobility or control of her arms. She is thirsty and is letting me know. It's not a lot to ask- and she had no better way to do so, but I'm angered that she hit me so hard, that she interrupted my conversation with another child, and that she continued to 'speak' at me though she is unable to pronounce words, thus speaking in an overwhelming vocabulary of oohs and eehs. Trying to overcome myself, I smile and help her with her drink. She has to tip her head back and open her throat, waiting for me to pour the liquid in at my own will. And I think to myself, forgive me Lord.
Then comes teddy. Highly intelligent and communicative, he cannot speak and is also wheel chair bound. Teddy comes to say hello as I'm finishing up with seraphina and accidentally rolls over my foot with his wheelchair. Pain aside, the cleanliness of the floor of the facility is not questionable- it's detestable. That's not to say it isn't thoroughly cleaned during the course of the day and night- it's just to say that the wheelchairs come and go throughout the cleaning process, and I try not to think about the microcosm of a sanitation crisis that is happening on them- unless, of course, they roll over my sandal clad foot. Unaware of what has occurred, teddy aims to position himself near my face, and reverses back over my foot. He is drooling and as his laugh crackles and his eyes shine, he drools and and grabs my hand, a cataclysm of saliva and fingers, he wants to say hello- and so happy to see me, his laugh is seismic. It erupts in a series of high pitched squawks and chortles, he starts to cough, and before I can do anything, he has coughed spit directly into my face. Repulsed, but not offended, I again try and will myself into a complacent state. Unable to refrain from frustration, I sigh and dislodge myself from his hands. Walking away, I think. Dear Lord, forgive me.
Up the ramp to the second floor for 9 am prayers. I watch Gesner pick trash off the wheel of a chair, and put it in his mouth. My stomach rolls. John John comes towards me, his hands tied into protective mittens, watery eyes and a triumphant lineage of mucus streaming from his nose, he sees me and barrel runs towards me, lodging his face into my torso, wiping his nose all over my shirt as he clings on to me like a baby panda. Gesner has come to hold my hand in prayers, as he always does. But I can't pray, I'm thinking about the slime and grit that grinds between our hands, that we clasp so tightly. I can't pray, and I cannot let go. God, forgive me.
I'm feeding Josye. I give him too much rice in one bite, he begins to cough, showering me with semi digested grains of rice. I give him another bite that he nonchalantly spits onto his chin, and down his chest. I'm angry. There's nothing more to say. Why is he doing this to me.
To me? Really Elizabeth? Jesus, forgive me.
I'm playing ball with Mamoun. She's being a lazy participant, unenthused and disengaged. She is wheelchair bound, doesn't speak, and has one functional arm. She's generally a big advocate of playing catch, but when a different teacher calls my name, and I turn my head, though previously cathartic, she chooses that moment to shotgun the ball into my shin. As I'm grumpily attempting to reclaim the ball, I bend down between to wheelchairs, balancing on the balls of my feet, and BJ, unable to control the motion in any of his limbs, but wanting to touch me, flails his very strong arms towards me and his thumb catches my cheek and scratches me, leaving an angry streak. Angry that I've been hurt. Angry at Bj, angry. I lurch upright and my necklace, caught in the wheel of the chair snaps. What is there to do? It's not his fault. It's not his choice. He's doing the best he can? And what am I doing?
I'm asking for forgiveness.
I'm loving in spite of myself.
I'm smiling through my anger- and I'm trying to mean it.
And I promise you- it isn't me. I'm not rising above.
It is Jesus.
We are expected to love the way Jesus loves us- unconditionally, whole heartedly, self sacrificially, and that is not me.
It is God
Be a vessel.
Rise above yourself.
And if we thought. If we really thought that Jesus' commandment to love our neighbor as ourself meant loving our mother and our best friend- if it meant loving everyone at our gym, at our church, at our local organic coffee shop, at the wine bar on Friday night. If we thought that, if we get a warm fuzzy feeling when we pass the peace on Sunday morning-
I think if that was true, that I wouldn't have been filled with rage and guilt yesterday.
Let me be clear.
It is not easy to love as God loves.
Unconditionally, unequivocally,
Without judgment or fear.
I cannot do it.
But Jesus can. And he can through me.
Love The Lord with all your heart and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.
Smile in spite of yourself. And mean it.
Unfortunately for both of us, this internal aggression did not wane. You all know what I'm talking about. Not one of those days that you understand why you're frustrated, angry even. The kind of day where you have no idea why you're in such a foul mood, you can't put your finger on it, and you're angry about that too, thanks very much.
On those kind of days, I seem to welcome unhappy occurrences with open arms. Over sleeping for class, getting a bad grade, falling off my bike. Spilling coffee. Even trying to brush tangled hair or stubbing my toe would send me over the edge. And it did not stop after college. The kid I nanny would be a terror, or maybe I'd accidentally pour gasoline on my hand at the Exxon. You get the idea. It's as if the universe knows you're having a rough time of it, and wants to consolidate all of the bad things that might happen over the span of a month into that single, solitary, bad day.
I have also been known to have a temper on these aforementioned 'bad' days. Things rock and roll and culminate into frustration that generally results in my feeling heavy chested and quick tongued. I've always been able to spit fighting words. With my fervor for wit and sarcasm, and a naturally sardonic humor, being obnoxious and insulting when frustrated comes ever so naturally.
But what happens when you're angry at someone that cannot help themselves? And even if they could, it's not their fault you're angry in the first place.
Consider the evidence.
Yesterday when I woke up, I immediately hit my head on the banister of my bed. I couldn't get the sheets off my feet to sit upright, and in the process of detanglement I managed to kick over my water bottle.
The power was out, I would have to make coffee on the stove, I burnt my hand, the gas ran out- I couldn't find my singular English speaking cohort to inquire about a new can of gas. I went to the kids' kitchen, I burnt the coffee on the stove, it's 6:47 am.
Coffee managed, a bitterly cold shower, and an apple later, I'm sitting on the front porch- drinking my coffee and trying to gather myself. I can feel the internal discord rumbling, and not knowing how to silence it, I opt for the ever unfortunate method of self oblivion.
'No, I'm not in a bad mood, dammit.'
Then come the kids. Seraphina hits me in the arm with her water bottle. She doesn't mean to hurt me, but she cannot speak, is wheelchair bound, and has limited mobility or control of her arms. She is thirsty and is letting me know. It's not a lot to ask- and she had no better way to do so, but I'm angered that she hit me so hard, that she interrupted my conversation with another child, and that she continued to 'speak' at me though she is unable to pronounce words, thus speaking in an overwhelming vocabulary of oohs and eehs. Trying to overcome myself, I smile and help her with her drink. She has to tip her head back and open her throat, waiting for me to pour the liquid in at my own will. And I think to myself, forgive me Lord.
Then comes teddy. Highly intelligent and communicative, he cannot speak and is also wheel chair bound. Teddy comes to say hello as I'm finishing up with seraphina and accidentally rolls over my foot with his wheelchair. Pain aside, the cleanliness of the floor of the facility is not questionable- it's detestable. That's not to say it isn't thoroughly cleaned during the course of the day and night- it's just to say that the wheelchairs come and go throughout the cleaning process, and I try not to think about the microcosm of a sanitation crisis that is happening on them- unless, of course, they roll over my sandal clad foot. Unaware of what has occurred, teddy aims to position himself near my face, and reverses back over my foot. He is drooling and as his laugh crackles and his eyes shine, he drools and and grabs my hand, a cataclysm of saliva and fingers, he wants to say hello- and so happy to see me, his laugh is seismic. It erupts in a series of high pitched squawks and chortles, he starts to cough, and before I can do anything, he has coughed spit directly into my face. Repulsed, but not offended, I again try and will myself into a complacent state. Unable to refrain from frustration, I sigh and dislodge myself from his hands. Walking away, I think. Dear Lord, forgive me.
Up the ramp to the second floor for 9 am prayers. I watch Gesner pick trash off the wheel of a chair, and put it in his mouth. My stomach rolls. John John comes towards me, his hands tied into protective mittens, watery eyes and a triumphant lineage of mucus streaming from his nose, he sees me and barrel runs towards me, lodging his face into my torso, wiping his nose all over my shirt as he clings on to me like a baby panda. Gesner has come to hold my hand in prayers, as he always does. But I can't pray, I'm thinking about the slime and grit that grinds between our hands, that we clasp so tightly. I can't pray, and I cannot let go. God, forgive me.
