Merry Happy

I come from a singing family. When I was little, I was completely tone deaf. My dad and I would substitute, and by substitute I mean in addition to... Singing lessons into the bedtime routine. He would sing a note, and I would try and sing the same note. We sang our lullabies. In elementary school as a one car family, Brie and my mom and I sang 'let's go get our daddy, silly little daddy." And all the subsequent verses until we arrived at dad's  work to take him home with us. We sang our school songs. We practiced our songs for SPARC,  and belted along with the radio.

In middle school, the blossoming female phenomenon that I sought to be, I was always singing famous songs to my parents. Practicing. Trying, to be a singer. A singer songwriter if you will.

And I was in the choir. In the beginning, because that's where my friends were. And in the end, well, because that's where my friends were. And of course, the ever persuasive and subtle notion that were I to make a choice to not be in the choir, well, my allowance might make a choice to not be in my pocket.  Priorities, people!

But that's neither here nor there. The fact is, singing, no matter how eloquent or inspiring has been a part of my life since I was born. 

My uncle Paul, God love him, sings at the top of his lungs, in all accents available (or not) to him, oblivious to those he's verbally assaulting, and much to the chagrin of my dear sweet aunt Suzanne. My Mawmaw used to tip toe into our rooms when she would visit, a devilish gleam in her eyes, yank off our blankets with a hoorah! And launch into a several versed onslaught of 'wake up wake up you sleepy heads, the sun is up and you're in bed!" She would teeter on dancing toes,  merrily around our room, always out of reach, fanning our blankets in the air and giggling mercilessly. 

There's Mimi, who will turn any singular word you utter into a song. Some made up, and some from this or that jingle, hymn, commercial, or popular song from the last 70 years. You couldn't believe it, (but believe it) when I tell you, how many frilly and bubbling serenades my MiMi knows.

And while this could have been (was, is, and will be) an ever infuriating and obnoxious quality. It also is completely ingratiating. It puts a smile on my face to think about, and I know I'll remember it. Treasure it. And shamelessly assault my sass-mouthed and cynical grandchildren with exactly the same tactics. 

I told you all that to tell you that on Sunday we decorated the Christmas tree at St. Joseph's. A long standing and special tradition, the lights not yet lit, every boy puts an ornament on the tree and so on and so forth until every ornament had found a place. Tinsel is tossed, the angel is begrudgingly mounted on her post, and in the dark of the night, with the sounds of Haiti going on all around us, this family of children clasp hands and sing. The lights are turned on, and the tree is brilliant. The boys then can choose to speak. They talk about what the Christmas tree means to them. What this tree, in all of it's splendor, and it's beautiful lights means to them.

And it means so many things. It's just plain beautiful, say some boys, and it's nice that they have a beautiful thing to call their own.

The lights remind them of Christ's presence in their lives.

That they are not alone. That they have each other. And they have God's peace in their hearts.

And then we sang.

We drank egg nog and laughed until our sides ached.

We sang the 12 days of Christmas. In English, with 12 boys having signs with their individual line on it. When it came time to call out your line, the boys would jump into the middle of the room, they would scramble their lines in muddled English, others shrieking in delight.

We sang it twice. Faster and faster. 

And then we sang some more.

And by the end of it, my throat was aching, my breath came shallowly, and my sides were splitting.

Why? I thought, is my voice hurting so from singing.

I sing all the time.

I thought about it for a couple of days. This raw ache that I had experienced.

And now I know.

When you sing in Haiti, there are no apologies made. Whether or not you 'can' sing.

Whether or not you know the langauge.

Whether or not you know the song.

The boys at St. Joseph's raise their voices to the heavens.

They lift up their voices and SING.

They sing from the bottom of their toes and the raging melodies come careening up through their mouths in joyous praise.

And it doesn't matter how it sounds. They don't worry how they look. They aren't afraid of whatever others might be thinking.

And I was a part of it. When we sang those carols, and I sang at the top of my lungs, I couldn't hear my voice.

I mean, I actually couldn't hear myself at all.

I knew I was singing. Knew that notes were coming out of my throat and into the air.

But only God knows what they sounded like.

Fitting, since they were only sung to God.

And that's what made it so damn fun.

Stomping and clapping and swaying my hips to the triple time dance rhythms of deck the halls. 

Screaming into the night o come o come Immanuel.

Calling to him. Beckoning.

No apologies, no insecurities.

Just all the noise that this person I am possesses.

Calling out to Bondye in the only way that I knew how.

Pillow talk

The time I spend in Haiti is an opportunity. But to the people who call it home. The people I love here. It's their lives.

I'll go home to a pedicure and a hot shower. I'll buy a dress for midnight mass. I'll go out to dinner on a date. 

I'll drive my car and visit with family and friends over a glass of wine around the fire place.

So I ask you, what in God's name will have changed? 

Well, me. I hope. My heart. 

And the people who have filled it. 

I love a group of people. A family, really, in the third world. And they love me back. 

It's not everything. But on Christmas Eve. When the earth feels alive and awake and the air is full of mystery.

When I feel beautiful in the dress I bought. When I drive down the street, everything easy, everything maneagable.

Everything a blessing.

I'll think of them. 

From an ocean away, I'll wish my loved ones a Merry Christmas. 

And I know they'll do the same.

Sometimes at night, from across the balcony, in the other house, I can hear Steve talking to himself from his bed. I'll hear, 'oh Izabet' in a stream of chatter, and I think, I wonder what he's talking about. 

Sometimes at night, when my head hits the pillow, the words fall from my mouth in a solemn prayer.

God, thank you for Steve.

And then I think, I bet I know what he's saying.

We love each other. These boys and me. These orphans and these angels.

We really do. 

And that is a God given change. 

Advent

I really love Advent.

It's the only time I seem to find to breathe. It's peaceful. Meditative. Purposeful, and intentional.

I am a counter. I love firsts and lasts. Birthdays and anniversaries. Routines, traditions. I hold on to the time since one thing has passed. I catalogue and store it away. It means something to me. How long since this, and until that.

Advent is a time to count.

How many blessings. How many joys. How many fears and heartaches.

How many days do we have to prepare?

Because He is coming.

No matter the fears. The good and the bad. What we have and haven't done.

