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.
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