A quiet vigil

Tonight I pressed my forehead against the airplane window. That thin partition. Plastic. Cool against my aching head, I passively watched the concrete acres where the airplanes live. Blue and green lights blur and oranges and yellows flash in the periphery. The planes sidled and moseyed in the darkness. In the deep abyss. Some menacing, some awkward and dawdling. Sharks. They crept along without effort. The way only a shark can propel itself. Gaining momentum without the flapping of gummy feet on the pavement.

I can't believe it. These planes.

We can go anywhere in the entire world.

But I looked down as we crept into the night sky, highways and lights. Dots on a map. Lightbulbs on commercial offices and baseball fields.


Ants in a sandbox.

And we think, that because we can go anywhere, that we know more?

And the mystery of things. Tell me of that.

The moon. That gaping and stupid white face.

The sound of the ocean. And that feeling when you can hear the roar and rush of waves in the night.

The hairs that stand up on the back of your neck when you're afraid.

When you're overwhelmed with feeling.

We can go anywhere, and we can know. Anything? The Internet. We can look up anything we want to in the world.

But I got on that plane, tapped my forehead against the thin plastic. I don't know how a plane works.

Don't know this pilot. Don't know.

And we have the science to know. The information at our fingertips. Was it in my hands?

Is anything?

Today I came from port-au-prince to Miami- and I didn't speak to a single person in passing.

I looked up from my book in the terminal and counted no less than 18 people on electronic devices. Gadgets.

We're going all over the world

And we're getting smaller and smaller.

Everyone is safe in their sense of things.

But when the lights go out.

When you're sitting in a room in the evening sunlight, the power is out and the water is cold. The language is foreign and no one cares about all the rest of the things that we've told ourselves. told each other. the us that we have ascribed to.

When we're left alone with ourselves, and the mystery of things.

Sacred heart

I skipped church on Palm Sunday.

To go to the beach.

I think it's the first time I've ever missed a Palm Sunday service.

Even last year, I was in Haiti, and was delightfully surprised to find that we marched with palms.

That unlike Santa Claus, Jesus does make it to the third world in one piece.

And despite language barriers, he marches into Jerusalem, and we throw palms at his feet.

But today. I'm in a car. We're lulling through traffic, and I hear people, raising their hands to the heavens and pressing their lungs with their praises to God.

And I had thought to myself,

I'm leaving on Tuesday, and I've been working so hard... I need a break.

I deserve this.

I deserve a break from church?

As we drive, I don't feel good. I feel empty and decomposed. Selfish even.

Not necessarily because I missed the literal process of sitting in a church service,

But mostly because, on this morning.

So many years ago.

Jesus woke up,

And processed into a city.

Knowing all the while he was going to die

For me.

And I woke up,

Thinking I deserved a day at the beach.

love unknown, known.

I've got a lot of thoughts rolling around in my head. Normally, when I sit down to write, they're cordial, and timely. They politely align themselves in my brain, and introduce themselves to the page with a leisurely confidence. But right now, I've got a head cold, every article of clothing that I brought with me is dirty and (or) wet, and my feet have become so rough and callused that I'm genuinely considering switching pedicure places so as to avoid judgement, but hear me out. 

It's the first day of spring. And while we're in the rainy season here in Haiti  for the most part the change is negligible. I hear it gets unbearably hot in August, but I've got west Texas in my blood, and part of me thinks that we'll just see about that. 

Yesterday I visited an orphanage down the road in Fermathe. Run by an American guy in his late sixties- I accidentally met Paul when I was wondering aimlessly through the halls of the home. The home is large, and houses about 80 orphans ranging from babies to sixteen year olds.  I had brought a couple kiddos from Wings to play soccer, and after loosing them onto the cement battle field, a range of mugwamps and rapscallions against these unknown giants, I watched them tentatively meet, diverge into teams, and began passing the dense blue ball that we'd brought as a token of peace. 