He's coming for everyone. All of us.

In spite of us, actually.

And I can count on it. 

Alleluia, Bondye

Haiti comes to life at night. Sometimes I like to sit on the balcony, above the world  of St. Joseph's. 

I close my eyes, and breathe in the night. 

The sounds, and the motion.

Tonight they're raising their voices to the heavens.

A congregation is worshipping. I can hear the drums, and the faint melodies wafting through the streets, through the darkness.

Alleluia.

They chant it over and over again.

Their voices ring out.

Prayer without ceasing.

Glory to God. 

And I'm thankful, that they're there.

That they're praising God, when I can only listen.

That in the darkness, there is this togetherness.

And that I get to be a part of it. 

Alleluia. 

Sixty-two big ones (November 29th, 2013)

Dear dude,

It's your birthday! Welcome to your sixty-second year on this planet. We are getting old, are we not?! But then again, I've been saying that you were old and crumbly for at least the past 11 years, so all things considered, you've held up quite well!

Sometimes I worry about the future. That I haven't found a husband, settled down and had babies yet. And while, those are things that I want. The worry isn't entirely for me.

It's because I can't fathom marrying a man who doesn't witness the relationship that you and I have. That I can't stand the idea of bringing babies into this world who don't know their grandfather. My father. The man who has so shaped my being, and shown me the importance of true character. Our character.

The games and the fun. The ingenuity and creativity. The spontaneity, and the flat out, never-give-up-ness, regardless of how you feel, or what is going on around you. How brilliant you are, and how you see beauty in everything, especially music. How you encourage everyone, and you meet them where they are, with what they have to offer.

The love, and the faith that I watch you rely on every day. How you support your family. How you rely on God. 

But more than anything else, it's because when you meet important people, and when new people come into your life, you want them to meet your best friend.

You are my best friend.

I love you, I miss you, and I look forward to beating your ass at ping pong on Christmas day, old and crumbly as you are!

Love,

Diz.

Rejoice, give thanks, and praise.

I woke up with tears lurking, behind my cheekbones, filling up my sinuses, and making my face feel a little too tight. A little too heavy.

I spoke with my parents, me in my bed. They, prior to the Thanksgiving day service.

It was not enough. It never is.

But THAT is the joy in this holiday. 

What am I missing? A day of togetherness. Where we celebrate all we are thankful for.

Primarily, each other, the love we share, and all of our abundant blessings. 

I'm missing the pie and the long walk at the river with our dogs. The smells and the fresh air. The hugs, and the knowing that this day is reserved for us. 

The beautiful table and the feeling of complete joy and contentedness. No matter what else was going on in my life. School, post college, career crisis, heartbreak, illness, growing up. All of it, any of it.

I had this family, my family, and they are perfect. 

Abundant blessings. God given, over flowing, unbelievable blessings.

And no matter where I am, 

I am SO thankful for that. 

And for you. Mom, Dad, Brie. I love you so much.

Happy Thanksgiving. 

Hurdles

Steve and I took a walk down the mountain. 

Walk like this, he'd say.

Konsa, konsa, konsa, konsa.

He'd throw his arm around my shoulders. He'd grab my other hand and pull it around his neck, he'd sway his hips to the beat of the words.

Like this, like this, like this. Like this. 

Huge, gaping steps. Frog jumps.

Now, RUN! He'd exclaim. He'd grab my hand, and we'd run. Our breath coming in ragged gasps in the thin mountain air. The air cool on our damp skin, and the places that the sun touched burning.

We charged up the mountain. Galloping and skipping to steady ourselves. Hurdling our tiring limbs, feet pounding on the pavement. 

He'd come to an abrupt hault, and I could hear the air swishing around in his lungs as he took expectant and starving inhales.

Now sit. He'd pull me to the curb, interlock our arms, prop both his elbows on his knees and exclaim,

Look! Look at the beautiful view.

Gade, izabet. Belle terrain, wi?

And then up again. Tugging at my arm, sweaty fingers hanging on for dear life as we spiraled down the mountain in pounding and sonorous clomps. 

Now jump! Like a dolphin breaking out of the water, he'd kick his feet into the air, his torso shimmying, his hands waving high and clapping. Convulsing. 

Okay. Let's walk now.

Giddy. Exhausted. Thighs throbbing and head pounding. Red faced and shining.

I bought us some water on the road. 

The guys milling around the shop called to Steve. Call that blanc. Call her. Hey, blanc. Hey.

Steve turned to me, he looked curiously back at them. 

Where, he exclaimed!

There! There, with you! Her!

What, Steve said? Who?

Her! The blanc! With you!

What? Steve said?

Her?

No! You liar!

That's izabet! 

And off we ran.

Two of my best friends

Oh, Lord.

I saw a mother who only had one chick. I saw a calf, tied to a telephone pole. 

I saw a graveyard. Cracked and crumbling. Overtaken by weeds, caving into the earth.

The most beautiful turtle dove drawings. Angels. Wild colors, and graffiti, etched onto aging walls. 

A vacant tomb arched it's back towards the sky. 

Oil spills on half paved roads, and rusting machinery, dying in the background.

Decaying cinder blocks and moss covered walls.

Smoldering piles of ash that burn your nostrils and sear your skin. 

Tombs turning back into earth. 

How life does go on, you know?

Everything broken. 

Everything, part of it all.

Everything, together.

And how life does go on,

You know? 

Black out

Sometimes, in the night

In port au prince, the music comes from everywhere.

Compa and Ra-Ra. Gospel and hip hop. Techno beats drone and reggae bounces from cinder block street bars.

The roosters squall and packs of dogs course through the black hills behind us. They scream.

Voices of praise ring out. One voice with a microphone and a raging chorus. They offer up their lungs to God.

They sing as if they could give their very selves up to God. 

I sat on the balcony. In the still of it all.

In the quiet of my mind,

In all of the noise.

Of the living.

There is a blackout in port au prince tonight. 

The music seems to crawl up from the depths of creation.

I once asked one of the boys why there was a celebration going on in our neighborhood, and he told me they were celebrating the light. 

When was the last time that light was an opportunity to give thanks to god and be joyful.

When was the last time that anything was?

