some things

here are some things. By now, I practically look normal when walking uphill. It's more difficult than one might think. Looking normal, not walking. How do women carry coolers on their heads? How do they carry open sided boxes of twenty, horizontal bottles of coke? There are so many beautiful men here. Are my lungs turning black from exhaust fumes? Will the muscles in my shoulders ever relax again? The devil is real.

And then, here is me.

I feel an unincapsulated freedom here. I lack self awareness. Or, self consciousness, I suppose.

There aren't social stigmas to adhere to, or at least I don't know about them.  and no one to compare me with. (compare myself to)

It's funny and liberating and I feel an inward ease. Like the feeling when you fall asleep in the hot sun on the beach. You're baking and sweat drips down your face to where your cheek meets the towel and disappears into the fibers. into the sand. you've had a corona, maybe two, and definitely three cups of coffee. woozy from fighting the waves, sun drenched, and salty, you're reading- but you can't stay awake.

When  you wake up, everyone has gone in. The sun is receding, and the wind is cold. You try and pull the last rays under your skin. How did it get cold? your skin is hot to the touch, and you feel beautiful.

You will, of course, go inside to look in the mirror, and find your hair matted and sticking in incomprehensible angles. the golden gleam you had thought would have coated your skin is a vivid and splotchy strawberry red. your swimsuit is covered in sand. You have drool stains on your cheek, and the imprint of your towel on your head. It's not dinner time yet, so you make a coffee, try and regain your senses, throw on some dry clothes, and plop down in a chair on the deck.

the wind has subsided, off the waves, and you reclaim the sun. if you close your eyes, it's there again. everything is beautiful. your hair is golden in the sun. the backs of your eyelids are pleasant and pink. The rush and roll of the waves is comforting. You can hear laughter, and smell the sea.

And in this place?

In this place-you can finally leave yourself. where you should be. small, and insignificant. In this place-outside of yourself-here, is what matters.

Creation. And you're a part of it.

the bliss of solitude

I just want to write a story. Something that is bigger than myself. Something so true. And something so make believe. There's got to be a little fiction in life. There's got to be stories. There's got to be the expanse of the universe. The stars and the planets. The expanses of sky that stretch out beyond the sand you dig your toes into. beyond the flapping of the waves. beyond the end of the earth. until your eyes fall out of focus. they blur, and dry up. you squint, and they water. milligrams of salt water. it's mechanical. but your mind wanders. and then you're crying.  you were already crying. but now you're crying. when I was little, we read poems. we memorized them. other people's margins. other people's places. make believe. and it was real, too. real to the characters. real to me. make believe. But I have known the burbling Jabberwocky. I've been where the borogroves grow. I've known Wordsworth and Whitman. I knew their words before I knew myself. And we all catch up. I think I was six when I told you that I lay on my couch, in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude. I knew that poem. I saw those daffodils. And now? Now, I've had my heart chewed  up and spit out. I moved to Europe, by myself. I traveled to Cadiz  all alone, and wandered on the beaches for hours. Collecting sea glass, the blue ones, please. And thinking of you. 20 years later. And I see the daffodils that we talked about, so long ago. And I remember.

Well, what do you think?

And what are we doing? The pastor asked. The sermon had gone on and on.

I understood in pieces. In fragments.

He raised his voice and he pointed to the sky.

We're not waiting.

We're preparing.

We are preparing.

Pou Jezi.

Lap vini.

And what do want to be doing?

When Jesus comes.

Preparing.

Live your life in preparation, he said.

Because, what, if not this, is the point.

In the quiet

mwen pa konnen

when you don't have the clothes to put on.

when you can't dress up and go out.

when you aren't your social calendar.

the way you look and the people you go places with.

when there aren't distractions. hobbies.

when you're only who you are

when you're alone

and there's no one to talk to,

and no where to go

no plans to hide behind

and no getting ready to preserve the time.

does it stand up?

does my life stand up?

or is it all the things that I do to fill the time.

Ten fingers, ten toes, everybody knows

This is Charlie. I spent the morning with him. 5 months old, he is currently living with a woman who runs a clinic beside st. Joseph's. We call her mama V.

