rebecca.mcneil.smith

some sunshine

2011-04-28T07:39:00.000-07:00

The week following Holy Week has been one filled with tornado sirens making us uneasy here in Memphis, while actual twisters are waltzing their way all over the country. Folks say that water will rise 11 feet over the flood line by the Mississippi and Wolf Rivers which may make Harbor Town a pile of mush--all just a year behind the actuality in Nashville. Oh and then there was Chernobyl's 25th anniversary just 2 days ago which reminds me of radiation gone wrong in Japan. Goodness, it can be so easy to be overwhelmed by devastation and potential devastation...and so it is that I read this prayer this morning:

"Lord, we pray we never find ourselves without hope, without a glimpse of the empty tomb each time we happen upon a cross. Help us begin our daily journey expecting both crosses and empty tombs and rejoicing when we encounter either because we know you are with us."

So since I've been absent since...December...I give you some of those empty tombs throughout the past six months:

birthday slumber party with Kristen and some of our favorite neighbors...

the first of many snow days...

and then spring and green things started to grow...

and the ladies kept on producing...

-------------------------------------------------

oh...and this handsome man (with that handsome airstream)

is moving to Memphis in just a few weeks!! woot!

journey of the magi

2010-12-09T06:24:00.000-08:00

(This poem still enchants me...especially now. 
Thank you, T.S., for encouraging my imagination)

by T.S. Eliot

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times when we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities dirty and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wineskins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

elizabeth cate

2010-10-23T12:42:00.000-07:00

My niece was born this morning at 3:45am. I suggested the name Luna considering that it was a full moon and all, but they didn't exactly go for that. Pretty sure that's what I'm calling her...She's perfect and looks a lot like Levi did when he was born (minus the red hair). I was able to be in the delivery room while my superstar sister gave birth drug-free, and as lil Luna (see, it's starting already) began crowning, we immediately knew that she was continuing the strong feminine black headedness of our family. My dearest pals Catherine and Pete are giving birth any day now (I really wanted their little girl to get here today as well...two Lunas...let's just make it as confusing as possible...but it looks like she's holding off for the moment) so these days are filled with nursing school, walks in autumn woods, and babies!! It's been my most chaotic, joyful fall in a very long time. Praise God for life....

a triple divide

2010-08-15T07:45:00.000-07:00

Triple Divide Peak, located in Glacier National Park, has the unique distinction of being an apex for three oceans. Here, the Hudson Bay Divide and Continental Divide collide designating its peak as the source for three of North America's great rivers: the Mississippi, Columbia and Saskatchewan Rivers. Precipitation that falls northeast of the mountain follows a network of veined rivers (including Sask) to the Arctic Ocean in the Hudson Bay. Rain falling west of the Continental Divide makes its way to the Pacific via the Columbia, and that running to the south takes a long journey from the Missouri River to the Mississippi to the ultimate destination of the Atlantic in the Gulf of Mexico.

I have yet to climb this mountain or even walk through the pass (though many of my friends have conquered such a feat), but its story has always fascinated me and made me that much more fond of the mountains nestled in Glacier. Perhaps it's because I recognize a similar story within myself. At this point in my life, I am aware of three great locations that have garnered great affection in my heart for somewhat completely different reasons. When emotions or ideas or desires enter my heart, it's most likely that they travel to three different destinations: Nepal, Tennessee or Glacier. Just as the three destinations of Triple Divide's precipitation vary in climate, location, and culture, so the greatest recipients of my affection seem to differ far more than they relate.

Whether it is the children at Harka in Bharatpur, Nepal, the trails and mountains in Glacier, or the communities resting in the urban cultures of Memphis and Nashville, my heart is equally committed to these destinations for the means in which they quench my spirit. I am thankful for the myriad of ways my story has been shaped and impassioned by each one.

My July writings were entirely consumed by the children at Harka, the photos following are testimony to Glacier and the Canadian Rockies where I spent the first three weeks in August with my folks, and presently I am in Memphis...once again. It is here that I will, by God's grace, become a nurse. (I don't exactly know how often I'll be able to write considering that I am already overwhelmed and just started University of Memphis' nursing program last week.)

And so it is that I have been so sweetly reminded of my three great loves and the ways in which my heart yearns for each.

Morraine Lake, Banff National Park, Alberta

Canadian Pacific Railway in Yoho National Park, British Columbia

View of Lake O'Hara from the Alpine Circuit, Yoho

What a camera can do while balancing on loose rock

It takes ten years for this flower to blossom and another 100 years to grow the size of a dinner plate. Watch where you hike, indeed.

Still Lake O'Hara

Dr. Seuss characters

On the shore of Athabasca River in Jasper National Park

Lake Peyto, Banff

View of Grinnell Glacier from part of Mt. Gould

The glacier up close...