I'm feeding Josye. I give him too much rice in one bite, he begins to cough, showering me with semi digested grains of rice. I give him another bite that he nonchalantly spits onto his chin, and down his chest. I'm angry. There's nothing more to say. Why is he doing this to me.
To me? Really Elizabeth? Jesus, forgive me.
I'm playing ball with Mamoun. She's being a lazy participant, unenthused and disengaged. She is wheelchair bound, doesn't speak, and has one functional arm. She's generally a big advocate of playing catch, but when a different teacher calls my name, and I turn my head, though previously cathartic, she chooses that moment to shotgun the ball into my shin. As I'm grumpily attempting to reclaim the ball, I bend down between to wheelchairs, balancing on the balls of my feet, and BJ, unable to control the motion in any of his limbs, but wanting to touch me, flails his very strong arms towards me and his thumb catches my cheek and scratches me, leaving an angry streak. Angry that I've been hurt. Angry at Bj, angry. I lurch upright and my necklace, caught in the wheel of the chair snaps. What is there to do? It's not his fault. It's not his choice. He's doing the best he can? And what am I doing?
I'm asking for forgiveness.
I'm loving in spite of myself.
I'm smiling through my anger- and I'm trying to mean it.
And I promise you- it isn't me. I'm not rising above.
It is Jesus.
We are expected to love the way Jesus loves us- unconditionally, whole heartedly, self sacrificially, and that is not me.
It is God
Be a vessel.
Rise above yourself.
And if we thought. If we really thought that Jesus' commandment to love our neighbor as ourself meant loving our mother and our best friend- if it meant loving everyone at our gym, at our church, at our local organic coffee shop, at the wine bar on Friday night. If we thought that, if we get a warm fuzzy feeling when we pass the peace on Sunday morning-
I think if that was true, that I wouldn't have been filled with rage and guilt yesterday.
Let me be clear.
It is not easy to love as God loves.
Unconditionally, unequivocally,
Without judgment or fear.
I cannot do it.
But Jesus can. And he can through me.
Love The Lord with all your heart and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.
Smile in spite of yourself. And mean it.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
The twenty-fifth day
Has it really only been twenty-five days?
It feels just like a lifetime and no time at all. Like the longest day in the world- a day that won't end- yet seems to fly by.
How does time do this to us? And what does it mean.
I wake up, and I think. I miss home. I miss comfort. I live in Haiti. Ok.
Ok, what does that mean?
And to be honest with you,
I don't know.
I'm not sure.
But I am here. And I feel here.
I feel very present. I love this place.
It's a good feeling, a comforting feeling. To be at ease with where you are, when you are.
That is not to say I understand. And it isn't to say that I feel competent or correct. That I feel like I've made 'the' right choice.
But I do know I've made 'a' right choice- for me- right now.
Which brings me back to time. Is it real? Should it be?
Surely, things like coming and going, passing away and moving, graduating and quitting, divorce, birth, new acquaintances.
They matter, and certainly they mark distances between happenings. We are growing older, no one knows that more than this prematurely aged hypochondriac- but what I'm finding is less concrete than all that.
My life, the order of things, my time in this place. It will never be anyone else's. and theirs will not be mine.
So for right now. In this moment.
I am here.
Ok.
It feels just like a lifetime and no time at all. Like the longest day in the world- a day that won't end- yet seems to fly by.
How does time do this to us? And what does it mean.
I wake up, and I think. I miss home. I miss comfort. I live in Haiti. Ok.
Ok, what does that mean?
And to be honest with you,
I don't know.
I'm not sure.
But I am here. And I feel here.
I feel very present. I love this place.
It's a good feeling, a comforting feeling. To be at ease with where you are, when you are.
That is not to say I understand. And it isn't to say that I feel competent or correct. That I feel like I've made 'the' right choice.
But I do know I've made 'a' right choice- for me- right now.
Which brings me back to time. Is it real? Should it be?
Surely, things like coming and going, passing away and moving, graduating and quitting, divorce, birth, new acquaintances.
They matter, and certainly they mark distances between happenings. We are growing older, no one knows that more than this prematurely aged hypochondriac- but what I'm finding is less concrete than all that.
My life, the order of things, my time in this place. It will never be anyone else's. and theirs will not be mine.
So for right now. In this moment.
I am here.
Ok.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Twenty Questions
'Did I forget to look at the sky this morning when I first woke up?
Did I miss the willow tree? The white gravel road that goes up from the cemetery, but to where?
And the abandoned house on the hill, did it get even a moment? Did I notice the small clouds so slowly moving away?
And did I think of the right hand of God? What if it is a slow cloud descending on earth as rain?
As snow? As shade? Don't you think I should move on to the mop?
How it just sits there, too often unused? And the stolen rose on its stem? Why would I write a poem without one?
Wouldn't it be wrong not to mention joy? Sadness, its sleepy-eyed twin? If I'd caught the boat to Mykonos that time when I was nineteen would the moon have risen out of the sea and shone on my life so clearly I would have loved it just as it was? Is the boat still in the harbor, pointing in the direction of the open sea? Am I still nineteen? Going in or going out, can I let the tide make of me what it must? Did I already ask that?'
-Jim Moore
Did I miss the willow tree? The white gravel road that goes up from the cemetery, but to where?
And the abandoned house on the hill, did it get even a moment? Did I notice the small clouds so slowly moving away?
And did I think of the right hand of God? What if it is a slow cloud descending on earth as rain?
As snow? As shade? Don't you think I should move on to the mop?
How it just sits there, too often unused? And the stolen rose on its stem? Why would I write a poem without one?
Wouldn't it be wrong not to mention joy? Sadness, its sleepy-eyed twin? If I'd caught the boat to Mykonos that time when I was nineteen would the moon have risen out of the sea and shone on my life so clearly I would have loved it just as it was? Is the boat still in the harbor, pointing in the direction of the open sea? Am I still nineteen? Going in or going out, can I let the tide make of me what it must? Did I already ask that?'
-Jim Moore
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
On a lighter note
I'm feeling exceptionally proud of myself this evening (which my mother would tell you is something extra special) as I have been known to possess a 'healthy' dose of self encouragement as is.
That said, listen up, ladies and gentleman! I have engineered light in my bathroom which has been pitch black for two days as the power has been out and there are no windows in the room.
I know your ears are burning with desire so I'll spare you no detail.
First, I nailed several hooks into my door. Then I hung two portable mirrors on them,
You know, hand held circular ones that you can prop up on a metal back? Are you with me?
Then I put a couple more nails above said mirrors dangled headlamp (flashlights on elastic) from them, and in between the mirrors. The light refracting off and in between the mirrors, and the reflection themselves illuminate the whole bathroom!
Now, if you're some sort of neigh sayer who ponders why I can't just use the restroom in the dark. I'll tell you, and in this case, I'll spare you several details...
The gist is so:
Two nights ago (in the pitch black darkness) I needed to take a 'shower', which of course in my case means getting a large bucket of water, putting it in the tub and then using smaller pitchers to dispense water to wash with.
I have worked out a system over the past couple showers. I make one pitcher of soapy water and one pitcher remains rinsing water. That said, you can never use the rinse water pitcher until you have cleaned the soap from your hands ( in order to avoid soap contamination)
For those of you who can see where I'm going with this, I'll save you the suspense; the answer is yes, I did mistakenly pour an entire pitcher of soapy water into my eyes when trying to rinse shampoo out of my hair.
And THAT, my friends, brings me to the current illumination grandeur that I have erected in my bathroom.
You might be thinking, and I may anonymously agree with you, that this surely could not warrant a blog entry, but I tell you what:
Small victories, people. Big reward.
That said, listen up, ladies and gentleman! I have engineered light in my bathroom which has been pitch black for two days as the power has been out and there are no windows in the room.
I know your ears are burning with desire so I'll spare you no detail.
First, I nailed several hooks into my door. Then I hung two portable mirrors on them,
You know, hand held circular ones that you can prop up on a metal back? Are you with me?