She took him from his mother several weeks ago.

She is going to keep him until she is able to take him to the states for life saving prosthetic treatment and therapy.

We're told babies come in all shapes and sizes. Red and yellow black and white.

Look at that sweet smile.

Those of you who know me well know that I am a baby fanatic. And this guy was a charmer.

He was also born without arms or legs.

When Vanessa took him, he was severely malnourished and feverish.

His mother did the best she can, but what can she do for a limbless infant. Her husband is dead and she has four older children.

She wants to give him up for adoption, but Vanessa urged her to keep him, vowing help, and that he could live with her family.

And I wonder. Holding this sweet baby through church and into the afternoon so that Vanessa could run some errands.

I wonder if I would be capable of raising a baby with out arms and legs.

I wonder if I would want to put my baby up for adoption.

I wonder if the grief and guilt would kill me.

Sometimes it's hard to imagine we deserve God's love.

And sometimes I take it when I know I don't.

Saint Michel

Michael has two shirts. Maybe three. Michael eats after everyone else in the house has finished. I watch guests go back and forth. For seconds, for thirds. They never notice him. He waits until they've long left to take his portion, from what remains.
Michael wakes up before the sun rises. He prays in the darkness.
Michael defers all questions about the home to Bill, or to Walnes.

If you didn't know, you might think he was on the janitorial staff, a minimum wage employee in America- an extra set of hands.


But that's just it.

All he is. All

that Michael is-

Is hands.

His hands, his actions.

His money- always where his mouth is.

Tight lipped and gracious.

Holy.

The summer day

'Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open,
and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention,
how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down
in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last,
and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?'

-Mary Oliver

Ale Ale Oxen Free

My mother tells me that my blog has lost some of its truth. That I know people are reading. That I need to write for myself. This is what I know.

I think I live in fear.

I fear, I live in fear.

I live in spite of myself, I try and do what I would do if I was fearless.

But I am not.

I'm raked with fear. With insecurity. With what ifs and back thens.

I hold on to the years. The years past. The space between what I loved. What I miss. What has happened.

Getting sick, people moving, breaking up, graduations, death.

All of these pillars, I hoard them.

I do not let go.

Of who I loved, and of what I miss.

Everything into the catalogue- everything under my skin. Everything in Haiti.

Everything there is to do, everything I don't know.

It's too much.

It's always, too much.

There is freedom in Christ,

But where?

ou merite sa

The cows in Haiti are tied up and tethered to stakes in the ground. Their ropes are no more than a stone's throw  away. What they eat, and where they go, it isn't up to them. Their locations greatly affect their lot in life as well. Some are posted on rocky crags on the side of the mountain. Some on piles of trash. The grass has worn thin. Some cows lay pinned between streets and piles of trash, their ribs promenading beneath ragged, sun burnt skin. The cows in Haiti make me cry. Their eyes are desperate. And what's worse- they're always so close to grass. to sustenance. so close, and unable to get there. I'm filled with rage. I don't understand why. It makes no sense. And there's nothing they can do about it. So they suffer

And what of these cows? born here, born to their masters, born to the inevitability of their situation. there is no room for growth, there is only luck. Luck, good luck, and lots of it. 

if you're lucky. 

if you're worth it?

we've all grown up with the tried and true boot straps routine. 

the self made man. 

you can be anything you put your mind to. 

Here I am. 25, an optimist, a believer in Christ, and generally speaking, a glass overflowing kind of woman, and I'm here to tell you

there are mantras that don't apply to everyone. 

mantras that we're familiar with. that we put into action. in our homes, with our friends. 

standards. that we hold ourselves to. that we hold everyone to.

Sitting for hours on the ride home from Jacmel yesterday, too crowded to shift my weight. to adjust a foot. swaying and fidgeting. sighing and rolling my head between my shoulders, breathing in fumes and exhaust, I looked out the window and saw a woman. 