When I felt sure we were safe from attack or ridicule, and that the curiosity was congenial, I began wandering in search of the babies I heard crying. That's when I found Paul. I heard a huge racket coming from down the hallway on the second floor. The building is a jungled maze. Kids are scrambling all over the place. Dressing dolls, throwing balls against the wall, sloshing buckets of water that probably weigh more than them. I turned the corner to discover the source of the noise, and was met by a roomful of kids. A pile, if you will, of about twenty kiddos. all converging on a boombox, I could only make out the hands that held it. They were white. 

Paul was buried under his kids. I liked him already. Originally a furniture restoration guy from Brooklyn, we instantly found common ground when I told him I was an artist, and from Richmond, and we both loved Caravati's Salvage Yard.  It is, indeed, a small world. 

As we walked and talked. As we wove through the path of the children, they were all doing something. Doing something, with nothing. One slide, one soccer ball. Ratty clothes, and dirty and broken ceramic and cement buildings. Tattered and damp blankets and scalded tin pots. 

Playing marbles. Playing make believe. Casting shadow puppets. Sitting in the sunlight dropping leaves into a bucket of water. 

Picking up a two year old named keekee, I entered into that blissful state, that thing that only happens when you're talking to a baby. 

To someone that doesn't know the way a conversation should go. He blabbered on and on in creole, and I responded in patchy creole and English. 

Not entirely sure what was being said, but understanding him all the same, we strolled about. Look how high I can jump, and I like your watch. I have four teeth, and your hair is different than mine. Throw me, I can jump, I can fly. 

It was a sweet moment. kindred spirits.

 It's easy to love these little ones. 

But it isn't easy to understand.  

Setting him down, he ran down the hall and out onto another patio, a boy pulled a toy truck by a string. 

A boy pulled a toy truck, by a string. 

A boy pulled a bleach container, turned on it's side and hollowed out, with rocks in it's belly. The axles were broken-in-half pencils and the wheels were double stacked gallon drinking water lids. 

A boy pulled a toy truck, by a string. 

What is our imagination, and what is our heart. 

When I was little, my sister and I would take tin Folger's Coffee cans and turn them upside down. We would turn them upside down and punch holes in the sides. Tying knots, and weaving shoelaces or twine. String or rope through the holes, we made stilts. We loved them. We would tromp around like giants, a whole foot taller than we had been before, scratching our mother's hard wood floors, and occasionally rolling our ankles. 

Two little girls walked on stilts.  

Two little girls tied old tin cans to their feet. 

Two little girls walked on stilts.

What is our imagination, and what is our heart. 

It's easy to love, but it isn't easy to understand. 

'For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son.'

It is easy to love but it isn't easy to understand. 

What is our imagination, and what is our heart. 

Don't think twice, it's alright.

the Haitians that I am friends with touch my stomach. they squeeze me and poke me. they pinch and grab. they pat me on the belly and wrap their arms around my waste. they hold on tight

I guess it's a funny thing to talk about.

And I don't.

Over the years, it's become a subconscious masking. Layered tank tops and cardigans. Jeans above my waist, and shirts pulled below my hips.

swimsuits.

We don't talk about that stuff. do we?

We talk about what's hard. we're self deprecating and whiny.

we share the appropriate hardships.

I wish I could lose weight, or I am stressed about this or that.

but what about the real ones.

that people putting their hand on my stomach makes it hard for me to breathe.

that when I ride in a car and look out the window, at the expanses of scenery, at new places, at new life, I look at the window too. My reflection, a whirlwind of trees and roads, blurry, but visible.

I look out the window in Haiti, and I look at myself.

Am I scared that I'm selfish? That I'm self conscious?

And what are the real things. That I'll never be in love again. That I'll never be skinny.

Or that I'll never be content.

The Haitians don't think twice about my stomach. It doesn't cross their minds. They grab me and squeeze me.  They kiss my cheek and run a quick thumb along my cheekbone. Tell me I'm beautiful when I wear a dress. Joke with me and flirt.

