I'll be home for Christmas (in my skin)

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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.