She was probably in her late fifties. She wore a frayed pink and white dress. So worn, the cloth had grown thin and transparent in places. The sleeves were tattered and she wore shoes too small, stepping on the backs of the heels, she crouched on a pile of charcoal. She had made it, or she had bought it. it was her husband's or it was her son's. She was selling it. The road was lined with people selling the stuff. an avenue of filth. of blackness. of charcoal. 

who was going to buy charcoal from her? 

i think she knew. she propped on elbow on one knee, her other leg sprawling down the expanse of the mound. 

i looked at her. and she looked back into my eyes

tethered to a stake, sitting on a pile of trash. 

born to her master

But me?

I chose to be here. I tethered myself to this place. I tether myself to God. 

I tether myself to God, and I try to hold on.

In Haitian, we say thank you. 'Mesi.'

In Haitian, we say you are welcome. 'Ou Merite sa.'

The literal translation- you are worth it. 

What lies in our worth? and what are we made of? 

I want to tell every woman I see in the streets in Haiti. That they are worth it. 

and that I know. 

Boots in Haiti don't come with straps. 

no matter how hard you pull. 

Flap your wings

There are hummingbirds here. But more on that later.

On Fridays I travel down the mountain by myself. From wings to the market. Market to a bus. A bus to the petionville market. I weave and wander through petionville. Past the blue church, left at the man who always squeezes my cheek. I go the long way around the mototaxi drivers that insist on blowing kisses at me and cat calling.

Take a left, avoid getting squashed by a bus or a wheelbarrow, by a motorcycle doing the same thing. Don't knock anything off of anyone's head. I pass through the flower market and by the vegetables and produce stands.

Green and lush as far as the eye can see, the air smells drinkable. Cilantro and thyme, rosemary and mint. It's my favorite part of Friday.

Where most of the time the air is filled with exhaust and the smell of flame. Of salt and heat. Of dirt and sweat and grime.

This dip around the corner, beyond the blue church and through the herb market. I try not to get run over as my senses are serenaded by clean and sweet Mother Earth.

Onto a tap tap and down Delmas, screaming thank you at the top of my lungs when we arrive at my stop, and then using my scantily clad, bossy creole to announce (authoritatively as I can muster), that thank you very much, I live here, and I know the ride only costs 10 gourde, so fork over that 90 gourde buddy, if you please, (please?)

But in all honesty, I'm starting to love the solitary commute. To dress and sweat like a Haitian. I sway my hips and I wrinkle my nose when we laugh. I laugh at everything that anyone thinks is funny. Ever. As a matter of fact, I feel confident I'm often laughing at myself.

Crowded into a tap tap, 18 strong, everyone's going somewhere.

People seem relaxed and at ease. It's friday, and even Haitians enjoy going home for the weekend. Smashed into my row, I gaze out at the mountains. Pink cheeked and grinning, 1/19 the minority. There's banter and chit chat. Someone says something funny and someone in the back screams something back. There's the shaking of hands and the clasping of shoulders. Someone else mutters something and the laughter is uproarious.

I throw my head back and laugh.

After all, it's funny.

And we are all alive.

When I get to St. Joes, I stop on the way down the alley and buy a beer from my woman.

Favoritism and routine are rampant in Haiti, and I'm finding this a natural fit.

I buy a beer (two), and sit out on the roof. Maybe I pick up a novel, maybe I'm just amazed that in spite of the breeze, I can't feel the air on my skin.

It's the third day of lent, there are hummingbirds, all around us.

And I just want to throw my head back

And laugh.

Be my valentine

There was only one Valentine's day I cared about. I was in love with my college sweetheart. We had been best friends for over a year and fell in love in one of those stupid, unyielding kind of ways. Never having been the type to mourn the holiday, I simply hadn't cared about it until that year. Well, not cared may be too strong a phrase. As far back as I can remember, my father has bought flowers and Godiva chocolates for my sister, mother, and myself. My mom's box was always bigger, but the joke was on him, as she only cared for the dark chocolate, and would dole out the remaining chocolates to Brie and me. (Sorry, dad).  My mother would send packages to college- gift cards, fabulous high heels, a special treat. You get the idea. I'll defend not being spoiled in a subsequent post...

On February 12th, 2010, in the thick of this relationship, in the thick of college, in the thick of self absorption- my mother's father died. That said, we would all be flying to Texas to be with our family, to honor my grandfather, and to attend the funeral. Of course. Of course, I was heart broken for the loss of my Pepi. I was sad for my mother. Sad for our family. But I was also sad for myself. Sad to miss the opportunity to love this man that I loved so dearly. A day to show him how much I loved him. To celebrate our love. 