Ptarmigans

Down from Ptarmigan Tunnel

The greatest place in the States: Polebridge, Montana

"when i get older"

2010-08-07T07:55:00.000-07:00

My sweetest friend, Bintu, introduced me to K'naan, a Somali/Canadian hiphop artist, just weeks before my trip to Nepal. I immediately fell in love with his music and carried that love to the kids at Harka. His song, "Wavin' Flag" was the theme for the World Cup and just happened to be the kids' favorite as well. Below are two pieces of proof to their dedication to this song...they definitely knew the chorus by day three. Hilarious.

in memoriam

2010-07-30T03:57:00.000-07:00

My grandmother, Jane Weaver Nall, passed away two days ago. It is with a great hope that I believe she is at rest and has seen the promised land.

(a short reflection):

Childhood slumber parties with Nannie and Dappie were always filled with certain expectations. King's Corner would be played, Lawrence Welk would be watched, ice cream would be offered so that Nannie would feel that much more justified in satisfying her sweettooth, and Nannie's warm bed and presence would comfort me to sleep through the night.

It wouldn't be until the following morning, however, that my child-like anticipation would be fulfilled: toast with butter and jelly, eggs, cereal, fruit, orange juice, milk, and water. Perhaps it was because Pop Tarts were my usual morning staple or maybe it was that three glasses to drink from felt satisfyingly indulgent--either way, breakfasts with my grandmother will always be a treasure of my memory.

I am thankful that she slapped too much butter on bread and that she scrambled eggs to perfection. I'm thankful that she taught us Southern hospitality as if she had lived in the South her whole life. I'm thankful that she wrote letters by hand until she could no longer. I'm thankful that my grandmother's memory covered a century. I'm thankful for her loyalty and discipline. I'm thankful that her eyes were open to the light and life of Christ, and that such grace has permeated through her veins and into the hearts of her family.

sima and soniya: progression part deux

2010-07-29T07:54:00.000-07:00

tulie: a progression of sorts

2010-07-29T05:18:00.000-07:00

photos..

2010-07-26T12:38:00.000-07:00

I'm back in the States drinking coffee to survive the 50 hour traveling weekend that ended late last night. In the midst of spending my last days in Nashville, I took a couple hours in my favorite coffee house to upload some photographs. Here are a few favorites...I plan to add to the previous blogs accordingly and in due time.

sweet remember

2010-07-22T23:08:00.000-07:00

In the past two years Britta and I have received occasional packages from Harka chock full of drawings from the young ones and letters from the older children. As you can imagine, each parcel comes to us as such a surprise and delight. And, inevitably, one of the older children writes a note and the other three or four copy it word for word. The one phrase that has always been more humorous than others is their opening line, "Sweet Remember". It has perplexed me where they heard or conjured up such a statement in the constant game of translation. It came as even more of a surprise when they had no idea what "I miss you" meant. The definition of 'miss' to them was a foreign woman's title. Becca Miss, Birta Reecha Miss...what have you. And then a week or so ago a began to realize that Soniya and Shishir (again, Secil) were continuing an old conversation. "You go America, don't forget me". Don't forget me. Sweet remember.

It seems that our English translation of missing, I miss you, etc. does lack the ability to speak so candidly. Really, at the core, all of us want to be remembered. We want to be known, and continue to be known. Don't forget me. It seems a bit vulnerable, perhaps, to admit such desire, but I believe that any person's heart, no matter how free of need, does long for at least one other person to remember them.

It is with great humility (through a greater grace) that I recognize how much children in general, these children specifically, have taught my prideful spirit. With their limited skills for communicating in English and their cultural upbringing that encourages a more stoic form of relationships, these kids desperately desire to be remembered as they, indeed, remember me. My goodness, what an absolute gift it is to know love.

And so it is that the last few days with the children were filled with a few uncommon adventures and a majority of ordinary ones. I took the older children to internet on two separate days. They wrote Britta an email, looked up photos on my past blog, saw a picture of my jeep, made sure they were updated on WWE action (the 24-hour wrestling channel has been cancelled in the Nepalese jungle...don't you worry though, these kids have plenty of Nepali and Indian sitcoms/soap operas to occupy their fascination) and other random delights that the internet provides.

At the last minute, I was granted permission to tour the Coca Cola Factory (one of two in Nepal) that is located a few miles from the orphan home. Apparently, they only open tours for very special occasions...being from the West entitles you to far too much here. Unfortunately, however, the little kids couldn't come with me. So Manish, Buddhi, Sirjana, Soniya, Sima, Bishal and I walked our way to free Coke (Buddhi and Bishal definitely had three bottles) and a view of how a factory operates that exclusively produces glass bottled Coca Cola products. Two women have the sole purpose of washing every single bottle by hand.

To satisfy the sulking spirits of the young ones (they definitely thought the older kids were getting spoiled at this point), I bought a few large Fantas and Sprite for our last dinner together. Hearing 10 young voices whisper, "Miss, Fanta?" is just about the greatest thing. We danced and threw the frog beanies my sisters and I made for them (I had already sewn five of them back together after 12 hours of action).