Then I put a couple more nails above said mirrors dangled headlamp (flashlights on elastic) from them, and in between the mirrors. The light refracting off and in between the mirrors, and the reflection themselves illuminate the whole bathroom!
Now, if you're some sort of neigh sayer who ponders why I can't just use the restroom in the dark. I'll tell you, and in this case, I'll spare you several details...
The gist is so:
Two nights ago (in the pitch black darkness) I needed to take a 'shower', which of course in my case means getting a large bucket of water, putting it in the tub and then using smaller pitchers to dispense water to wash with.
I have worked out a system over the past couple showers. I make one pitcher of soapy water and one pitcher remains rinsing water. That said, you can never use the rinse water pitcher until you have cleaned the soap from your hands ( in order to avoid soap contamination)
For those of you who can see where I'm going with this, I'll save you the suspense; the answer is yes, I did mistakenly pour an entire pitcher of soapy water into my eyes when trying to rinse shampoo out of my hair.
And THAT, my friends, brings me to the current illumination grandeur that I have erected in my bathroom.
You might be thinking, and I may anonymously agree with you, that this surely could not warrant a blog entry, but I tell you what:
Small victories, people. Big reward.
The things I know
I miss my dog. He died three months ago this week. The ache for that lost relationship is a raw and hollowed burn in my chest. I know I'm in Haiti- that I wouldn't be with him right now were he alive- but he'd be at home- with my mother on Monday nights when my dad is out of town. With my father on early walks to bandy field. my family. I don't think it matters where somebody is, when you lose a member of your family, you feel it all around.
I'm homesick for missing thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday. My father turns 61 the week after and celebrates his first year of full throttle vegetarianism. If I were home, I, who shamelessly disbanded from vegetarianism after 6 months and ushered in the phrase of my mothers, ' I have vegetarian tendencies...' Well, if I were home I would eat turkey inches from his face. And I could be there with them. Because I know they miss him too. In some ways more than me. He was my dog, but he was their companion when Brie was in dc and when I went to college and then to Spain.
I always want to be moving forward. Families grow. New generations and traditions. We cling to the past but we have to embrace the future. Am I afraid of growing up?
Maybe so, but I don't want to be my younger self again.The past is full. Of cherished memoirs and excruciating heart break. Of losing loved ones and welcoming new.
It speaks of joy, not sorrow, I think, to have nostalgia for the past. And it's perfectly fine, if it is coupled with a healthy dose of excitement for the future.
Here, in Haiti, I think these thoughts are lavish ones. That I can spend my evening writing down thoughts about growing up, about pain and joy, about turkey.
The point is, none of us really know.
The way to go about it. This one life.
And in the quiet of the night, moonlight casting shadows on my walls, and mountain air cascading through the window, I think that this is what I know:
Of all the things we don't know,
In the past present and future. In the joy and sorrow. Whether we're getting everything else entirely wrong. Whether we missed the boat on every other thing.
There is love. And I know it.
I knew it then, I know it now, and I will know it when we all meet again.
I'm homesick for missing thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday. My father turns 61 the week after and celebrates his first year of full throttle vegetarianism. If I were home, I, who shamelessly disbanded from vegetarianism after 6 months and ushered in the phrase of my mothers, ' I have vegetarian tendencies...' Well, if I were home I would eat turkey inches from his face. And I could be there with them. Because I know they miss him too. In some ways more than me. He was my dog, but he was their companion when Brie was in dc and when I went to college and then to Spain.
I always want to be moving forward. Families grow. New generations and traditions. We cling to the past but we have to embrace the future. Am I afraid of growing up?
Maybe so, but I don't want to be my younger self again.The past is full. Of cherished memoirs and excruciating heart break. Of losing loved ones and welcoming new.
It speaks of joy, not sorrow, I think, to have nostalgia for the past. And it's perfectly fine, if it is coupled with a healthy dose of excitement for the future.
Here, in Haiti, I think these thoughts are lavish ones. That I can spend my evening writing down thoughts about growing up, about pain and joy, about turkey.
The point is, none of us really know.
The way to go about it. This one life.
And in the quiet of the night, moonlight casting shadows on my walls, and mountain air cascading through the window, I think that this is what I know:
Of all the things we don't know,
In the past present and future. In the joy and sorrow. Whether we're getting everything else entirely wrong. Whether we missed the boat on every other thing.
There is love. And I know it.
I knew it then, I know it now, and I will know it when we all meet again.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Whoopsy daisy
There is a Haitian proverb, it goes something like this:
'White girl spends excessive amounts of money on expensive hiking shoes, yet cannot climb the mountain in the rain, and I am walking barefoot.'
Well, I paraphrase- it's more concise.
'She who walks up the mountain in the rain learns that dirt turns to mud.'
It turns out that one hundred and forty dollar hiking shoes are less for muddy and rocky, mountainous terrain, and more for the carpeted floor store in REI.
I took a long walk today, a hike if you will. The dirt roads become treacherous and the mountainside very slick. Even the paved roads are dangerous as the coats of dust quickly become unmanageable slip n'slides.
I was faced with two dilemmas.
Firstly, how embarrassing it would be to fall down.
And secondly, how embarrassing it would be to walk as slow as was physically necessary to refrain from falling down.
Unfortunately for myself, my behind, my pride, and my bank account, I did fall down. Tremendously. With gusto.
Go big or go home, as they say.
But I'll tell you what, Haitians never miss an opportunity to laugh.
I mean never.
'White girl spends excessive amounts of money on expensive hiking shoes, yet cannot climb the mountain in the rain, and I am walking barefoot.'
Well, I paraphrase- it's more concise.
'She who walks up the mountain in the rain learns that dirt turns to mud.'
It turns out that one hundred and forty dollar hiking shoes are less for muddy and rocky, mountainous terrain, and more for the carpeted floor store in REI.
I took a long walk today, a hike if you will. The dirt roads become treacherous and the mountainside very slick. Even the paved roads are dangerous as the coats of dust quickly become unmanageable slip n'slides.
I was faced with two dilemmas.
Firstly, how embarrassing it would be to fall down.
And secondly, how embarrassing it would be to walk as slow as was physically necessary to refrain from falling down.
Unfortunately for myself, my behind, my pride, and my bank account, I did fall down. Tremendously. With gusto.
Go big or go home, as they say.
But I'll tell you what, Haitians never miss an opportunity to laugh.
I mean never.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
I feel it all
Today I took the perilous drive up the mountain, back to wings of hope after having spent the weekend at St. Joseph's with the boys in Port-au-prince.
The weekend felt like a vacation, a glorious time with the boys. Coffee on the roof and an entire Saturday to play and read, steal some sunshine and drink a sweating bottle of prestige in the late afternoon. Watch the sun disappear behind the mountains , swallowed up by the sea. In the night I took a mototaxi with a couple friends and we went to listen to music and dance. I danced until sweat sidled my hair to my cheeks. I danced while my calves burnt and my eyes stung, my mouth salty and my throat dry.
I danced for survival. For the unhinging and unchangeable power of the Lord.
Because I am alive, and because I feel it.
Sunday morning held an early start. Hours of quiet time and coffee. Silent prayers, whispered into the wind, carried on the shoulders of doubt, a quiet commitment. A peace which passes all understanding.
Heading up the mountain today, all too much the weary traveler. Headphones serenading and the wind whipping my cheeks- all to aware of the prestige rolling around in my stomach, and the winding roads- I was tired. I am tired.
But when we pulled into the entrance, I looked up onto the balcony-
There.
There it was.
Expectant faces.
This is why I am here.
This is my home.
There they were, silent, patient, waiting for me. Expecting me, wondering where I had been, welcoming me home.
Glad to see me. And I them.
'Oh, LORD, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O LORD. You hem me in--behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me," even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you. For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. i praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand. When I awake, I am still with you. Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.'
Amen.
The weekend felt like a vacation, a glorious time with the boys. Coffee on the roof and an entire Saturday to play and read, steal some sunshine and drink a sweating bottle of prestige in the late afternoon. Watch the sun disappear behind the mountains , swallowed up by the sea. In the night I took a mototaxi with a couple friends and we went to listen to music and dance. I danced until sweat sidled my hair to my cheeks. I danced while my calves burnt and my eyes stung, my mouth salty and my throat dry.