The cost of living

I watched a man walk along the side of the road,

He bent down and picked up a black plastic bag from the gutter, beat it against his thigh several times, held it out in appraisal, folded it up, and put it in his back pocket.

I saw 4 dead dogs on the side of the road.

I noticed a girl walking to school, holding shoes at least 4 sizes too big in her hands. She was barefoot.

Watched boys playing soccer in the street with a plastic coke bottle.

On Tuesday, a baby toddled over to me in the market and asked me if he could have a bite of what I was eating. He was two, and he was starving. 

We think, (because we are who we are.)

That it is (because) we are who we are.

But it isn't.

The cost of living is higher in some places.

It will cost you your life.

And we will never know what that feels like.

Rain

It's been raining in port au prince.

The trees swell and sway. There's a rhythmic beating of rain on tin. A melancholy tapping. As all things in Haiti, there's a heartbeat, here, in this storm.

The wind offers a reprieve from the sweaty and sultry heat. It's always welcome, to me. This rain.

The sounds calm my nerves and I count the drops on the flat of my feet.

We're all a part of this.

This near, and this far.

The weather is god's gift. We can watch the drops of rain hit the palm of our hand. And we can stare, miles away, at the rain clouds gathering over the ocean. Over the mountains.

The sky turning black, and the raging clouds. 

And we're a part of that too.

Sometimes, I think I feel everything. 

And sometimes, I know that I never could.

And for that, I am thankful for the ever changing weather. 

Good Morning

Fluctuation

I sat on the balcony of my room, and stared up at the sky. For the longest time tonight.

I watched the sun disapear into the ocean, and the mountains melt into shadows. 

Have I ever been, entirely still?

I don't know. 

It rains here. Every afternoon. And when the storm clouds clear, the hummingbirds visit the tree that engulfs my perch. 

They shift their weight and dart in and out of the blooms, stained deep purple.

Have they ever been, entirely still?

I don't know. 

My mind hasn't been my own, since I arrived in Haiti.

There's too much.

That's changed.

And too much, that's stayed. 

Exactly the same. 

Is God ever, completely still?

Or is everything- always.

In constant motion. 

Dear Lord and Father

I've been asked to be a Godmother again. I'll now have two sweet God babies.

Kedira is the baby of my first Haitian friend. I met him on my first trip to Haiti. We were both doing construction, excavating the foundation for the new St. Joseph's home. Kedira wasn't born yet, but Marc Arthur, who we call 'Africa' and I became fast friends. Kedira was only a few months old when I moved to Haiti permanently last November. He's now a walking and gurgling machine, and we spend a great deal of time together, aimlessly walking the streets, eating sugar cane, and throwing pebbles.

When I went to St. Joseph's on Friday, it was my first trip down the mountain since arriving back in Haiti. Careening down the mountain by taptap, being dumped in Petionville, once again all alone, once again the only white girl in sight, I prayed that muscle memory would take over. that the habit of navigating the market would kick back in, and while I was rusty, after four casual months stateside, it did. I recognized all the sights and sounds. Turning and weaving, dodging motorcycles and basket clad heads, I hitched my second taptap on Delmas street. The rain was torrential, and it dripped through my eyelashes and stung my eyes. Sitting on the last available sliver of bench, exposed to the elements, I was glad to be going home. Excited to see my boys, and feeling like I was finally getting my bearings back, I hollered "mesi" and banged the side of the truck with my fist. The driver slowed to a roll and I hopped off the back, handing the moneyman 10 Gourdes, and smiling for the hell of it, I began the march down Delmas 91, to St. Joseph's home for Boys.

THIS is my neighborhood. I know the fruit vendors, I know the soccer players. I know the crazy man who doesn't wear enough clothes. I know the laundry ladies and the gang members. I know which tents my friends live in and who likes who. In reality, as close as I have become to the St. Joseph's family, I've come to love this group of neighborhood friends just as much. We drink beers on Friday nights and listen to music. I bring my coffee out on Saturday morning, I sit on the street while the women peel green beans, and I watch the boys play soccer. In the afternoons, I throw on my formerly shiny blue and white sneakers, which have now been well worn and assaulted with dust and mud and clay, and I play too. We skid and we holler. I scream for no reason when everyone else screams. We shake our fists at the cars that go by, demanding we move our goals. We catcall at the church ladies, and we pull on the pony tails of the little girls. I walk down the street and I pick up whichever kid arrives at my feet first, twirling around with them, and throwing their little bodies upside down under my arm like a football. I set them back on their feet and we march on in stride. At night we play cards and dominos. We crowd around one television in a single level cement room, we pass around beers and make nickel bets on the winning team.

On Friday, I  tried to pace myself down the steep and windy street. I couldn't temper my steps. My excitement. I was ready to be there, to see them, to be back, in this home. This place that was built out of tarps and rubble. This place we had made our own.

And it was gone.

Walking past the turn that would enter into our tent city, there was a wall. The houses were demolished, chickens stood on piles of debris and most of the neigborhood was barricaded with tall sheets of tin.

Gone.

One lonely tent sat in the middle of it all. No walls, just a roof, and 4 poles. A handful of my friends were still there. Not my closest friends, but men and boys I recognized.

"Hello," I exclaimed.

They turned to look at me. A ghost. Gone 4 months. And everything else gone with me.

"You're back," one said.

"Yes. What happened? Where is everybody?"

"They're gone."

"Yes, but where? What happened?"

"Everyone had to go."

"Why?"

"No more houses. Destroyed."

 Fini.

"That's it," he said.

"Well, where is everybody?"

"Different places."

And so it began. I spent my Saturday doing reconnaissance on my long lost friends, far and wide.

And I found so many of them. Marc Arthur, his wife, and Kedira are down the street and a few turns away. Some have gone to live with siblings, moved into rooms with friends, or moved into new neighborhoods all together. Some seem to be living amongst the rubble, crowded into homes together, unsure of what has happened or how to proceed.

But I couldn't find everyone. Hell, I didn't know everyone's name. When you build your life around an entire neighborhood, no single aspect of the day was better than any other.

I can't go out and find the woman that I always spent a conversation in mock bartering over bananas before she gave me one, and I gave her a cup of coffee. I don't know how to find the orphan boy I called tiny who waited on me every friday afternoon outside the doors of st. Josephs. Sitting patiently, waiting for prayers to end, for me to come out and play.