Shishir told me that he wants to be a bus driver in America. So I told him that if he gets over there then he's staying with me. Not bluffin. Soniya and Sima kept having to be reassured that I was going to come back after I was finished with school, and Bishal completely and overtly avoided me for the last 24 hours I was there. Tulie started crying when I picked up my bags to head out and I subsequently became a big ole puddle of mess myself. Sweet remember.

The saving grace of such a difficult departure has been company I've met along the way to Pokhara. I shared a bus with a Dutch med student, an Austrian who currently lives in Vienna, and two Texans from Austin. The immediate connections created between travelers is always so refreshing, and considering the fact that I hadn't had a long conversation in several weeks, I was in the mood for meeting interesting folks. We have shared meals and beers and conversation for the past few days.

Dominique, the 20 year old Dutch girl who is in her 5th year of medical school (you do the math...she's ridiculous) has been in Northern Nepal for the past few weeks doing medical research with the cases of Nepalese women that suffer from prolapse. She goes into rural villages with an interpreter to do examinations, make records for future funded operations, and inform women in small ways that they can be more aware of their health. I love the Dutch (still glad Spain won), and have greatly enjoyed Dominique's company the past few days. In fact, she came with me to visit Guru, a friend of mine and Britta's from two years ago, who is now working at a fancy hotel in Pokhara and got married one month ago! We had coffee and tea and were allowed to swim in the fancypants hotel's pool!! Whoot. Then Dominique and I were invited to Guru's apartment to have dinner with he and his new wife. She is adorable and reserved and still getting used to being away from her family and married (culturally, arranged marriages happen very quickly...Guru met and married Meera within three days). So I can see where the new lifestyle takes a while to get used to.

I depart tomorrow for another long weekend of flights. I just bought a traditional Nepalese hand drum that I'll be taking on the plane with me. Either I'll be seen as a crazy hippie in the Abu Dhabi airport or Larry Mullen Jr. will be on my same flight and teach me a few things. Here's hoping for the latter.

sunshine face

2010-07-17T22:40:00.000-07:00

I feel that I have done a poor job introducing the newest members of Harka's family. As Britta and I discovered our first time here, it takes a while to observe well, and by no means do I suggest that two weeks could suffice. That being said, here's a peek into (perhaps a breath of) their stories.

You have read of Kanchi, the 21-year-0ld young mother of 4-year-old Sanju, recently divorced and lover of pretty things. They have only been at Harka for about a month now, and it seems that she has settled in with much ease--naturally taking to the older girls as an older sister herself, and vigorously working to clean and cook as if she is trying to earn her keep...or prove her gratitude. She remains a little fascinated by me considering the fact that I am the only Westerner she's ever actually lived with--I've come to the conclusion that I'm her very own American Girl Doll. Pre-packaged with the promise to decorate as she sees fit.

(post makeover)

This is all made more humorous by the fact that she doesn't know a lick of English and I have a good 28 words of Nepalese. After the red henna in the hair (that lasted all but 4 days), she moved on to decorate my hand with henna. I finally stopped her when she wanted to cut my armhair.

Sanju is your average 4-year-old boy with crazy bursts of energy and emotion. He plays hard and well with Tulie and Jamuna with the habit of trying to get away with pinching or hitting...he is still trying to balance the concept of being his mother's child along with 15 others.

(Sanju on left and Mikreecha on right)

Mikreecha, the new house parent's (Sita and Minude) 3-year-old daughter, suffers from the same affection issue. Instead of pinching, however, she just continues to breastfeed (which if I was a baby, lacked any other milk source, and was the youngest of a whole host of children wanting my mother's attention, I would most likely do the same thing).

Oh my goodness, I love these house parents sooo much more than I did Kumari and Prim. Minude's lack of English and absenteeism (besides the rice working days) has kept a pretty good distance between us, but he is good-natured and as far as I can tell does a good job balancing goofiness and discipline with the children. Sita, I love. She has worked very hard to make her English conversational, and so with my 28 or so words and her slightly more skillful tongue, we can understand each other and laugh and connect. She is 22 years old and about 4'8, but has this giant personality. She and Kanchi not only proved to work constantly while planting rice, but she has also shown herself to keep the rooms and clothes clean while maintaining something burning over a fire. There is no doubt, however, that she is saved by the working force of all the kids. They (mostly) delight in their chores which require several hours of patient focus and diligent work. Such a cycle keeps the small housefarm going.

Suman and Sujan are only the second biological siblings that have entered the mix--the others being the unlikely twinship of Jamuna and Ganga.