I danced for survival. For the unhinging and unchangeable power of the Lord.
Because I am alive, and because I feel it.
Sunday morning held an early start. Hours of quiet time and coffee. Silent prayers, whispered into the wind, carried on the shoulders of doubt, a quiet commitment. A peace which passes all understanding.
Heading up the mountain today, all too much the weary traveler. Headphones serenading and the wind whipping my cheeks- all to aware of the prestige rolling around in my stomach, and the winding roads- I was tired. I am tired.
But when we pulled into the entrance, I looked up onto the balcony-
There.
There it was.
Expectant faces.
This is why I am here.
This is my home.
There they were, silent, patient, waiting for me. Expecting me, wondering where I had been, welcoming me home.
Glad to see me. And I them.
'Oh, LORD, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O LORD. You hem me in--behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me," even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you. For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. i praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand. When I awake, I am still with you. Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.'
Amen.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Adventures in solitude
Being one already, (or inherently), prone to internal combustion, I'm finding all of this mental free time very challenging.
a person entirely in touch with my emotions and thoughts- my interactions with the world around me- I am accustomed to having to defer from my self sometimes - in order to preserve sanity.
The gym, the church, the errands, the restaurants, the instruments, the boys, the books, the car.
But here,
I'm always with myself. And with myself in a different way.
I cannot very well impart to you the solitude that comes from being the sole speaker of one's native tongue.
I am forming friendships. Unique, and having separated ourselves from the baseness of common linguistic communication- it's funny-
It's all much the same.
And if you think about it, when you speak to someone in the same tongue, in our case, English,
It's a bag of tricks all the same.
What they know, what they've studied, social normalcies and societal pressures- different backgrounds and parents- different homes- varying interpretations and mixed signals. Liars and economic divisions- the jealous and the oblivious. The old and the young.
And we think, that speaking the same language means that we understand each other?
Language is not understanding.
It's a means of communication, and a means of communication is not necessarily received, only sent.
Love, however, is a universal language.
It is felt, rather than interpreted.
So while I am very much alone in my mind, I am all too well together, in my heart.
I wish you could see the conversations we patch together here.
Pointing and manic hand gestures, French and Spanish. Smiles and erupting giggles, shaking of heads and winks, sighs and pats on the back, English and song lyrics, soccer players and beer brands.
Jesus and creole.
a person entirely in touch with my emotions and thoughts- my interactions with the world around me- I am accustomed to having to defer from my self sometimes - in order to preserve sanity.
The gym, the church, the errands, the restaurants, the instruments, the boys, the books, the car.
But here,
I'm always with myself. And with myself in a different way.
I cannot very well impart to you the solitude that comes from being the sole speaker of one's native tongue.
I am forming friendships. Unique, and having separated ourselves from the baseness of common linguistic communication- it's funny-
It's all much the same.
And if you think about it, when you speak to someone in the same tongue, in our case, English,
It's a bag of tricks all the same.
What they know, what they've studied, social normalcies and societal pressures- different backgrounds and parents- different homes- varying interpretations and mixed signals. Liars and economic divisions- the jealous and the oblivious. The old and the young.
And we think, that speaking the same language means that we understand each other?
Language is not understanding.
It's a means of communication, and a means of communication is not necessarily received, only sent.
Love, however, is a universal language.
It is felt, rather than interpreted.
So while I am very much alone in my mind, I am all too well together, in my heart.
I wish you could see the conversations we patch together here.
Pointing and manic hand gestures, French and Spanish. Smiles and erupting giggles, shaking of heads and winks, sighs and pats on the back, English and song lyrics, soccer players and beer brands.
Jesus and creole.
God given names
'We are mistaken to believe that our consciousness is awakened at the moment of our first birth-- perhaps because we do not know how to imagine any other living state. It may seem to us that we have always seen and felt and, armed with this belief, we identify our entry into the world as the decisive instant where consciousness is born. The fact that for five years a little girl, a perfectly operational machine of perception blessed with sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch, could have lived in a state of utter unawareness both of herself and of the universe, is proof if any were needed that such a hasty theory is wrong. For in order for consciousness to be aroused, it must have a name.'
- Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog
- Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog
Friday, November 16, 2012
We're all in this together
Yesterday I took a drive down the mountain with some of the kids. You might be picturing a leisurely cruise down skyline drive, tuned in to NPR, the vibrant foliage, the heat on and the windows cracked-the sunshine is warm but the air is crisp and smells of damp orange leaves and earth. Perhaps you're driving to visit a friend, latte in tow, you day dream and hum along to chimes for All Things Considered.
But that was college, and Virginia, and Starbucks. Pedicures and friends and SUVs. That was October, even.
And this was yesterday.
Some of the kids get to go horseback riding on Thursdays. It's occupational therapy, and when I stepped onto my balcony to watch the sunrise yesterday morning, I was startled to find roughly 10 of them, fully dressed in matching t-shirts- patch worked riding pants, and dilapidated close-toed shoes of varying makes and models, sitting by gate, eagerly awaiting a 7:45 am departure, 2 hours early...
I was happy that they so looked forward to the venture, and found myself equally enthused to get out of Fermathe, see some more of Haiti, and even ride a horse.
Around 7:30 our ride showed up. I scooped up one of the kids from her wheelchair and we headed out the gate. Upon turning the corner and seeing said vehicle, I was confused, and unsure of how to proceed. Slipping Joyze into shotgun, I milled around, watching to see what the teachers and other kids were doing. They began to pile in, so, not understanding a thing being said, I took my cue and hopped in as well.
It was a the smallest pickup truck I have ever seen. Masquerading as some version of a 150, it took me back to times, when people older and wiser than me had told stories of the good old days, of smaller portions, and smaller shoe sizes. Petite clothing and shorter heights. In fact, what we had on our hands was a MiniCooper in jeeps' clothing.
It's nice and refreshing in the mountains. Shrouded in the clouds, one has the illusion, if not the vibrant colors, of fall. Enjoying my coffee as the sun welcomed a new day, I dawned a sweatshirt, thinking nothing of it.
Going down the mountain, and into the bottom of port-au-prince, is quite a different story. Dropping over 5,000 feet in an hour, the sun demands recognition and saturates the air. There are so many exhaust fumes that more often than not holding ones breath is preferable to trying to find oxygen in what I formerly referred to as 'air.' You can turn a corner, and see a bustling market- stopped in traffic- some tap tap or truck, some crusty old motorcycle tries to coax its gears into submission, and all of a sudden the air is opaque with black smog and I always hold my breathe, trying not to envision the chemicals and grime seeping into my pores.
But anyway, we aren't there yet, back to the top!
Hoisting myself into the truck, there are two benches secured to each side of the bed. I sit down on the right side towards the back, in hopes of not suffocating, and take up approximately 1/4.5 of the bench. Let's just put it this way, people! I'm not that wide a gal- and there is no way in ____ that five of me were fitting on that bench.
Well, call me Dante, as 5 minutes later we crowded 19 people into this matchbox I would later tell Jackie could be termed, 'proof that there is a god- on wheels.'
6 people on my bench. 6 people across the bed on the other bench, knees intermingled and intertwined- hips mashing up against one another, elbows going around shoulders and in front of stomachs. Human spaghetti.
The driver, two of our handicapped kids, and two teachers wedged themselves into the front, and two teachers hopped onto the back, holding on to the makeshift roof as with one hand, resting their chins on the other- nonchalant, and quite possibly feeling gallant as I blatantly gawked.
Off we went, the gravel path in front of us so bumpy that the truck seemed to zigzag in varying forms of 45 degrees and every gear shift meant the inevitable whack of knee caps into shins and elbows into chins.
Trying not to get ahead of myself, I took a careful sip of water, popped my headphones in, and gazed at my knees, quite confident that if a man could stand up and hold on to the back of the truck with 4 fingers then surely I could manage.
The first thing I saw as I looked down was the ground beneath us. Yes, that's right. The truck bed was rusting through and I could count the pebbles and boulders beneath us.
Well, ok.