Dadi works at St. Joseph's. Happily married, raising a baby, harmless and warm, I hear his voice before I see him most times.

Isabelle, ou belle, wi?

Elizabeth, you're beautiful, yes? Ahhh bonjou belle moun. Beautiful girl.

It's true, or it isn't. It just is.

But I want to be able to breathe when people who love me rest their hands on my stomach.

I want to be able to breathe.

And I don't want to think twice about it, either.

Incomgenuity

Incompetence versus ingenuity.

Doing your laundry while standing in the shower naked.

Not because you planned on taking a shower

But because you were so terrible at hand washing and rinsing laundry.

And hey,

We all arrive somehow.

are you just having

'so, how is it, you know...down there..is it o.k?'

'what an experience, are you just having so much fun?'

'wow, good for you.'

'God bless you. That's just amazing.'

And no, I don't mean to belittle any of these statements. I don't want to sound ungrateful. For the support, or the encouragement. The blessings, in all their forms, have been greatly appreciated, and important.

And yes, I am having fun. But no, nothing about this. is ok. And I'm not amazing.

This. This place.

my being here.

these people. the pain. the difficulties.

life is so difficult here.

and that is not to diminish the joy or the wonder.

it isn't to take away from the splendor of existence,
and the raw and unintelligible feeling of being alive.

But I feel small. I feel selfish. I feel hurt.

That's what it is. My feelings feel hurt. All the time.

That it is happening to them. That this is happening to me.

The questions. The what ifs and the whys. The doubt and the broken.

The unknown.

the witnessed, the experienced, and the felt.

Of working hands. On the occasion of my mother's 39th birthday.

I have known them all my life.

the hands of an artist. strong hands. well muscled, and always gracefully displayed, her hands have been introduced to the best of the best. mozart, schubert, bach. she has met them all.

these hands have known late nights and early mornings. monotonous repetition and spontaneous, instant, virtuosic creation.

her hands are bold. they are of the earth. they are never cautious to reach out to me and never hesitant to hold on tight.

my mother has strong hands.

were i to trace the lines and indentations that crease her fingers i suspect they would weave an intricate and myriad history of loss and effort. of intensity and despondency. of familiarity and doubt.

but the lines in her hands hold more than their literal derivation in my heart.

of battles fought for me. of prayers whispered daily. of a life created for me.

of ferocious tenacity and faith.

and above all else,

of love.

Whether or not

We only have what we have.

Only are who we are.

Whether or not

we are thankful

for it.

Maybe Today

Today I watched the clouds come in. they bellowed and swooned. a thick warm cloak. a dripping garnish. in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of everything.  I thought, what am I afraid of? That this is it? For them? for me? And the order of things- the monotony. of life passing me by? in the clouds? on the ground. And I don't know why.

Today I watched a couple boys run down the gravel path, beating sticks against old tires. they darted and flashed about, making a racket, hollering. skidding and trying not to lose control of their tires. shrieking with glee. And I don't know why.

Today I stretched my aching shoulders. I clung to the iron rail and pulled my limbs against their will. Tears of exhaustion have been loitering under my eyelids all day. When the fog cleared in the evening I saw a kite flying. it was a black plastic bag. And I don't know why.

A life extraordinary

Guys, I did it.

This twenty-five year old has shed the shackles of Facebook.

Effective as of 12:01 a.m., March 1st, 2013, I am no longer a member of the virtual book of faces.

*disclaimer*

This announcement is not intended as a jab to those of us who have faces in the book. I do not present the matter as a better decision than others who are members of the Facebook community. Rather, it was the best decision, for me, and I'll tell you why.

I don't know if this happens to you, it probably doesn't as most households I know have entered the 21st century, and this does not pertain to them.

In the Whitmire household, however, things run a little differently, folks! We run a disengaged ship! And while the term ship is used figuratively, it would also be an apt literal description, as I imagine that those on ships have a similar relationship with technology:

Non existent.