(Sujan on left, Suman on right)

Suman is a possible 5 years old to his older brother's 7. They have recently come to Harka under unknown circumstances other than they had no other place to go. I have enjoyed getting to know them. They are both mostly reserved, quiet, observant boys who seem to be waiting to fit into this family of sorts. Susanne, by nature, has more confidence and has found it a bit more natural to know his place. Since school has been out, he follows Ganga, Shishir (editor's note: this has been Secil's name all along...it just sounds much more like a 'Secil' that I didn't realize my inaccuracy until recently) and Bishal to the jungle to be with and direct the set of four goats that the orphan home owns. He takes great pride in these daily adventures as if he's learning a trade or finding a purpose. Suman, with his head slightly always pointed toward the ground and with a constant flow of mucus from his nostrils, sometimes willingly hangs in the corner waiting or wondering of inclusion. Then Ashish will burst forth with the command of a child who was raised in these walls, clasp Suman's hand and bring him to the divine imagination playgroup of the small, less industrious ones. Suman willingly enters and participates. Both of these boys have been the most frugal with my gifts thus far (they also are getting used to such an American). With both the bubbles and the clay, these two have held on to every ounce of soap and color granted them until a very deliberate, chosen moment. Waste not. It's as if they have a more recent, keen awareness of how quickly things can cease to be.

Finally, there is the 11-year-old Bishal (pronounced Bee-sawl).
He has actually been living at Harka for the past year and a half but is new to me...and goodness, I have a great love for him already. Unlike the more stoic Manish and more introverted Buddhi whose personalities lay dormant for a few days only to shine like the sun when you least expect it, Bishal is pretty much always sunshine. If I didn't know better, I would swear that he and Sima were born from the same woman. He is endlessly being clever and asking questions, proving that he pretty much has the best English out of everyone. Friday was the last official day of classes and as I held the girls' hands and more and more children continued to stare at me, Manish and Buddhi were no where to be found, but there was Bishal who deliberately came to me with his best friends in order to introduce me. He is quick to help nurture the young ones not unlike Soniya (helping with homework and reading) and jumps at the second he's asked to do any small task along with his daily goat duties. He and Sima have also managed to memorize the chorus and some verses to K'naan's "Wavin Flag". Sunshine.

I hope to take all 16 different rays of such bright delight with me to the Coca Cola Factory down the road this afternoon. I think they have to wear hairnets.

My time at Harka ends this Wednesday morning when I will be off to Pokhara for a few days. But until next time, I will leave with a favorite quote from Wendell Berry's Jayber Crow:

"For love is always more than a little strange here. It is not explainable or even justifiable. It is itself the justifier. We do not make it. If it did not happen to us, we could not imagine it."

solar power surprise

2010-07-14T22:27:00.000-07:00

One of the things that I can say for sure is that I have no idea what's going to happen any given day at the orphan home. Sometimes things come as surprises to the children and houseparents as well, but mostly it is my inability to know the Nepalese language. The unknown while in a foreign country or situation can be unsettling, but for me it is part of the greatness of staying at Harka.

Just a few days ago, for instance, a man came by asking if he could give any haircuts. Being set more or less on the back roads of the nearest village, salesmen will come by with vegetables, fruit, umbrellas, or some kitchenware for a more door-to-door convenience. This man came by with a skill. Laxmi had, the day before, asked if I would give a handful of the children haircuts so without Britta's natural gift to concede to, I concured. This godsend of a man swept in just in time to save the eczema and lice-ridden heads of Ashish, Jamuna, Ganga, and Manesa from my unsteady hand. In less than 10 minutes and for less than $1, all four children were fresh and clean and giddy from being in the spotlight. Perhaps this barber's presence was even more significant to me because I am currently in the middle of reading Wendell Berry's Jayber Crow. Jayber is a barber, and if you've read his story then he has certainly become a good friend. This man made me think of my friend.

And yesterday, the children and I were fightin the sweat on a rather uncomfortable afternoon when within a matter of 30 minutes a whole host of things started movin and shakin. I mostly just sat on the bench with J Crow in hand, trying to make sense of such synchronism. First, there were four men working in the rice fields who came onto our property for some water and shade. They looked at me with such conviction and wonderment...I smiled and looked into my book or held a child.

Moments after their arrival, Sita told me to take the bicycle to the end of the road where I was to meet Laxmi and the 'solar men'. Now this is when I realize I don't have a clue what's going on. After going with Lax to the market on two separate days to withdraw money that so many friends and family had given me to give to Harka, Laxmi didn't exactly communicate that the solar panel system was going to be installed--immediately. I shouldn't exactly be surprised, but considering the culture in which I was born and bred, things depictly take time. Here in Bharatpur, two young guys equipped with Japanese solar panels, electrical wire, one converter and two enormous batteries began their work.

Laxmi was busy (she is rarely anything but) with the kids or the solar men or the rice men when another guy hops off his motorcycle. Apparently, he was in the neighborhood to impregnate our cow with an armful of injections. The children were having a heyday at this point with so many people and excitement. I typically enjoy the stillness that is everything save the kids' chaos, but today I was particularly thrilled about the solar being installed. Talk about money being put to use. By that night we were the only home within our peripheral that had electricity. There was a sense of pride in the kids and for me knowing that the eight young ones who squish together in one large bed would have a fan working against the heat tonight.

So thank you to all who gave money to this project...Laxmi has been mentioning it since Britta and I were here over two years ago. I speak on behalf of the adults and snotty children when I say that everyone is grateful for your generosity.