Turning my head to look out the slat between the sideboards instead, I noticed that the left rear view mirror was duct taped on. The steering wheel had had some serious 'cosmetic' work done, and every time we tried to go into second gear, the truck made an apologetic groan and lurched forward- proud of itself for the accomplishment.
It's fine, Elizabeth, the driver is not suicidal, he wants to live through this as well.
Yes, it's fine. Stop being so American.
But then we turned onto the mountain road. Whirling around curves I couldn't have made with a pipe cleaner, the truck seemed hell bent on putting some of Newton's laws to the test. With every round about, rampaging down the mountain between 40 and 60 miles an hour, the sides of the truck would threaten us, saying, 'hey look gal, I stayed together on that turn, because I know you're petrified and all, but you know, the future is uncertain, and I'm not making any promises, alright?'
Slamming into one another and gripping the side rail as if it were my dying fiancé, I looked out the window again. Motion sickness threatening, I faced my fear of plummeting to immediate death, and told myself, Elizabeth, looking out the window will not coerce the vehicle to propel itself over the mountainside.
This presented a whole new line of terror, as not only were there no guard rails, but some of the declines were so steep that the side of the mountain seemed not to exist at all. Yes, that's right people, I'm talking about cliffs.
the road was unmarked and motorbikes whirled by us on either side, playing chicken with oncoming traffic. Our driver was a temperamental speed demon, and if ever he rounded within 20 yards of a car in front of him, he became indignant- throttling forward into the oncoming traffic's lane, 80 miles per hour, passing whatever nuisance dared encumber our path, and before I knew it - back onto our side of the road.
Sometimes however, he seemed to misinterpret the oncoming traffic's level of acceleration, and we would barely skirt back into our lane before haphazardly careening around another bend. The truck always seemed relieved to be solidly on all four wheels. ' hey, I might be decrepit, but baby look at these tires.'
Nearing the bottom of the mountain, I begin to breathe again. Crowded, sweaty, the sun penetrating every crack in the truck, the smog filling our lungs, the downtown of port-au-prince is a driven game of Frogger. Children everywhere, salesmen, market women, dogs, goats trucks, motorcycles, boulders and puddles and just general, uninhibited chaos. As we lurched and came to screeching stops, I thought about our shared experience. I thought about how not one of the other 18 people in this matchbox spoke English.
I thought about how I shared this experience with people who don't speak English, and people who don't speak at all.
There's a boy here, about 16, his mother was beaten and raped, and when he was born, she was so traumatized, she didn't speak for three years. When his grandmother made her first visit to meet her grandson, she found her daughter, mute, and incapable of caring for the toddler- so she took him. Having suffered too much neglect, Frank Ely endures permanent psychological damage, and has a severe speech impediment. For these reasons, his grandmother had to leave him here. Going down the mountain, Frank Ely spoke incessantly. I'm not exaggerating, this kid does not stop speaking, ever. And really who can blame him? A pathological liar and schizophrenic, he can no better handle silence than I could handle the death of a loved one.
Down that mountain, terrified, nauseous, alone. We finally made it to the riding club, I hobbled shakily out of the truck, turned on my heels, poured some water on my face, and tried to catch my breath.
In all honesty, going back up the mountain was not much better. And though it was a relief to head back into the cool mountain air, I knew not a single turn would be easy.
A day well spent, we piled in to our chariot. Arranging elbows and knees, wheelchairs and backpacks, we prepared for our journey.
But this time I didn't put my headphones in- I wanted to hear everything that Frank Ely had to say.
But that was college, and Virginia, and Starbucks. Pedicures and friends and SUVs. That was October, even.
And this was yesterday.
Some of the kids get to go horseback riding on Thursdays. It's occupational therapy, and when I stepped onto my balcony to watch the sunrise yesterday morning, I was startled to find roughly 10 of them, fully dressed in matching t-shirts- patch worked riding pants, and dilapidated close-toed shoes of varying makes and models, sitting by gate, eagerly awaiting a 7:45 am departure, 2 hours early...
I was happy that they so looked forward to the venture, and found myself equally enthused to get out of Fermathe, see some more of Haiti, and even ride a horse.
Around 7:30 our ride showed up. I scooped up one of the kids from her wheelchair and we headed out the gate. Upon turning the corner and seeing said vehicle, I was confused, and unsure of how to proceed. Slipping Joyze into shotgun, I milled around, watching to see what the teachers and other kids were doing. They began to pile in, so, not understanding a thing being said, I took my cue and hopped in as well.
It was a the smallest pickup truck I have ever seen. Masquerading as some version of a 150, it took me back to times, when people older and wiser than me had told stories of the good old days, of smaller portions, and smaller shoe sizes. Petite clothing and shorter heights. In fact, what we had on our hands was a MiniCooper in jeeps' clothing.
It's nice and refreshing in the mountains. Shrouded in the clouds, one has the illusion, if not the vibrant colors, of fall. Enjoying my coffee as the sun welcomed a new day, I dawned a sweatshirt, thinking nothing of it.
Going down the mountain, and into the bottom of port-au-prince, is quite a different story. Dropping over 5,000 feet in an hour, the sun demands recognition and saturates the air. There are so many exhaust fumes that more often than not holding ones breath is preferable to trying to find oxygen in what I formerly referred to as 'air.' You can turn a corner, and see a bustling market- stopped in traffic- some tap tap or truck, some crusty old motorcycle tries to coax its gears into submission, and all of a sudden the air is opaque with black smog and I always hold my breathe, trying not to envision the chemicals and grime seeping into my pores.
But anyway, we aren't there yet, back to the top!
Hoisting myself into the truck, there are two benches secured to each side of the bed. I sit down on the right side towards the back, in hopes of not suffocating, and take up approximately 1/4.5 of the bench. Let's just put it this way, people! I'm not that wide a gal- and there is no way in ____ that five of me were fitting on that bench.
Well, call me Dante, as 5 minutes later we crowded 19 people into this matchbox I would later tell Jackie could be termed, 'proof that there is a god- on wheels.'
6 people on my bench. 6 people across the bed on the other bench, knees intermingled and intertwined- hips mashing up against one another, elbows going around shoulders and in front of stomachs. Human spaghetti.
The driver, two of our handicapped kids, and two teachers wedged themselves into the front, and two teachers hopped onto the back, holding on to the makeshift roof as with one hand, resting their chins on the other- nonchalant, and quite possibly feeling gallant as I blatantly gawked.
Off we went, the gravel path in front of us so bumpy that the truck seemed to zigzag in varying forms of 45 degrees and every gear shift meant the inevitable whack of knee caps into shins and elbows into chins.
Trying not to get ahead of myself, I took a careful sip of water, popped my headphones in, and gazed at my knees, quite confident that if a man could stand up and hold on to the back of the truck with 4 fingers then surely I could manage.
The first thing I saw as I looked down was the ground beneath us. Yes, that's right. The truck bed was rusting through and I could count the pebbles and boulders beneath us.
Well, ok.
Turning my head to look out the slat between the sideboards instead, I noticed that the left rear view mirror was duct taped on. The steering wheel had had some serious 'cosmetic' work done, and every time we tried to go into second gear, the truck made an apologetic groan and lurched forward- proud of itself for the accomplishment.
It's fine, Elizabeth, the driver is not suicidal, he wants to live through this as well.
Yes, it's fine. Stop being so American.
But then we turned onto the mountain road. Whirling around curves I couldn't have made with a pipe cleaner, the truck seemed hell bent on putting some of Newton's laws to the test. With every round about, rampaging down the mountain between 40 and 60 miles an hour, the sides of the truck would threaten us, saying, 'hey look gal, I stayed together on that turn, because I know you're petrified and all, but you know, the future is uncertain, and I'm not making any promises, alright?'
Slamming into one another and gripping the side rail as if it were my dying fiancé, I looked out the window again. Motion sickness threatening, I faced my fear of plummeting to immediate death, and told myself, Elizabeth, looking out the window will not coerce the vehicle to propel itself over the mountainside.
This presented a whole new line of terror, as not only were there no guard rails, but some of the declines were so steep that the side of the mountain seemed not to exist at all. Yes, that's right people, I'm talking about cliffs.
the road was unmarked and motorbikes whirled by us on either side, playing chicken with oncoming traffic. Our driver was a temperamental speed demon, and if ever he rounded within 20 yards of a car in front of him, he became indignant- throttling forward into the oncoming traffic's lane, 80 miles per hour, passing whatever nuisance dared encumber our path, and before I knew it - back onto our side of the road.