I don't know where the boys who had the shop and sold beer are. I see their friends, but they haven't come around.

And I'm lost.

We lost each other. An entire neighborhood, vanished.

Kedira's home is gone.

I spent Sunday afternoon with him. I held him to my chest and prayed silently. I sang the song that I sing to Elli Mariah when we're going to sleep.

On Monday I went to visit the orphanage in my neighborhood, to catch up with a couple of my friends.

Have you heard the nursery rhyme about the crying infants, deserted and malnourished. Half dressed. Puddles of babies, draped on the floor. Nine babies. Sick, and dying. Maybe, dying. And trying to live, laying on mats on the floor. Cool and shivering. Damp. Staring vacantly through the balcony bars of this second story nightmare.

Covered in flies, and being cared for by twelve and thirteen year old orphaned girls, these babies don't even cry, really, only whimper.

I spent the whole of my afternoon with them. I picked up each baby, I held their bodies close to mine. Sticky and dirty, leaking urine onto my shirt and smelling of sickness and rot, drooling and crusty mouths. and glossy eyes.

I stare into the eyes of these babies. I remind myself that God loved us before we were born. That we cannot know the plan. For my friends from the neighborhood that's gone. For these babies that stare into the depths and clench their jaws. Languid hands falling against my chest, resigned and resolved. Placated. Miserable.

These babies.

These old, old faces.

I held them close to my chest, and I prayed silently. I sang the song that I sing with Elli Mariah when we're going to sleep.

Elli Mariah Johnson will be my second Godchild. She is the daughter of my 'brother' for all intents and purposes, Matthew, and his wife Katharina.

On November third, she will be baptized. The congregation will whisper her name under their breath. They will vow to love and support her. They will affirm their faith. They will show her Christ's love. They will promise her, that they will show her Christ's love.

I have loved Elli since before she was born. I was at her house watching over Attie while she was coming into the world. In fact, we didn't know she was going to be a she. I bought her Goodnight Moon. My first gift to my sweet new niece or nephew. I signed it "to baby." It was dated a day early because she took her sweet time joining us, but all the while, she was loved. She was already loved.

Elli is one of the dearest human beings on this planet. We're genuinely good friends. We crack each other up. We go to the river together, taking long walks. And I tell her about all the things I used to talk about with my dad, on long walks at the river. We throw rocks that splash and hum soft melodies that disappear into the breeze as soon as they've left our mouths.

At night we rock in the rocking chair. I hold her close to my chest, I pray a silent prayer, and I sing the song that I sing when Elli goes to sleep.

"Dear Lord and Father of mankind
Forgive our foolish ways
reclothe us in our rightful mind
in purer lives thy service find
in deeper reverence, praise. "

the long and short of it all

The day before I moved back to Haiti, I met the man that I'm dating at the river for a coffee, followed by a late farewell dinner with my dad at Balliceaux. We then played the minimum amount of acceptable games of ping pong (three) a mere five hours before we had to depart for the airport the next morning.

We were tied with one victory each and when I lost the third game he ACTUALLY made me pay the twenty dollar bet, prior to heading off to a third world country. Can you believe it? My mother has no sympathy for me as she finds it ridiculous that anyone would place a twenty dollar bet on a game involving two wooden paddles and a bouncing plastic ball, but as we like to remind her...she may be a Whitmire, but she doesn't have the burden of being born one. It's in our blood!

Parting ways at approximately midnight, I went to say a final goodbye to C. Three months is a long time to be away when you've only been dating for four, and we passed an hour, sitting on a brick wall in the fan, talking about the summer, about the upcoming fall, and trying to make light of what was to come. How much we would miss each other, and just how intricate the complexities of relationships are. of navigating the next step, of doing the good work, and all of the whys and the doubts. all of the emotions and decisions.

And in all those things, I knew, that I only had one. Prayer.

The only combatant of doubt.

My second to last impossible goodbye down, I headed home, to the inevitable 'final few things' I needed to pack away before I could sleep. It's amazing how those minor details always take much longer than expected, and even more amazing, as my mother would note, is that I always seem to recognize and accept said difficulty when I'm setting an alarm for 4:05 a.m. and it's a leisurely 3:40. It's not like I haven't been on one OR ONE THOUSAND trips, she would say. and she'd be right. But there you have it. Fortunately for both of us, she was in D.C. with my sister, and my father sleeps like the dead.

I don't mean to make light of my mother's absence at all. In fact, heading to a third world country by myself, without saying goodbye to her is one of the most difficult things I've ever done. It's amazing, what the physical presence of the ones we love can offer. Why a hug is more powerful than a phonecall. Why a held hand or a wiped away tear or a squeezed shoulder matters. Actions speak louder than words. I think it's always been so. My mother's actions were non negotiable. My sister was sick and had been hospitalized- in and out of three surgeries. She needed my mother. My mother had to be there, and I had to grow up. Just a little bit more, than ever before. A baby step, if you will.

When the alarm went off at 4:05 a.m., dad and I stumbled out of bed. He turned on the coffee and I splashed some water on my face. Had it only been 25 minutes ago that I laid down in my bed for the last time?

Bags thrown in the car, coffee in hands, we griped and poked at eachother. He, that I micromanaged the cream and sugaring of my coffee. Me, that it would be ironic to die on the highway on the WAY to Haiti. He, that my bags weighed more than 50 lbs (they did.) Me, that he looked like an eco-friendly nutcase carrying the stain remover, Woolite, yoga mat, and sunscreen that I'd hastily pulled from my bags to get them under 50 lbs. He, that that was in fact, my fault (it was).

I said it was always hard to tell, right before I went back, if it was the right thing. I said that things in Richmond always seemed so good, right before I had to leave. I played a gig on Friday night. It went really well, and I was asked to play more. I'm dating a guy I really like. The fall is coming, the folk fest is coming, and some things about living a normal and daily life appeal to me. I'd like to bike to work, go to the gym, go to concerts, go to church, go to yoga classes, go to dinner, and so on and so forth. I knew Haiti was a 'good' thing to do. But did that make it the 'right' thing? And if there are SO many good things to do, what does it matter which one you choose. The next step. Always rattling around in my brain. And time, always moving to fast.