A few days ago Kanchi took my makeover one step further and added red henna in my hair...I'm about to have Sita put it back to black. I can only take so much crazy.

no healthcare reform needed

2010-07-12T21:18:00.000-07:00

In preparation for this month's stay in Nepal, I gradually collected a small pharmacy that would ward off certain unwanted microbes, ease the annoyance of bugs, and allievate any allergic reaction--all packed neatly into my luggage. My previous experience in Nepal plus my knowledge of the climate and region prepared me for just about everything except, oh, dysentery. I may have spent four months traveling all over this country and eating all kinds of food, but give me not even a week this go around and I'm bed-ridden.

The morning after we spent the day composting the rice plots, Sita (house mother), Kanchi (house auntie), Laxmi (Harka director), and I spent hours picking short blades of bright-almost lime-green grass that carried rice in their roots. We tied them with longer blades picked from the jungle and set them aside to be planted the following day.

Sitting on stools with back bent and feet snug in mud, we picked and bundled and repeated just as the rest of the land was being plowed, prepared, bundled, or planted by other workers...a new reality of community farming for me. It was my hope to participate in some of the rice planting that many 'men' were coming to do on Sunday. Of course these 'men' turned out to be 14 of the hardest working women I had ever seen, which, unfortunately, I didn't see much of because I was back-broke with a crazy little fever at that point.

Picking the rice seeds was my final point of participation before I started feeling the affects of what would be the worst infection I've had to date. The fever kept me from seeing my beloved Diego Forlan lose to Germany (but win the Golden Ball!) and saw that a busy Laxmi was simultaneously planting rice, feeding 30 people, and caring for me all on Sunday. And I mean caring me. I don't know how many cold wet rags she sloshed on my body begging for the fever to go...oh, she also fanned me when the electricity went off, washed my dirty clothes, and cleaned my room. Caregiver. The occasional ray of sanity came when I would look up from my bed to see about seven small children packed at either the open door or windows whispering, "Miss okay?" Thankfully by that night my fever had broken, but the toilet issues remained the same.

Since I didn't have the energy or social desire to go down the street to watch the finals, Sita allowed me to sleep in the room with a small television (which hasn't been used yet because of the kids' exams). I set my alarm for 12:15am, and woke up half delirious, half exhilirated. By 3am I was exhausted and still exhilirated for my (yes, all these men have become personal possessives) Spaniards...especially the likes of Sergio Ramas and Iker Casillas...had finally scored in the 117th minute to beat Holland!

The following morning when my colon was still ridiculous after 3 days, I knew it was time for the hospital. You have the emergency room aspect of the hospital (including an "Emergency Operation Theatre") and then you just have the doctor visit wing. In less than 25 minutes I had met with a very kind, English speaking, intelligent doctor who wrote me a prescription for both an amoebicidal drug and an antibiotic to cover my bases of a protozoan or bacterial source. Laxmi and I went across the street to purchase the meds and later yesterday afternoon I already felt loads better. Doctor visit: 25 cents. Drugs: $3.50. I love Nepalese health care.

[I feel like I'm collecting hospital visits like some folks collect baseball cards or small spoons.]

Besides staying away from certain fruits that I was tempted by and being hesitate to even brush my teeth in the well water, you can see how my past few days have been spent. Not exactly how I was planning time with the kids. Today was their last day of exams so I think we may blow bubbles as a form of celebration.

Oh, and to sign off, I will share the kiddos' answers to, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Jamuna: Teacher
Tulie: Doctor
Manessa: Nurse
Susan: Pilot
Suman: Pilot
Ashish: Pilot (but as he specified with one hand shooting straight in the air, "Rocket")
Soniya: Singer
Bisal: Engineer
Buddi: Scientist
(I have to ask a few of the older ones still...Manish was currently undecided)

But my favorite two were...
Ganga: Police(wo)man (sooo perfect)
Secil: Busdriver

a different kind of compost

2010-07-08T22:08:00.000-07:00

Not only was I almost run off the road by a water buffalo while riding my bike to internet, but I followed my agile dodging act by breaking the bike. Well, the chain came off. As I was trying to fix this mishap to no avail two Nepali guys came up with a little English and the skills I lacked. Their efforts saw me safely to the computer center where Bryan Adams is playing an acoustic live set over the speakers: "When you love someone/You'll do anything/You'll do all the crazy things that you can't explain/You'll shoot the moon/Put out the sun/When you love someone." What a poet.

Mind you, this was all in the past twenty minutes.

One of my small goals for these few weeks is to gain a bit more tolerance for flies resting on my body. Flies are one of those insects I have little patience with, and here in this heat, they are your closest neighbor. So I keep trying to channel the focused vigilance of Mr. Miyagi. In the meantime I will just continue to sweat. It's the kind of heat that makes you dream of walk-in freezers. Yesterday at the market, I drank a cold Fanta and didn't realize until then how foreign it is for me to eat and drink only hot things when it is, in fact, blazing hot outside. It could be that I'm a spoiled American, or it could be that a cold Fanta is just that good.