Sometimes however, he seemed to misinterpret the oncoming traffic's level of acceleration, and we would barely skirt back into our lane before haphazardly careening around another bend. The truck always seemed relieved to be solidly on all four wheels. ' hey, I might be decrepit, but baby look at these tires.'
Nearing the bottom of the mountain, I begin to breathe again. Crowded, sweaty, the sun penetrating every crack in the truck, the smog filling our lungs, the downtown of port-au-prince is a driven game of Frogger. Children everywhere, salesmen, market women, dogs, goats trucks, motorcycles, boulders and puddles and just general, uninhibited chaos. As we lurched and came to screeching stops, I thought about our shared experience. I thought about how not one of the other 18 people in this matchbox spoke English.
I thought about how I shared this experience with people who don't speak English, and people who don't speak at all.
There's a boy here, about 16, his mother was beaten and raped, and when he was born, she was so traumatized, she didn't speak for three years. When his grandmother made her first visit to meet her grandson, she found her daughter, mute, and incapable of caring for the toddler- so she took him. Having suffered too much neglect, Frank Ely endures permanent psychological damage, and has a severe speech impediment. For these reasons, his grandmother had to leave him here. Going down the mountain, Frank Ely spoke incessantly. I'm not exaggerating, this kid does not stop speaking, ever. And really who can blame him? A pathological liar and schizophrenic, he can no better handle silence than I could handle the death of a loved one.
Down that mountain, terrified, nauseous, alone. We finally made it to the riding club, I hobbled shakily out of the truck, turned on my heels, poured some water on my face, and tried to catch my breath.
In all honesty, going back up the mountain was not much better. And though it was a relief to head back into the cool mountain air, I knew not a single turn would be easy.
A day well spent, we piled in to our chariot. Arranging elbows and knees, wheelchairs and backpacks, we prepared for our journey.
But this time I didn't put my headphones in- I wanted to hear everything that Frank Ely had to say.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
The theory of
When I lived in Port-au-Prince, I wished I could have a hot shower, like in Richmond.
Now I live in Fermathe, and I cannot wait to enjoy a shower with running water.
And I suppose - in fact - I am sure, that there are those who would love the opportunity to take a shower with clean water, in any form.
We live in a world of relativity. The fact is, it's a big circle.
We are always on top, we are always on bottom.
And the devil hides in the comparisons, not in the relations.
I have legs. I can walk. They aren't as thin as yours, maybe. Or they aren't as fast as his. They aren't this, or they aren't that.
or.
I have legs. I can walk.
Hallelujah.
Now I live in Fermathe, and I cannot wait to enjoy a shower with running water.
And I suppose - in fact - I am sure, that there are those who would love the opportunity to take a shower with clean water, in any form.
We live in a world of relativity. The fact is, it's a big circle.
We are always on top, we are always on bottom.
And the devil hides in the comparisons, not in the relations.
I have legs. I can walk. They aren't as thin as yours, maybe. Or they aren't as fast as his. They aren't this, or they aren't that.
or.
I have legs. I can walk.
Hallelujah.
oi vey
The place I live houses no native English speakers. The director of the program, Jackie, is approaching his thirties and grew up at St. Joseph's Home for Boys. Of all the teachers and program coordinators, he speaks the most English. Unfortunately for both of us, the questions he is able to pose thus far have proved confusing, as the more he finds out about me, the less he understands. I am, to him, an enigma.
Our conversations go something like this:
'your kids- how old?'
'no kids.'
'no kids?'
'no, no kids'
'oh, ok. you're have husband?'
'no husband.'
'no husband?'
'no, no husband.'
'oh, ok. you leaving boyfriend?'
'some time ago.'
'the last months ago?'
'longer than that'
'oh ok. where you like to be live in haiti?'
'I love it here, I want to learn Creole.'
'what is you loving here?'
'the people, jackie.'
'the people is difference?'
'yes.'
'oh, ok.'
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
I needed a break tonight. Emotional, mental, physical. From the day, and from myself.
My thoughts whirl and recycle. Purpose. Point. Effectiveness. Waste. Grief. Life.
I'm 25. I'm single. I'm blessed.
I'm selfish. I'm wasting time, I'm living.
Thoughts that contradict themselves until I'm worn thin.
I thought to watch a movie on my computer. Movies can have such an effective displacement of ones self. A time away.
A character in the movie died, and while normally one for crying a tear or two in sad movies, I found myself rather unhinged.
I cried for a raw and terrible loss of my first love. I cried for the loss of my dog and best friend, Oskar, this summer. I cried for being alone, and I cried for Haiti.
And I think- this is what exhaustion can do.
There are people, everyday, who cry for much less. And there are those who would think that I should have recouped from heart break sooner. Or that grief for a dog that extends beyond the week is ridiculous.
But the more I think about grief, the less I think it is relative.
There is how much we love, and how much we lose as a result.
I can't put all of Haiti under my skin. It makes me cry for the man who broke my heart and the dog that died in August. It makes me sob for fictional characters.
There are people who would cry for less- and there are people who wouldn't cry for much more.
These people exist in circumstances of anguish every day. People starve, babies die, disease spreads.
I want to be stronger. I want to pull the good under my skin with the bad. I want to bend and not break. I want to be able to love without falling apart.
Haitians have a proverb, 'all that we don't know is more than we will ever be'
Thank God.
My thoughts whirl and recycle. Purpose. Point. Effectiveness. Waste. Grief. Life.
I'm 25. I'm single. I'm blessed.
I'm selfish. I'm wasting time, I'm living.
Thoughts that contradict themselves until I'm worn thin.
I thought to watch a movie on my computer. Movies can have such an effective displacement of ones self. A time away.
A character in the movie died, and while normally one for crying a tear or two in sad movies, I found myself rather unhinged.
I cried for a raw and terrible loss of my first love. I cried for the loss of my dog and best friend, Oskar, this summer. I cried for being alone, and I cried for Haiti.
And I think- this is what exhaustion can do.
There are people, everyday, who cry for much less. And there are those who would think that I should have recouped from heart break sooner. Or that grief for a dog that extends beyond the week is ridiculous.
But the more I think about grief, the less I think it is relative.
There is how much we love, and how much we lose as a result.
I can't put all of Haiti under my skin. It makes me cry for the man who broke my heart and the dog that died in August. It makes me sob for fictional characters.
There are people who would cry for less- and there are people who wouldn't cry for much more.
These people exist in circumstances of anguish every day. People starve, babies die, disease spreads.
I want to be stronger. I want to pull the good under my skin with the bad. I want to bend and not break. I want to be able to love without falling apart.
Haitians have a proverb, 'all that we don't know is more than we will ever be'
Thank God.
Third world epilepsy
In America, if you have a seizure, there is medication. There are doctors. There are parents and hospitals and therapies.
In Haiti, I caught a boy falling down the stairs this morning in an epileptic spasm.
My Haitian friend who teaches here laid him on his side and held him down. When it passed, he left him there to sleep it off. 12 years old, laying on his side on the pavement, being stepped over as if it happens every day.
It DOES happen everyday. Without diagnoses and medication. Without necessary funding and medical support, they do the best they can. And the best they can is to hold onto them tight as they seize, and to lay them on the floor until they wake up.
We do the best we can.
We do the best we can, in America?
Do we?
I held his hand until he woke up. I sat on the ground and held his hand for three hours.
It was the best I could do.
In Haiti, I caught a boy falling down the stairs this morning in an epileptic spasm.
My Haitian friend who teaches here laid him on his side and held him down. When it passed, he left him there to sleep it off. 12 years old, laying on his side on the pavement, being stepped over as if it happens every day.
It DOES happen everyday. Without diagnoses and medication. Without necessary funding and medical support, they do the best they can. And the best they can is to hold onto them tight as they seize, and to lay them on the floor until they wake up.
We do the best we can.
We do the best we can, in America?
Do we?
I held his hand until he woke up. I sat on the ground and held his hand for three hours.