Whisked away to Texas, unable to celebrate Valentine's day, I am ashamed to think about how disappointed I was. Not because I regret the love we had shared, and not because I missed the events that valentine's day can bring. 

I'm ashamed that I reserved my profession of love for a single day. Ashamed that I didn't tell him how much I loved him, every single day. Ashamed that I missed the bigger picture. 

The bigger picture?

The loss of our Ewing patriarch. A grandmother left alone for the first time in over 60 years. A mourning mother and dear aunts and uncles. 

The bigger picture?

My first love. 

The bigger picture?

If we could make every day Valentine's day, if we were able to celebrate our love for somebody else, every single day. 

What would it look like? 

Today, I ran around the kids' house, handing out fun size packets of M&Ms. Some kids screamed and dramatically tore open the bag, ripping it in half, sending a rainbow of candy scattering accross the floor. Some kids looked bewildered at the packets and handed them back to me. Carefully opening the packets, I would slip a single candy between their lips and onto their tongues. It would take a moment, and then, all of a sudden, in a burst of bemusement, they would lock eyes with me and grin, wild eyed, expectant, joyful, their tongues a rainbow of chocolate and candy shells. 

It took me two hours to make sure that every child had approximately a mini-bag's worth of candy. Walking down the stairs, I realized I had forgotten Junior. 

Junior is probably autistic, and was abandoned at a very young age. Years ago, he was found living feral in the woods. He doesn't like human contact, doesn't participate in the programs at Wings, and seldom can be found. The staff keep him clean, clothed, and fed, but for the most part, that's as far as it goes. 

With sticky rainbow hands, I went in search of this little nymph. He tends to be found sitting on the balcony of the dormitory, enjoying the sunlight. Today, I found him in his bed, both hands inside his shirt, fully covered by a blanket. 

Trying not to startle him, I gently spoke his name. no reaction. I waited and approached him slowly as human contact provokes panic. Edging towards him, my m&ms a beacon, I finally sat down on the rim of the bunk beside him, and tapped his shoulder. He barely raised his head. crouched in a position incomprehensible to me, he was a jumble of limbs wrapped up in a minuscule ball. When he raised his face, I was able to put an M&M to his lips. Acknowledging that he enjoyed it, he began a somewhat guttural purr, and looked at me. I put several more in his mouth, by this time he had taken an upright position and gestured to me with one hand in a come hither-esque motion. in simple creole I asked him to take them from my hand. 

First, he bent his head over my hand and took a mouthful from my palm. Humbled, and afraid, I felt ashamed that it called to mind the feeling of feeding a wild animal. 

Coaxing him upright, and further away from my hand, I asked him again, 

Junior, it's okay, take one from my hand. 

He looked at me and let out a strangled laugh. with two fingers he successfully managed to get a solitary yellow M&M from my palm to his mouth. He smiled. 

It was the first time we had ever touched. 

The bigger picture?

There's no excuse not to love. 

There's too much of it. to take. to give. to experience. 

And Valentine's day, well, it simply isn't enough. 

discipline (lent day 1)

well, I won't lie to you.

coming up the mountain today was familiar, though no less difficult. and isn't that the way? if something is foreign, it's difficult because it's new. if something is similar, it's difficult because it's changed. and if something is familiar- well, i'm finding out that this opens up a new realm of theoretical baggage to attend to.

the word that rocks around in my mind- supposed.

this isn't supposed to be like this, or this thing is supposed to be different.

am i supposed to be here?

I'm not supposed to feel like this, and so on and so forth.

it's a futile phrase if you ask me. all it does is stir up jars of fret and frenzy. panic and regret.

so in this lenten reflection, the first day of Lent, I don't have much for you. I don't know if i'm supposed to be here, just that I am.

And Haiti, is what my dad told me over a game of ping pong last week.

Haiti is the third world. and it feels pointless because it is the third world. there's just THAT much going wrong, doing any amount of right, well, it just doesn't add up.