My father pointed out that all of those things would be waiting for me if I chose to come home in December and stay. If I came home in June and stayed. If I came home when I turned 29 and stayed. That my kids missed me, and that he had a sneaking suspicion I was really talking about leaving one person in particular, and that the work I was doing in Haiti was good.

We said a blurry-eyed goodbye, and I walked through airport security. Alone, again.

I don't know if this ever occurs to you. But sometimes. When I'm traveling alone. When I'm moving to a different country. When I've packed all the things I need to exist into two bags and a guitar case, when I tell my mother I love her on the phone, and hug my dad, barely able to look back as I walk through security, I think something along the lines, ' Who on earth is driving this thing?'

It's just me. I'm responsible for myself. I'm traveling alone. This isn't a guided tour. There aren't arrangements being made for me. There's no parameters being set. This life that's being lived. This open ended, universal, time we have on earth. It can be and do anything, and I'm in charge.

But I've lived in Haiti now, for some time. I've made my choices, and I've taken the reins. And to some extent, it's true. I have to put one foot in front of the other. I have to make decisions, step by step, and plot out my life. But to some extent, it's preposterous. Who we meet, where we cross paths, the things we see and the events we experience. The things that happen to us. To the people we love. The things that dont' happen. In all of that, there is so much that is outside of our control. It's all a wondrous gift. And what's more- we didn't necessarily do anything to deserve it- the good, or the bad. And in all of that, I have only one thing. Prayer. The only combatant of entitlement.

As I turned the last corner into the terminal and my dad disappeared from sight, there was a moment of clarity. A thousand 'next steps' don't change the fact, that the most important thing to me is love. Who I love, and who loves me. Love, which can be lost, because it is had. I walked away, and I knew, I only had one thing. Prayer. The only combatant of fear.

Arriving at my gate, gum, water, coffee, and banana in tow, I strolled through the magazine aisle, realizing I may or may not be doing some consumer therapy. Normally, I'd get three. Vogue, Instyle, and Glamour. Fall fashion secrets, people! Great hair, great shoes, an inspiring editorial piece, and the latest celebrity novel craze. But as I looked at those polished faces, the colors that were hot for Autumn, and the boots I'd probably cut off a pinky toe for, I thought- how ironic. I'll be in Haiti for the duration of the fall. Not only am I not taking boots, I'm not taking a hairdryer, and what's more, the whole idea of fall fashion doesn't apply to this place. And so I marched on- one step at a time. Take what you need, Elizabeth. And for the first time, in my whole life, I didn't buy a magazine for a flight.

If you heard me speak at the ECW or the Sunday morning forum, I'd go out on a limb and say, you may have been inspired- because the people I work with are so inspiring, and it's been a life changing thing, this time in Haiti. And maybe you even gave a donation to support me in my mission. If you're one of those people, I bet you're wondering why you gave money to support some bimbo who is grappling with magazine purchases at the RIC, but read on, people, for there are highs and lows in everyone's walk, and there are battles- both small and large. baby steps, if you will.

In fact, I'd like to belabor the magazine point even longer than I already have. If you know me well, you know that in some ways, it's ironic that I'm working in Haiti. I am a material person. My parents still talk about how they had to limit the amount of BAGS I could take to church on a Sunday morning. Not 'dainty pink little girl purse' bags, but Ukrop's grocery bags. I've always surrounded myself with the things that I like. Pretty things, and shoes, keep sakes, and boxes. Old photos and drawings. Letters, and jewelry. I am my grandmother's girl, and while this has put me in a position to find beauty in everything I see, it's also made me a consumer. I like new clothes, I like pretty things. I like expensive dinners and extravagant parties. I don't like to miss a thing, and in fact, I like to buy something to remember it by.

In Haiti, I live in an alternate universe. I wear the same simple things, I don't dry my hair. I don't get pedicures. Hell, I rarely have electricity. My face looks exactly how it looks, and so on and so forth. There are no luxuries. You come, as you are, and you stay that way, or a little worse off. And it doesn't matter. It just doesn't. Because I can be this person too. Simple, and basic. Hard working, frugal.

When I get back from Haiti, I'll get a pedicure, and probably buy some new boots for Christmas, but in the mean time, I don't need a magazine to get there. And I can feel it. It's probably an obscured point for you all, and it's subtle.  A baby step.

A middle ground, between necessity and luxury. Something I've grappled with my entire life, and will continue to do so. The eternal extremist, I can live in Haiti with nothing, or I can live in Richmond with an insatiable appetite. But what makes me the happiest is moderation. And I have to fight for it. It isn't built into my bones. But fortunately, we are evolving creatures, and I know that I can pray to be the things I am not, and to not be the things that I am. I can try. And I can pray. The only combatant of excess.

Prayer. That is, in fact, all I've got for you tonight. I can't talk about Haiti yet. The sorrow or the joy. I don't want to write about missing C, or my parents. My friends, or the folk fest. Playing music at open mic on Thursday nights or the gym. In fact, I can't really believe that I ate at balliceaux on Saturday night, splitting a bottle of Malbec with my dad and talking about the seasonal decor.

I don't want to think about the next step, or the right step. the baby steps, or the decisions. Being on our own, being alone, being brave.

I just wanted to tell you about prayer. And how I've come to find it is the most important thing.

The fifth first time

Well,

It isn't any easier.

I'm not braver or stronger.

The cold water is in fact colder than I remember,

And the sixty one degree air clings to my skin and lays thick and damp on my sheets.

I'm afraid.

Of what, i'm not sure.

The eternal fretter, as my mother would say.

To know it's good to be here,

But to not know the why or the how

The future.

Anything.

God, a simple prayer tonight, because I've got nothing left.

Save me from myself, and my fears. Let me delight in your will, and walk in your way. 

I am trying, I am trying, and I just don't know.

Tomorrow is a new day, and I'm doing laundry. It is the greatest need. 

And I think to myself, Lord, surely, I don't need to be in Haiti to wash clothes.

And I think, I don't want to wash clothes. 

And I think, I am afraid. 

Of what? 

I pray.

That you are comfortable, safe, and no longer afraid.

And for the peace which passeth all understanding.

For everyone you blessed with your presence. 