It was the best I could do.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Empty
With an inability to navigate to the grocery store since the first time, and an unsuccessful first venture to the local market, I've been eating somewhat scarcely. It's interesting, the idea of survival versus enjoyment. I love fancy dinners. I love good food. I don't know what it means, that I can live this way or that way. I don't know what it means that I crave both.
I do know that my stomach grumbles and tells me it is empty. I do know that this feeling is equally satisfying.
I am moving beyond physical discomfort. I am filling up with intangible things.
I do hope to fall into a routine. Learn how to cook in a disfunctional kitchen. Learn how to move around the country. Learn how to speak the language and how to run errands. Learn how to haggle at the market.
Learn how to live.
And hopefully, with hope.
I will be full tomorrow- in more ways than one.
I do know that my stomach grumbles and tells me it is empty. I do know that this feeling is equally satisfying.
I am moving beyond physical discomfort. I am filling up with intangible things.
I do hope to fall into a routine. Learn how to cook in a disfunctional kitchen. Learn how to move around the country. Learn how to speak the language and how to run errands. Learn how to haggle at the market.
Learn how to live.
And hopefully, with hope.
I will be full tomorrow- in more ways than one.
Mountains and service
I had to take a break this afternoon. I've decided to 'run' down and up a mountain every day for an hour. Today led me down the dirt road that I live on and out onto a main stretch, paved in places. Windy, and bustling.
Have you ever been told more than 100 times in an hour that you're a white kid?
Toto, we're not in port-au-prince anymore.
Fermathe is about 30 minutes up the mountainside, at a leisurely 5216 feet, the air is thin, and rain drops splatter you through sunshine in the afternoons because you're in the cloud bank.
Stumbling down the hill, I tried to clear my mind, focusing only on the pronounced and rhythmic clod of my shoes on the pavement. Children are walking up and down the mountain all around en route to and from school. Men are ushering pigs across roads and dogs are sending me mixed signals as they wag their tales and bark at me.
Everyone who sees me stares. I'm starting to wish I could stare too. Wait, a white person, where?
They say a few words in greeting that I've learned. Hello, how are you, good afternoon, what's up ( my creole is so polite) and then I cringe as the inevitable string of conversation and laughter unfolds, and always- blanc.
Ahaha a white person.
Down the mountain. An unknown language. An unknown geography. An unknown culture.
The unknown. Why is it scary?
I have to go in God's faith that no one will hurt me. Unable to tell the difference in a threat and a joke, I march on, crossing my fingers, and knowing that I'd have a better chance of cartwheeling up this mountain than being able to outrun someone.
I march for a half hour, naturally concluding that 30 minutes down wil be thirty minutes back.
Oh no, you silly white girl. What about the 45 degree incline, and the thin oxygen? What about the tap taps whirling around curves so fast I don't think I need to shave my legs?
I press on. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what I'm doing.
But I can control my legs. I can climb a mountain.
I reach the turn off onto the dirt road. I sit down on the stone wall and pour water over my head. I'll just revel in my accomplishment and drink my water for a minute, and then I'll head back into the unknown.
As I will myself to stand, I hear a clicking of what I only imagine to be hooves of goats or some such.
Turning to to my right, a group of church women are walking up the mountain. Childrens' hands and bibles in tow, they chatter and scold. They're wearing high heels. And there are buckets of water balancing on their heads.
Well, fine.
' bon sua' 'bon sua'
'Sava?' 'Bien'
'Blanc'.
Have you ever been told more than 100 times in an hour that you're a white kid?
Toto, we're not in port-au-prince anymore.
Fermathe is about 30 minutes up the mountainside, at a leisurely 5216 feet, the air is thin, and rain drops splatter you through sunshine in the afternoons because you're in the cloud bank.
Stumbling down the hill, I tried to clear my mind, focusing only on the pronounced and rhythmic clod of my shoes on the pavement. Children are walking up and down the mountain all around en route to and from school. Men are ushering pigs across roads and dogs are sending me mixed signals as they wag their tales and bark at me.
Everyone who sees me stares. I'm starting to wish I could stare too. Wait, a white person, where?
They say a few words in greeting that I've learned. Hello, how are you, good afternoon, what's up ( my creole is so polite) and then I cringe as the inevitable string of conversation and laughter unfolds, and always- blanc.
Ahaha a white person.
Down the mountain. An unknown language. An unknown geography. An unknown culture.
The unknown. Why is it scary?
I have to go in God's faith that no one will hurt me. Unable to tell the difference in a threat and a joke, I march on, crossing my fingers, and knowing that I'd have a better chance of cartwheeling up this mountain than being able to outrun someone.
I march for a half hour, naturally concluding that 30 minutes down wil be thirty minutes back.
Oh no, you silly white girl. What about the 45 degree incline, and the thin oxygen? What about the tap taps whirling around curves so fast I don't think I need to shave my legs?
I press on. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what I'm doing.
But I can control my legs. I can climb a mountain.
I reach the turn off onto the dirt road. I sit down on the stone wall and pour water over my head. I'll just revel in my accomplishment and drink my water for a minute, and then I'll head back into the unknown.
As I will myself to stand, I hear a clicking of what I only imagine to be hooves of goats or some such.
Turning to to my right, a group of church women are walking up the mountain. Childrens' hands and bibles in tow, they chatter and scold. They're wearing high heels. And there are buckets of water balancing on their heads.
Well, fine.
' bon sua' 'bon sua'
'Sava?' 'Bien'
'Blanc'.
Bodily fluids
What does it mean. That I'm afraid of the snot and the drool. The spit and the particles of food. That when I'm hugged I think about the saliva on my shirt. Did I expect service work in a third world country to be picturesque?
And which is worse, bodily fluids, or a girl afraid of the humans who possess them.
Would I have followed Jesus until he healed the leper?
Would I have stood in the back and thrown up?
God, I hope not.
And which is worse, bodily fluids, or a girl afraid of the humans who possess them.
Would I have followed Jesus until he healed the leper?
Would I have stood in the back and thrown up?
God, I hope not.
Today
I've thrown up three times. Almost cried twice, and prayed once.
God, help me. God, help them. In all the ways that you know, that I can't say.
God, help me. God, help them. In all the ways that you know, that I can't say.
If
I am supposed to be here, Lord, give me peace. I don't need it to be easy. I need it to be right.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Vulnerable
Is sleeping with a bathroom light on, the door locked, and in socks because you're too tired to wash your feet.
That feeling when you're dosing off and you realize you still have to get ready for bed.. And then you realize there is no running water, the water in the wash jug is frigid, you can only brush your teeth with purified water, and the 'sink' doesn't drain.
And if something were to happen. If there was a natural disaster. I don't know where I am, where to go, or how to speak the language.
I'm crossing my fingers, and saying a prayer. I used some mouth wash and splashed water on my face. Tomorrow is a new day.
I've had lymes disease. I've had my heart broken. I can handle you, Haiti.
Just not tonight.
That feeling when you're dosing off and you realize you still have to get ready for bed.. And then you realize there is no running water, the water in the wash jug is frigid, you can only brush your teeth with purified water, and the 'sink' doesn't drain.
And if something were to happen. If there was a natural disaster. I don't know where I am, where to go, or how to speak the language.
I'm crossing my fingers, and saying a prayer. I used some mouth wash and splashed water on my face. Tomorrow is a new day.
I've had lymes disease. I've had my heart broken. I can handle you, Haiti.
Just not tonight.
faith
There are no screens on the window at wings. The electricity is sporadic at best. There is no running water. The stove is fueled by turning on a gas tank and lighting a match. The commute from st. Joseph's in port-au-prince to wings costs 40 dollars round trip, unless you take the tap taps (local transportation) and I've yet to figure that out. I'll have to grocery shop and cook my own meals, the logistics of this are daunting at best. I don't know where I am geographically nor if its safe so I'm feeling a little stir crazy in the walls of the compound. Did I mention I got here at 4? I haven't been told any logistics of what I'm doing- don't know anyone's names. For once have less than any appetite, no one to talk to, can't take a walk, and don't feel like taking a frigid shower. It's 6:30 Pm, and for the first time I understand why people thought I was crazy for wanting to move to Haiti by myself. Even the peace corps places people in groups. the children and adult disabilities are severe. Their ward smells like bleach and urine. Most don't have underwear, it's extreme.
