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.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
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.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
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'
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'
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
( _______ )
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)
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)
Monday, February 11, 2013
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?
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?
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
repeat if necessary.
I've been home from Haiti for one month, today. And what I'd like to tell you all, is that I'm transformed. That I've been overcome and filled with the Holy Spirit. That I'm fully renovated, and rejuvenated, that I'm whole.
Well, I'm not all of those things. And I don't presume to be.
But I have changed. And am changing.
And while I am no less sinful, or broken. No less earthly, or selfish,
I have witnessed God's hand at work, and I've felt the presence of the Lord.
We will think what we will think, and often we fall short of suppressing our innermost desires.
We battle against ourselves every day, to be better. to work harder. to know more.
And all I know, is that I am trying.
What Haiti has given me- in this first season,
in the aftermath of Christmas parties and vacation, of loved ones and celebration- is courage.
The courage to try.
Every day, over and over, knowing I'll never get it exactly right,
and knowing that God is present, regardless.
The next chapter is coming: Haiti bound February 12th, 2013.
And I hope, and pray, that I have the continued courage
to try.
Well, I'm not all of those things. And I don't presume to be.
But I have changed. And am changing.
And while I am no less sinful, or broken. No less earthly, or selfish,
I have witnessed God's hand at work, and I've felt the presence of the Lord.
We will think what we will think, and often we fall short of suppressing our innermost desires.
We battle against ourselves every day, to be better. to work harder. to know more.
And all I know, is that I am trying.
What Haiti has given me- in this first season,
in the aftermath of Christmas parties and vacation, of loved ones and celebration- is courage.
The courage to try.
Every day, over and over, knowing I'll never get it exactly right,
and knowing that God is present, regardless.
The next chapter is coming: Haiti bound February 12th, 2013.
And I hope, and pray, that I have the continued courage
to try.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
So it would seem
It seems to me, that maybe we sit. And we don't know. We don't know, that the rest of the world. They endure, they don't understand, they experience. More pain. More agony. More heart wrenching disaster. Than we will ever, even, think of. And it seems to me. That I sit. And I try to feel. I try to feel, and I can't even think about it.
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