On our knees (where else could we be)

For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom his whole family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge--that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

-Ephesians 3:14-21

Numerology in a season of giving

You're dense and systematic

The vein along your index finger

Bulges and you raise your eyebrows

As you point your hand towards me.

Ok, here is the thing, (you know.)

You tap my shoulder expectantly

A little boy. Excitement. The breathe clings to the notes in your voice.

The thing is. This man tells me. This old man. This man that is here and now. See, that's the thing, he says.

Were you listening? 

why

ok.

I want to talk of the difficult things. to speak about the reasons we crack and crumble.

it isn't the good, or even the unknown.

it's the misunderstood. the obstacles we face that we don't understand.

and I want to ask you, all of you.

to understand me.

and this thing I am trying to do.

Because I don't, and I need your help.

No. I need your faith.

Faith, and all of the unknown that comes with it.

The coolest day in August

And as the sweat dripped down my swollen and sticky face.

The salt and mascara carving the creases
and folds of rivers and lakes.

Pores and scars and motion. Lines.

Love.


The salt hit my lips, my tongue.

And those kind of heaving cries that convulse in your throat and strangle you.

Those low pitched moans that barely escape your lungs and as you feel them gush through your throat, you know somewhere,

That it isn't only you.

And love.

As I watched my sister lay her dog in the ground.

As I squeezed the moss underneath my bare feet and sweated. As I stared at her through sunshine and the furry haze of full eyes.

My dad dug the grave in the morning. And in the afternoon, when the clouds broke, and when the breeze lifted, we laid him in the ground.

And oh, love.

Arrange him just right. And as my dad's back ached, and the sweat and dirt filled the wrinkles in the back of his weighing head. I picked up a second shovel.

The soles of my feet collided with the steel. Stepping into the red clay, the roots and the grass. The worms and the rocks. Feel the clay beneath your toes. Warm and complete. Sultry and alive.

Step. Lift the shovel.

Help your sister.

Sweat and dirt.

And oh love.

What of it?

Time, and time, and time again.

The reason for living.

The pain that makes you wish it would stop.

And this year.

We walked from the creek to the grave. Over and over. Rocks from the creek bed to lay over his body.

We won't let anything happen to him.

Rocks. bend and lift. sweet moss beneath my feet.

And this year. The fourth person I've laid in the ground.

Oskar, and John, Mawmaw and now my sister's dog.

My sister's heart.

And the pain that comes from loving?

All of it. And none of it.

Everything.

Love.

Everything.

Oh, love.

Well, I wouldn't lie to you. There is a tremendous amount of pain in living.

A sorrow in being alive.

There's an ache in my bones and a longing for everything.

Just, all of it.

The past and the future, so understood.

Ligaments and tendons, stretching and creaking. Holding me together.

We tell stories of her, here, now.

We laugh and tears well up in the back of my throat. My head is sticky and my cheekbones throb.

We laugh and our eyes dull. Take a deep breathe, and push back the pain a little further.

We love you dearly Mawmaw.

Texas is not the same without you,

And neither am I.

The Arbuckles

My father's favorite place is somewhere between Norman, Oklahoma and Corinth, Texas. The arbuckles. A granite quarry. Stretches and expanses of highway, carved through slabs and jaunts of wild and amorphous rocky crags. We could build a house on top of here, he says.

The mesquite trees vie for attention, gripping the bends and breaks of the crumbling structures, they stretch their limbs to the sky, oblivious to the thick and dripping heat. to the way the blue quivers and weaves in the sunlight. To the way the clouds roll and disappear.

This place, he says.

Makes me so happy.

Fortune and veracity (blessings)

Traveling in Europe makes us feel lucky. And we notice. What luck, we exclaim.

That we are here. That we get to be here.

That, there are these things.

All of these things, and all around us.

Everywhere.

To see, and to feel. To experience.

The air in Venice, the night in Rome.

The way the light reflects off the Mediterranean and bounces onto the walls of Saint Tropez.

Where all the famous guys took their brushes.

Meanwhile,

Back here, it rains in Richmond.

And I tell myself,

Remember.

And think,

The rain that rinses my windshield and the air that smells like sunlight.

Blessings, fortune, and the sheer luck

of knowing ( and feeling)

our lives

Roma

We stopped on a bridge
You know the famous one?

And the fires lit up the sky

And we drank and we laughed

And we knew

That god wanted to show us

His love

Venezia

The world cracks and turns here, and we sway and we rock. The moss grows up and over the steps, they hide secrets in between the places the sunshine disappears.

There's a rhythm, there's a beat.

There's the march of the measured steps.

The pulls and pushes of that ignorant moon.

The cadences that only the past knows.

Lord, only God knows.

And we rock the boats and they lilt from side to side

They jostle and roll

A languished chest. Pounding. A giddy desire.

A slow and dredging, heart. beat.

And breathe.

And we throw our heads into the vulnerable breeze.

Into the spirit of things.

The stone, and the statues,

The bridges and the pillars.

The balconies, the spindly roots,

The swell of wine and the seasons that all feel alive.

And not a drop to drink.

Washing clothes in that white washer. Making coffee. Drawing a bath. Hand washing (soaking) a blouse.

Oh the wealth.

Oh the disregard.

Oh the presence, of the Lord.

Water, water.

Water.

Of us

I've had blue nails since I met you.
And if I hadn't had been there, and wanted to.

The night that it was,

And your quick conversation.

Your staggered wit and measured steps.

I watched you light your cigarette and rub your knee.

Watched your knuckles slide over and around the side of the bench you held up.

I heard myself laugh

And I knew

That I loved, the this stuff

These things, of us.

Even though we're not at Bonnaroo ( 6-16-2013)

Dear Dude,

It's not only about how much fun we have. How you're my favorite person. How we crack each other up. How we share our days when we walk through the back alleys of Birch Street, drinking Mavromatis swill and taking a minute to guess (and check) the exact temperature outside.

It's all of those things. But it's none of them too.

It's how you set a standard for my life.

As a father, as a friend. A husband, as a dreamer, a visionary. As a hard worker.

An eternal optimist.

A glass overflowing sense of humor

A brother and a son.

An intellectual.

Full of grace and humility.

Selfless and ever so devoted to your family.