I'm torn between my extreme guilt that I feel sorry for myself, and the realization at how unbelievably fortunate I am.
I want to have a servants heart, but I hadn't foreseen spending money to be a volunteer.
I feel silly for thinking that spending a couple weeks at st. Joseph's would prepare me for this. I may as well have thought that living at the ritz Carlton was similar to being homeless.
I feel infinitely better suited to working with the kids school in Jacmel, or the boys at st. Joseph- but this is where they've asked me to live.
I hope the one night a week or so spent at st. Joes will help me to persevere, and I pray to get a healthier gage of whether I'm being a scared child, or whether this is not where I am meant to be.
I don't want to be here. But I do want to be in Haiti. I want to help. And I want to know and love the sweet boys at st. Joseph's.
I can't remember the last time I went I bed before 7, but for now I've got nothing left. Say a prayer. For me. And for everyone that I'm scared to live like.
I'm torn between my extreme guilt that I feel sorry for myself, and the realization at how unbelievably fortunate I am.
I want to have a servants heart, but I hadn't foreseen spending money to be a volunteer.
I feel silly for thinking that spending a couple weeks at st. Joseph's would prepare me for this. I may as well have thought that living at the ritz Carlton was similar to being homeless.
I feel infinitely better suited to working with the kids school in Jacmel, or the boys at st. Joseph- but this is where they've asked me to live.
I hope the one night a week or so spent at st. Joes will help me to persevere, and I pray to get a healthier gage of whether I'm being a scared child, or whether this is not where I am meant to be.
I don't want to be here. But I do want to be in Haiti. I want to help. And I want to know and love the sweet boys at st. Joseph's.
I can't remember the last time I went I bed before 7, but for now I've got nothing left. Say a prayer. For me. And for everyone that I'm scared to live like.
Good morning hugs
I can't remember a morning growing up that I didn't trudge into the kitchen for coffee, even through college when I was home for a break, and hug whichever unsuspecting parent was about. Hugs hello, goodbye, pre dinner hugs, pre bedtime hugs, haven't talked to you today hugs.
Last night I stayed up on the rooftop with about 10 of the younger boys. Lulu, a sharp eyed and beautiful 10 year old sat beside me. We only recently became friends, he was a tough nut to crack. Having said that, we are now the best of friends. And as he would shake my knee last night saying, elizabet, zibet, what's this... Adamantly pointing to some object or another or acting out a gesture in hopes of helping me on my crusade for creole. We hadn't spent much time in conversation because he is shy and there is the language barrier, so it was a delight and a surprise to find that my sweet 10 year old teacher has a lisp. Once my ear began honing in on creole, I realized my precious teacher was indeed a 10 year old baby with a speech impediment.
When I hug lulu, he holds on until I let go. And I think, this is not a distant Haitian orphan, this is a baby who needs a hug.
That makes two of us.
Last night I stayed up on the rooftop with about 10 of the younger boys. Lulu, a sharp eyed and beautiful 10 year old sat beside me. We only recently became friends, he was a tough nut to crack. Having said that, we are now the best of friends. And as he would shake my knee last night saying, elizabet, zibet, what's this... Adamantly pointing to some object or another or acting out a gesture in hopes of helping me on my crusade for creole. We hadn't spent much time in conversation because he is shy and there is the language barrier, so it was a delight and a surprise to find that my sweet 10 year old teacher has a lisp. Once my ear began honing in on creole, I realized my precious teacher was indeed a 10 year old baby with a speech impediment.
When I hug lulu, he holds on until I let go. And I think, this is not a distant Haitian orphan, this is a baby who needs a hug.
That makes two of us.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
What does it mean
That I'm excited for a latte in December.
That I think about getting a pedicure for Christmas
That thoughts that used to smother me at home are few and far between
That I don't miss him anymore.
That I'm happy with nothing but always crave something.
It means there's work to be done.
Hallelujah.
That I think about getting a pedicure for Christmas
That thoughts that used to smother me at home are few and far between
That I don't miss him anymore.
That I'm happy with nothing but always crave something.
It means there's work to be done.
Hallelujah.
10 days, 10 thoughts
1. I feel churlish for every time I didn't worry about dropping a penny.
2. I'm craving a slice of pizza.
3. Why did I bring a curling iron?
4. How often are the boys saying something inappropriate and I'm responding, yeah, what's up?!
5. Clothes pins.
6. I don't know how to effectively hand wash, anything, particularly socks.
7. Mouthwash.
8. If you've been up for 6.5 hours by 11 am, there's a lot of time in one day.
9. Homesick isn't the right word, and neither is familiarity, but my senses are definitely heightened and I find myself tired and stimulated simultaneously.
10. Mom and dad.
11. God.
2. I'm craving a slice of pizza.
3. Why did I bring a curling iron?
4. How often are the boys saying something inappropriate and I'm responding, yeah, what's up?!
5. Clothes pins.
6. I don't know how to effectively hand wash, anything, particularly socks.
7. Mouthwash.
8. If you've been up for 6.5 hours by 11 am, there's a lot of time in one day.
9. Homesick isn't the right word, and neither is familiarity, but my senses are definitely heightened and I find myself tired and stimulated simultaneously.
10. Mom and dad.
11. God.
With gladness and singleness of heart
The average Haitian survives on less than one American dollar a day. An average work day is 10 hours, and Haitians are paid approximately 250 gourde. That's less than 5 dollars a day. Most families eat every other day. And one cup of rice is sometimes all a family of up to 5 will share.
I understand that wealth is relative. That poverty exists. I wake up early in Haiti, down six flights of stairs and into the kitchen for coffee. Up 7 flights and onto the roof to drink said coffee. I revel in god's creation- and from this bird's view, it's beautiful, and plentiful. Creation in action.
But people are hungry, people are scared, people are desperate, and lonely, and weary. People are broken and angry and their babies are crying.
Do not be ashamed that we have what we have. Be ashamed that we are not mindful, and thankful, every single day.
Revel in God's creation- all of it-not only what is easy on the eye, and easy on the heart.
I understand that wealth is relative. That poverty exists. I wake up early in Haiti, down six flights of stairs and into the kitchen for coffee. Up 7 flights and onto the roof to drink said coffee. I revel in god's creation- and from this bird's view, it's beautiful, and plentiful. Creation in action.
But people are hungry, people are scared, people are desperate, and lonely, and weary. People are broken and angry and their babies are crying.
Do not be ashamed that we have what we have. Be ashamed that we are not mindful, and thankful, every single day.
Revel in God's creation- all of it-not only what is easy on the eye, and easy on the heart.
Friday, November 9, 2012
A loud cry
Haiti is a raucous country. Sounds are everywhere. It's noisy. Wild, even. Sitting on the roof of St. Joseph's, stories above the rest of town, I watch the sun come over the mountain. Haiti doesn't seem to sleep. Roosters scurry across tin roofs and women scrub clothing before beating it and laying it across wires to dry. Children are everywhere and the playgrounds exude a ferocious joy that is only palpable on a playground, as a child. The echo of churches is everywhere. Everyone is singing, going, working. Living. The act of survival. In its most basic form. Love and sex. Music and dance. Work and family. Basic needs. Raw existence. Joy. And I ask myself, far from the expensive clothes of Anthropologie, and the fine dinners at balliceaux,
Who on earth do you think you are?
Who on earth do you think you are?
Thursday, November 8, 2012
perspective 10-30-12
I haven't even left yet. Just scrambling around. Store to store. Purchase after purchase.
Meanwhile, it's going to rain in Richmond.
Stores are selling out of basic supplies, parking lots are chaotic, the west end is in a full blown frenzy.
And I'm preparing. I'm buying things to help me in Haiti. To make me safe. To keep me warm.
All the while, it is raining in Haiti.
It is raining in Haiti too.
And everybody is getting wet.
Meanwhile, it's going to rain in Richmond.
Stores are selling out of basic supplies, parking lots are chaotic, the west end is in a full blown frenzy.
And I'm preparing. I'm buying things to help me in Haiti. To make me safe. To keep me warm.
All the while, it is raining in Haiti.
It is raining in Haiti too.
And everybody is getting wet.
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