As I arrived back to the orphan home after writing a few days ago, I was met by Kanchie, the new 21 year old auntie. She had blue nail polish in hand and simply smiled and gestured to my feet. I made mention one of the first days I was here that her and Sirjana's hands and feet looked very nice...I didn't realize that such a statement would land me a full makeover. Oh yes, makeover. From my toes she went on to painting my fingernails (and I mean a more or less flourescent blue) and then after looking at my face she saw that it needed help too. Apparently, my 'no make up' routine in Nepal was not meeting up to her expectations so she delicately applied liquid eye liner (a first for me), some lipstick, and a decorative bindi. This was for no occasion in particular, but certainly made all the kids giggle.

I went from overdone to completely immersed in dung...literally.

It seems that I have come to Harka at a very useful time. The children have been having their exams all week and into next (they will have a month or two off for the monsoon season) so my English tutoring has been useful for all ages. Just yesterday, Manish taught me how to make candles (I took a photo tutorial that I will try to post once in the States).

aligning wick with mold

boiling wax

pouring boiling wax into molds

let them cool for twenty minutes

pry open the casing and...

whalah

product

and packaging

We spent hours packing very simple white short sticks that will be sold in the market. During such production we talked about all the boys' supposed girlfriends...Manish has been dating Asmita for more than two years now. I'm glad a 15 year old can have a more stable and long-lasting relationship than myself.

But this morning the English and candles were put aside to prepare the four rice plots that Harka cares for at the back of the property. What I have come to realize is that now is the perfect time to prepare and plant for rice season. We are on the crest of rainy season with about 1/3 rain a day so the moisture is just right to be present but not overwhelming. Overwhelming will come in a few weeks. So the older children and I made an assembly line from the base of where our water buffalo, cow and goats live to one of the square plots about 50 yards away. We took buckets, filled them with compost (excrement of the large mammal origin), and sloshed our barefeet to the plot site. Sirjana whined and did very little work while the boys did cartwheels over the barriers and Sima and Soniya continued to throw the buckets everywhere. Perhaps not the most efficient few hours spent. I expect we'll be doing such dirty work (I should get Mike Rowe to come do a Dirty Jobs episode out here in Bharatpur (: ) for the next few days.

But before we jumped into the filth, the kids had to take off their new adorable outfits. That's right, after yesterday's headache-producing market trip with Laxmi (love her, she loves the kids, but she can be so overwhelming especially in chaotic settings) I decided to cure my frustration with some mangoes and gift-giving. My friend, Sarah, was so sweet to buy an outfit for every child here at Harka. Seeing as there were 3 boys I didn't know of, I waited until after I bought them clothes at the market to present the goodies to the kids. The older boys were fascinated by the belt that came with the pants, the older girls were satisfyingly scandalized by their cute new shorts (such apparel is usually saved for those Westerners), and the little ones just kept laughing, asking that I take their photo, and mismatching the outfits for the sake of wonderment and good humor.

Tulie was beyond excited

Bright colors on some beautiful kids!

Oh the little ones

Sima and Soniya sportin purple

By the way, Sarah, they want you to come to Nepal.

For any of you who follow the World Cup, you can understand my devastation that my absence from technology comes during the semifinals and finals of the tournament. I had given up all hope that I would see the finals this weekend, until a man from down the street saw me with the kids and started speaking to me in very good English. He has the cutest little daughters and wife, and invited me to watch the games with his family. They will be played at midnight here in Nepal so that will be an adventure all to itself.

But for now, well, I'm tired of listening to Bryan Adams. Namaste.

bobble head and silly bandz

2010-07-06T22:12:00.000-07:00

Fingers crossed: not only is this internet speed far superior than that of my memory, but during rainy season the electricity is on much more than the dry months we experienced in Chitwan. But for you and I to trust this as concrete truth, you and I would also have to trust my communication skills in this country...so I'll keep you up to speed in the days ahead.

But before we go ahead or even start talking about today (it's either Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday..I can't be sure), I have to back up a few to begin our story. Abu Dhabi, the capital of the United Arab Emirates, was my home for a 20 hour layover. For a while I thought that I would grab a bus to see the fancy oil sites, but it was my good fortune that the Germany/Argentina game began right as I got off the plane from Chicago. So it was there in a Middle Eastern pub that I spent 7 of my 20 hours. I can't imagine a more appropriate location to see the World Cup (I preferred the outcome of the Spain/Paraguay match...as did the Argentinian woman to my left) where I cheered and gasped and drank alongside folks from all over the Middle East, Britain, Germany, and the aforementioned Argentina. Best $10 beer ever.