I'm not scared of how high the bar is. Because I know I'm worth it. And I know it's out there.

That never settle for less joy.

That find comfort in God's love.

That love all children with abundance.

That seemingly endless enthusiasm for play.

That wake up, grateful for the day.

You. And all the skills you've given me.

A roadmap. And the foundation for it.

Happy Father's Day.

You are SO loved.

Dizzy.

Oh sigh (relief)

I write and I write and I write and it all comes out. There's no way to tell if anything that's up for grabs is any good. If all of it. If none. It comes out and I lay it on the table. And I want to be read.

I read. And I can't breathe in enough of the stuff. I want them all to be my words. Not that I wrote them, or maybe I did, but I own them

And I know them.

There's too much all the time.

And I'm it too.

There's no way, just no way to tell if it's any absolutely any good

But I hope that isn't the case

I write,

All of it,

Out on the table,

And I hope it isn't the case.

June

The decision to quit. The one to try. And that amorphous thing. That aching and aging in your wrists. In the bottom of your belly. In the twists and turns of the sighs and whispers that summer brings. This is the growing up. These are the matters at hand. The hot eyes and sticky lashes. The burning mornings. And all of the music.

Ha!

Traffic lights in Haiti are optional. And it seems lanes are kind of fuzzy suggestions as well. Cars weave and drive directly down the middle of the whitelines. Turn indicators seem to be non existent, and I'm yet to find someone who wears a seatbelt.

The honking system is also an enigma. A move out of the way, I'm changing lanes, I'm coming around the curve, I'm accelerating towards pedestrians, I'm hopping a curb, I'm dodging two motorcycles to avoid falling in a pothole.

And on Sunday night, I drove myself from Petionville to Fermathe.

ME.

Horn blaring, almost killing us only a couple of times.

Life.

Always a gamble.

And worth the experience.

If only to say,

Gadé, mwen té di ou sa.

Take that.

Junior

Steve

Josephine

Dieuford

Jean Rodaine

A lullaby

Anvan lannuit fini rivé

Nou konnin nou peche anpil, Bondié papa nou. Pou nou kapab dômi trankil, padonnin nou.

1. Anvan lannuit fini rivé, Bondié papa nou
Nou tout isit nou rasanblé, pou priyè ou.

2. Nan linivè ou sé sèl Mèt, Bondié Papa nou. Sé ou-minm sèl nou rékonèt, nan péyi nou.

3. Ou té banou yon bon jounin, Bondié papa nou. Fè nou pasé yon bon souaré, protéjé nou.

4. Ou té sékouri nou byin vit, Bondié papa nou. Tankou manmam fè pou pitit, mèsi bokou.

5. Lajounin-a pasé byin vit, Bondié papa nou. Pa kité nou mouri sibit, nan somèy nou.

6. Lè n-a mouri, tanpri souplé, Bondié papa nou. Fè n-al joui nan létènité, pran nou ak ou.

Language barriers won't keep me (our hearts)

He just keep calling me a liar. Rete la. Izabet. I said I was leaving at 4 and he grabbed my wrist to look at my watch.

You live here, zibet.

Monti. You lie. Bi monti. You're giving me lies.

Rete la.

Izabet.

Yon ké pou ou (a heart for you)

Ecri sa la. Izabet renmen Steve. Pou tou ton.

And then one thing.

Izabet.

'Map cry.'

Crea.

'I'm crying.'

Me too, Steve.

I love you.

'Pale.' (Don't go)

A big door

'And this is the key, elizabet.

Are you listening?

Because it's not a small key.

It's a big, big key.

How can I say?

It's a huge key?!

Like the biggest you will ever meet.

To love.

To really love.

Someone.

Some place.

Jou apre jou.

I don't know so well how I can say this an anglais.

I'm not always sure white people meet this kind of love.

Oh, I can say, to love like this, day after day, after day.

It's a big project.

To build a house. It's hard. It's really hard.

But to come to work.

To work all day, every day,

On that house?

It's not hard.

It makes sense.

If you're building a house, you never stop working on it.

And we think, because we build pieces of love, that we are complete?

It's not true.

Are you ready?
I have the big key for you.

Try and love. Better than you did yesterday.

Everyday.

This is what Jesus wanted for us.

And he knew we would try.

And he said he would help us.'

-Alcindor June 5, 2013

Yes!

I got a note from one of the employees here. They recommend that I date one of the teachers.

Juvenile, silly, and sweet.

But here's the fact of the matter.

I could read

The entire thing.

Sweeter than honey

In the heavens God has pitched a tent for the sun.
It is like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber,
like a champion rejoicing to run his course.
It rises at one end of the heavens
and makes its circuit to the other;
nothing is deprived of its warmth.

Psalm 19 v. 5-6

Respect, man.

I don't miss hot water anymore. I'm sure I will, once I remember what I'm missing.

I thought I would.

For a long time.

But I think it's like the ocean, like the beach.

You pass over that final stretch of bridge, the air smells like salt and sand and the sun turns the little hairs on the back of your hand white.

And then you're there. The dunes burn your toes and the reeds whistle.

Ahh, you missed this place.

I don't remember what it's like to go out and expect to stay clean.

I splatter the back of my calves with mud, and I sweat and stumble from the moment I think about leaving the house.

I don't remember why I have more than one of the same thing. Why I'd buy a deodorant when there's one on my dresser. Why I'd walk outside and ruin my socks, thinking I'll just get new ones.

But I remember small pleasures. I don't doubt I'll always want them. And I'm not convinced they're a bad thing.

Pedicures and walks with my dog.

Special dresses for special occasions.

Intentional. Purposeful. Use. Of the blessings I have been provided with.

I don't want to be a lazy haver anymore.

If I'm going to have, anyway.

If I'm not going to walk away from all my earthly possessions,

I want to know it. I want to deal with it. Every day, all the time.

Consciousness.

You are blessed.

And I'll remember this place.

The handshakes and the earned nods of appreciation.

Affirmation.

You are here, with us,

And finally,

That's ok.

What's in a name

My father has always called me Dizzy. In fact, I can't remember the last time he addressed me as Elizabeth. The only time I hear my name is when he is speaking to other people, and it always rings so formal.

'Yes, my daughter Elizabeth...'

And so on and so forth.