But this morning I walked downstairs and was greeted by no less than 15 hugs.

And that, well, it adds up to a whole lot of 'supposed tos'

( _______ )

The seasons have changed.

Women carry watermelons on their heads and men are selling sugar cane out of crotchety wheelbarrows. They crouch on corners, weaving hammocks, and sit underneath palms, waiting out the heat.

And I have changed, also.

It's subtle. And I feel it in small victories and conquered fears.

I felt it in New York, when a mission team flocked by me, wearing safari gear and comparing shorts that masquerade as pants with a zipper option.

I felt it when I arrived in port-au-prince, by myself, for the first time.

Different than being left, arriving alone hosts its own array of possibilities for failure.

For danger.

And inevitably, for fear.

The airport has been renovated, and when the plane taxied, I functioned in survival mode. Surgical, mechanical, heightened senses, and a general separation from myself.

What do I need to do, next.

One. Step. At. A. Time.

Get your carry-ons, don't forget your guitar, off the plane, across the tarmac, follow the Haitians like breadcrumbs. Passport?

Ok.

Through customs, into the baggage claim, get a cart, get your bags, navigate the exit, avoid having 13 airport 'officials' put their pinky on your cart and demand something in return.

Bags in tow, an elderly employee shimmied up to me, meekly mentioning that I had three bags and two arms, in very soft spoken English.

Yes. I'll take you!

An internal proclamation, as if I just declared who was my best friend in kindergarten.

A victory. (Of sorts)

Following my guide, it was all I could do not to hold to the back of his t-shirt, like I used to do with my dad when we ran through the haunted house at Ashland Berry Farm. In both cases, there's the slight possibility that I overreacted, but in either case, fear is fear, people!

Out the door. And this is when my composure falters. Everyone is wearing red shirts. Everyone is telling me that they're my taxi. Pulling on my arm, and when I turn to ask my man to do something, he asks for his tip, telling me he doesn't go outside.

Breathe.

Taking rein of my cart, I remember my animal planet predator/prey protocol.

No sudden motions, Elizabeth. Slowly retreat back towards the wall. Don't make any sudden gestures. No eye contact! But then how will I find him?!

Him. My driver. Where is my driver. It's 12:54, I told them to send a driver at 1:15, and I can't go back in the airport!

Then, a blue shirted man approaches me. His creole is gruff and in broken English he says 'hello, it's me!'

Ah... Relief... then doubt.... then relief.. I'm walking and Haitians are swarming all around, telling me it isn't him, it is him, they're with him, come this way, here's your ride.

Starting to panic that I don't recognize this man, nor his associates, a hand reaches out to me and grabs my wrist.

'Hello, my friend, boss, it's me. I've been waiting for you. You didn't see?'

Gathering myself, (and possibly breathing for the first time,) I look up into a familiar face.

Wide-nosed, wrinkly. A toothy grin and one arm.

A spray of confused conversation, a crescendo of angst, I'm clinging to this one armed angel, and he says,

'My friend, just give them something small so that they go away.'

Gladly.

He's always been the man to navigate our bags to our vehicle. I know this face.

He's holding a green piece of paper, the size of his palm.

Elzabet Witmir
St. Joseph's.

'I'm so happy to see you, my friend.'

'No. I'm happy to see you.'

(And why didn't I see you before?)

'Were you looking for me, my friend?'

'I couldn't see you.'

(Fear)

'No, but you found me!'

(Victory)

The war within

I'm a consumer.

There's no way around it. I can't avoid it.

It's staring me in the face.

Piles of clothes, a bathroom in distress, a yes pile, a no pile, an 'I-want-to-bring-this-even-though-it's-frivolous' mountain. A car full of coffee mugs and debree.

Disorder.

It's 11:22 pm. The minutes struggle and I wrinkle my forehead and amble around my room in quarter pivots and circles.

This thing and that. I bought these sandals and where are my malaria pills.

How many books am I bringing? 8

And so on and so forth.

I'm weighed down by my things.

And I did it to myself.

Things to keep me safe? Things to make me comfortable? Things to protect me, to entertain me? To sooth and to heal?

Things.

And what, if any of it, is real?