The time did actually come when I left the UAE and climbed aboard a flight to Kathmandu. The airport was chaotic as ever with several taxi drivers trying to vie for my affection..or money..I ended up nice and cozy in my hostel around 10pm Nepali time. Seeing as I am not exactly fond of tourist-central Kathmandu, I wanted to get a bus to Chitwan as soon as I could. So after eating a more than welcoming large breakfast and Nepali coffee I roamed Thamel's streets filled with incense, Nepali music, obnxious salesmen whispering a seductive, "Miss, Tiger Balm?", in my ears, and found Dipendra (contact in KTM). He updated me on a few things Harka-related and told me I could leave in just a few hours. And that's just what I did on the most local bus of my Nepali transportation life. The ride consisted of the four-hour glorious landscape that is Nepal along with sweltering heat, the man next to me falling asleep on my shoulder, and the cute little boy in front of me vomiting everywhere...I just stuck my nose out the window and laughed to myself. It took waving a few extra rupees in front of my young punk of a taxi driver to get him to go down the dirt roads to Harka because there was no way I was dragging my superfluous luggage through such humidity.

As soon as I jumped out of the cab I think my excitement numbed the childrens' reactions to a solid, "Hmm, I know this is Becca Miss and we like Becca Miss but her enthusiasm is just a bit much right now" (and if you know me, you know I can be a bit much more often than not). So even though my big hugs and kisses may have paralyzed them for the first hour of my arrival, I was soon peeling their sweaty bodies off my arms and legs. Sirjana told me that I was much taller than before, Soniya let me know that my long hair was much prettier than my short hair, and Sima kept on saying how nice my eyebrows were. Thank goodness my eyebrows have gotten more sophisticated over the past two and a half years. All the kids act like they had never seen my shoulder scar before, rubbing it as if it were one of those golden statues whose big toe was worn green from good luck.

If I had changed that much, these kids have changed much more dramatically. Sirjana, Sima and Soniya, the three oldest girls, have also been growing their hair out since Britta and I were here, the second I found Manish he responded, "Namaste, Miss," in this post-puberty deep voice, Secil lost and grew a whole set of teeth, Tulie is no baby, and there are four more boys that I am getting to know: Bishal (11), Ranjit and Sanjit (maybe 6 and 5..brothers who they confusingly call Sujan and Suman, respectively), and Sanju (3 year old to a new 'Auntie' who is 21 years old, and left her husband after a lot of physical abuse). More news about them in days to come...all I know is Bishal is already eat-em-up cute.

But as much as the children have physically changed, their personalities are almost completely intact. Manish is still too cool for school 80% of the time, and the sweetest most charming teenager the other 20%. After he called me "Giraffe [Gee-raph]" yesterday I realized that if this boy was 15 years older, 100 more pounds, and just a foot taller, I would pretty much force an arranged marriage. Sirjana is still as girly and Sima is still the cutest of all tomboys (today, she wore a Garfield shirt that said, "It's crude, it's rude...it's my attitude" which is hilarious but couldn't be further from the truth). Soniya is still the nurturer loving and correcting the little ones as if they were her own. Buddi's smile could still save the world (his tee shirt the past few days has been the WWE shirt my mom sent 2 years ago). Secil, oh Secil...good grief, I could still take this child home with me. He and Ashish have been 'sponsored' by previous volunteers to go to private school and it has proved wonders for their English. He's still wearing the shirt he wore everyday years ago when he was 3 inches shorter, still wears his shorts an inch below his buttcrack, still is clever and pure boy, and still is my number one sidekick. Manessa still giggles uncontrollably for no apparent reason, Ganga still looks like Gonzo and is still obsessed with trash (if this child could only be introduced to dumpster diving), Jamuna still thinks I know Nepali, Ashish is a more mature version of his bobble-head wagging, "One minute, Miss" speaking self, and Tulie, though a touch sassier, still has those two deep craters for dimples that bookend the most irresistible smile.

Ashish front and center

Buddhi

Secil

Tulie

Jamuna

Sima and Soniya playin with maize

The 20% of Manish

Sirjana

Tulie and Manessa being adorable

Ashish, Secil and Ganga being crazy

I spent my first full day peeling and cutting potatoes the size of small stones, walking the kids to school, picking lice out of Jamuna's head, letting the older girls twist my now-long hair into all facets of braids (and most likely putting lice into my head), exploring the jungle (which is more or less the front yard) with the young kids to look for monkeys, feeding the hundreds of catfish in our small pond, and eating dal bhat. The one oppressive difference is this heat. Lawd, lawd...may I never complain about a Tennessee summer again. Sometime yesterday afternoon between the heat, jetlag, and lack of water, I collapsed for a pre-dinner nap. Thankfully Laxmi had dropped off ample water during my slumber and the monsoon season had dropped off a characteric afternoon rain to cool things off for the night time. It seems that the bedroom which was once our sanctuary away from 16 loud children is no sanctuary at all...the outside shade is where the coolness dwells...and so I will dwell with it.