Sometimes I hear it in passing and it makes me wonder, who is that person he is describing?

But I'm not Elizabeth to him, I'm dizzy.

And bless my sweet momma, but whenever she meets my friends, there will always be the inevitable: 'leuhzbuth'

'Oh your mom calls you lizbeth, that's a neat name.'

'No.'

'Oh, I just heard her say that.'

'No, she said Elizabeth.'

And while neither of my parents call me Elizabeth- there's always the inevitable conversation with new acquaintances.

'Oh, so you're Elizabeth.'
'Hi, nice to meet you.'
'So, do you go by Liz or Elizabeth?'

To which I always think, but hold my tongue (now), we've spoken three sentences and two of them were introductory phrases in which I said Elizabeth...

For years, people have made me feel like my name was an inconvenience.

Like it simply took too much time to say, to go through the whole rigmarole, and for Pete's (not Peter's) sake, why can't you have a shorter name.

Staunch and authoritative in my 7 year old personality, I hunkered down, and prepared for the fight. I was named Elizabeth, dammit, and whether or not I liked my name, was going to keep it, at any rate.

And so, positioned severely in opposition to this three letter whisper of the name that Elizabeth could be. I felt an urgency and a rebellion. Not Liz. NOT Liz.

And that's nothing- absolutely nothing against the name Liz. It's simply a decision- a different name, and not mine.

But of course, there are also the people who don't ask at all. You find yourself introducing yourself as Elizabeth and five minutes later an IPA is being slung down the bar for you and someone in a group of your 'new best friends' saying, hey everybody, this is Liz...

Different than having called me by the wrong name.. 'Hey everybody, this is Sarah,' this hits a nerve.

Not only did you hear my name when I told it to you, you heard, and went on to make an executive decision that either you, me, or both of us prefer that my name be Liz, so let's just skip the details and have a beer.

But in spite of having this profound aversion to my being, well, renamed...

Nicknames have followed me my entire life - some adamantly against my will, and some I grew into with acceptance.

Dizzy, Eliz, E-girl, Biz, Bita, Eli, Whit. Little Bit. Beth. Lizzy, Biff, Eliza Jane, (thank you Uncle Tom)

And in Haiti some colorful ones.

Queen (Elizabeth). Elizabet, Isabelle, betta, and so forth.

Names are such powerful things.

And it's not as if these names have come and gone. They grow. They're how I'm known as to those people.

And I, well I'm such an Elizabeth.

Named for my family. Proud of my name.

Never shortening it or changing it myself.

Always Elizabeth.

And all of these nicknames?

All the ways people call me?

Our relationships, our stories.

Nick names, and loved ones.

I think names are important things, maybe one of the most important things.

And maybe you can change them yourself,

but maybe you're always who you were named, and you're always who you are-to the people who love you.

To the people who call you.

A love immeasurable

'These kids love you, and speak to you with their hearts-- when you speak with the heart, you cannot stop it.'

-Sendo, May 29, 2013

Avek soléy

The summer solstice came and went
so we gathered in the streets
to watch the sun disappear behind the trees

The longest day came and went
The days grow shorter now

A life so spent
---

Don't you dare think
of it

That summer sun,
going along

And for me,

The trees in the horizon

Holding onto you forever.

- E. Whitmire 5/29/13

Variation on a theme

'Thank you my life long afternoon
late in this spring that has no age
my window above the river
for the woman you led me to
when it was time at last the words
coming to me out of mid-air
that carried me through the clear day
and come even now to find me
for old friends and echoes of them
those mistakes only I could make
homesickness that guides the plovers
from somewhere they had loved before
they knew they loved it to somewhere
they had loved before they saw it
thank you good body hand and eye
and the places and moments known
only to me revisiting
once more complete just as they are
and the morning stars I have seen
and the dogs who are guiding me'

-w.s merwin

John

John died on a Saturday. He was buried in the night, where fresh dirt and flowers lay.

An unmarked gravestone.

I don't suppose I'll ever wrap my mind around

The what ifs and the how comes

Of this place

But what I do know

That God is here.

In the happiest man I have ever met.

In the gentlest soul.

In the quietest ponderer, and in the biggest spirit.

In the hardest worker, and the sweetest smile.

I've known these faces

And I'll tell you something. On Monday morning,

As the sweat came down my face, and my neck was hot with the beat of the sun.

As the tears mingled and singed my lips. I gazed up towards the sky.

I looked up at the passing clouds.

They moved so fast, I felt alive.

And a 21 year old boy in a wheelchair held my hand.

He held my hand, and I cried.

How can they

'How can they spend hours doing that.'

'That's so hard to see. Really sad.'

I glance to where the girls are looking.

Teenagers and little ones have made a narrow soccer goal out of rocks. Older guys are sitting on the hill, drinking beers and laughing.

The kids line up from a distance and try to shoot straight enough to get the ball through the goal. They're betting pennies.

They're playing.

And I can't think how many times my dad picked a spot. We picked three rocks. Hit the tree, hit the trashcan at the James river, hit that rock.

Golf on my uncle's ranch to the closest tree. See who can get a grape in someone's mouth first. Everybody plays.

Boogy boarding at the beach, my uncle, my dad, my sister. See who can float furthest in on the sand. No cheating. Catch the best wave. Sabotage, but don't get caught.

Throwing handfuls of jelly fish. Swim down and squeeze my ankle. Pretend you're something that bites.

My dad and his brother rough housing in the surf, the last to be called to come inside.

It's time for dinner.

Play a game of catch, if you make a bad throw you get a point, if you drop the ball, you get a point, drops is the name of the game, and HE is the sole arbiter. Points are bad.

'It's sad that they have nothing to play with'

I follow their gaze and see a couple of friends, sword fighting with a stick and a rolled up piece of cardboard.

I think about chasing dad around the house with a hairbrush and a whisk. I think about him running down the halls of the church ahead of me to hide and jump out. I think about being 26, and knowing from a mile away that he's hiding, and where he is.

I think about when Brie locked him in the closet when he hid in there and then we pretended not to know where he was.

I think about cops and robbers and slap fighting on a points system.

I think about camping and fishing and rock hopping and

All those head injuries.

making his daughters laugh when he got hurt.

I think about the man who taught me that joy is not material.