We don't even have a toaster, people!

Growing up, we had dial-up Internet, which slowly segued into DSL, using my sister's college computer from the Stone Age, and that died off into no computer at all.

My mother also was one of the 197 people , worldwide, to ask the government to get her that little black box, that was free, and advertised/endorsed when regular channels were on the way out, this making the box necessary if you were not, (which we were not, dammit), going to upgrade to cable/other forms of television watching.

In fact, Verizon once came to our house, informing us that we were the last (and only) house in the neighborhood not to have switched to at least basic cable.

You can imagine how smoothly that conversation went...

So we have 4 channels. Sometimes 7. We get weird stand up comedy from the 80s and Russian soap operas.

And I read a lot of books. I mean, a lot.

But in all seriousness, I've never been that worse for wear. We rent movies. I like picking movies. I like watching movies that my folks pick, that I would never have otherwise watched.

But I diverge.

I'm that 25 year old, that when I babysat or house sat. The adults would give me the tour, finally rounding on their entertainment system and say something flip like, but you know all about this, I don't even need to tell you what goes on here.

Sweat beading on my temples, was the room getting smaller? I would glance down. Speakers. Tv. Some black box. Apple TV. Netflix. blu-ray. cable. FIOS tv. 6 remotes. Panic would set in.

Um. Actually, we don't have a remote. I'm going to need a talk through...twice...

Nope, write it down. (Shout out to Ryon and Carrie Acey who have directions of how to segue to and from and in between all of their various television interfaces). I graduated from college, I can follow directions!

And no matter how many times we went through it. Inevitably. I would hit some button, get lost, and not knowing how to return, be forced into watching the entire DVD collection of a 9 year old, as I couldn't get back to the cable television.

Fortunately, I happen to like Pixar.

That said. When the opportunity did arise to house sit, I would find myself on the couch on a Friday night, wrapped up in the television. So many options. So many things I needed to watch.
I'd flip between 7 programs
Like I needed them to breathe.

But inevitably, on the second or third night.

My attention would wane.

I'd think. This isn't real.

I'm not doing anything.

I am watching those characters.

Loving.
Pursuing their dreams.
Succeeding.

And I'm drinking wine on a couch flipping between animal planet and how to lose a guy in 10 days.

Um...

and nothing against a good romantic comedy, or nature documentary.

But I would grow antsy. I think it's that I didn't grow up with that stimulation.

Also my father has the energy of a teenager and the ability to sit still of, well, a teenager.

Within five minutes of walking in the house, maybe going downstairs to get a beer,

I would hear the inevitable call, DIZZY, what the heck are you doing?

And where,even, would I have found the time for television?

Between the pinball and the scrabble. The ping pong and bike rides. The field hockey in the backyard, me versus my dad and his golf club.

But I diverge again, back to Facebook.

It's not that I don't like it. Seeing my college and high school friends. Seeing my sweet baby cousins. Keeping up with people.

But, I know who I love. And whether or not I see what they did last Friday night. I'm not going to forget. I'm not going to forget them, and I'm not going to stop loving them.

I've been digging into the Word lately. I'm reading a devotional called Jesus Calling. (Thank you Aunt Suzanne), and it is urging me to be present. To be faithful. And to put my faith in today. Not to be anxious for tomorrow, for the future, and not to be stuck in the past.

If you keep up with my blog you know that both of these, the past, and the future, are weights I carry on my heart.

that said, for me. Right now.

I can't think about babies and engagements and weddings. I can't think about anniversary photos. I don't need to be trolling through albums from my 22nd birthday. Of friends I love dearly that I've known for 18 years. I'm not 22, nor will I ever be again.

That year happened. It happened, it came and it went, and I turn 26 in a month.

It's time to be in the present. It's time to be living, right now. I'm not engaged. Not married. Not in college. Not dating him. Not 22.

I'm 25. I live in Haiti. And I don't have Facebook.

Now.

I'll worry about the future, when it gets here.