Last night we celebrated Sima's 13th birthday so I gave the kids some of the gifts I brought (I decided to delay the giving to make it more managable). I'm not sure if you're familiar with Silly Bandz or Crazy Bracelets or whatever they're called, but they are rubber bands that vary in shape (lady bug, bear, spider, etc), turn into bracelets, and sometimes glow in the dark. They are all the craze in the States so I brought some along with me. Well, the kids were just about obsessed as they dove under beds and into closets to find the darkest location possible in order to prove their claim. Secil would then emerge from underneath the bed, point to his bracelet, and say "Miss, power!!" He then told me this morning that the spider band that he got made him Spiderman...seriously, bringing him home this time.

I will be sharing more stories in the next few days, but now I have to return the bike to Manish and wait for Laxmi to see if we're going to the market today...always an adventure.

If you're new to these kiddos, feel free to check out the blog I kept while here the first time:
www.travelsinnepal.blogspot.com There are some photos to give faces to all these names!

lightning bugs

2010-07-03T20:59:00.000-07:00

(written Friday, July 2, 2010)

Since early June when the heat forced my small community house to keep the doors and windows open at all times, I would find the occasional company of lightning bugs in my bedroom as I was falling to sleep. Small illuminations from nature came to enchant my dreams and make me grin. Their presence was so infrequent, unexpected, and welcomed that it served as the most beautiful illustration for those glimmering heartbeats of romance as well as for all those moments when home is discovered in the most foreign of circumstances.

The Isle of Ometepe, Cafe Hawelka, the taste of gnocchi in Rome, on top of a mountain in Glacier, with the kids at Harka...

And so it is that I just watched Uruguay defeat Ghana in dramatic fashion with other travelers outside a sports pub in Chicago O’Hare airport, and carried my anxious energy to Gate M10 where I will depart for Kathmandu via Abu Dhabi. Just as lightning strikes twice and lightning bugs sneak in to give me a giddy sense of peace before sleep, I am able to see the children once again.

I am thankful for small wonders and simple promises.

great anticipation

2010-06-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

I purchased malaria medicine that will make my skin sensitive to the sun. So if I come back looking like Tulie's (above photo) older sister (actually, mother..sheesh) blame it on the pharmaceutical company and not my disconcern for my health.

Friday afternoon I will depart for the inevitable days of exhausting travel that will land me (by God's good grace) in the hot, humid, bug-invested property of Harka Orphan Home where I will scoop up every hot, humid, bug-invested child and kiss their snotty faces until they push me away. Ahhh, paradise comes in funny packages.

And so it is that one large suitcase has been stuffed with outfits that my friend, Sarah, so generously purchased for the kids (photo shoots will be had), world maps given to me by my good friend Tom, an assortment of practical first aid materials, finger puppets, bubbles, clay, bandanas, photos from that time Cedric and I went to WWE Raw (I think I may become a mini celebrity just because I've been in the same arena as some of these kids' heroes), and the 16 beanie frogs that my sisters and I are frantically sewing all for the sake of 16 children loving and beating them to death in the muddy confines of their play world.

My hopeful arrival is next Monday where I'll see these munchkins...

...and be doing a lot of this...

Keep an eye open for quite a few stories over the course of July!

one month...

2010-06-03T07:35:00.000-07:00

...until I leave for Nepal!!! My anticipation is growing by the day, but as usual, I can't even fully realize the fact that I will be with the kiddos in just one month. Whoa. And though excitement runs through my veins back to my heart to give it life at the moment, I can't help but be saddened that Britta won't be with me this go around. It will be strange walking to the village for some cookies and hopeful internet by myself telling the local kids that my name is John Cena. The following are a few favorites from two and half years ago...I can't wait to see how much they've grown.

Tulie's steering while Manesa checks herself out in the mirror

morning dal bhat before school

the little ones keeping watch over the rice

a northside view of the compound

a first bubbles experience as Buddi holds up Ashish

catching bubbles takes such concentration

here's my boy, Manish...his nickname for me was Giraffe

our friends that inhabit the jungles to the south of Harka

a prayer from brother nouwen

2010-06-01T11:53:00.000-07:00

O Lord, let me praise you, bless you, worship you. So often my prayer turns into introspective ruminations regarding my own confused feelings and emotions. So often I find myself engaged in reciting a litany of self-complaints, or my attention wanders to people and events that inhabit my restless mind. O Lord, why do I keep focusing so much on what separates me from you? You are the source of all goodness, beauty, and love. You have shown me your mercy by coming to me and lifting me up into your own life through the life of your Church. And still I keep living as if the thousand other things that crowd my mind need more attention than you.

Help me in this struggle to make you the center of my inner life. Give me the grace of prayer. Show me clearly and convincingly how I am fooling myself, and give me the strength to follow this insight. Most of all, O Lord, let me understand that in and through you all my little concerns will be taken care of. You do not despise my worries, but you do ask me to trust that you will deal with them when I simply keep my eyes on you and your reign.

Teach me, O Lord, your way. Amen.

preparation

2010-05-25T08:13:00.000-07:00

The gospel, God's free gift of grace in Jesus, only works when we realize we don't have it all together. The same is true for prayer. The very thing we are allergic to--our helplessness--is what makes prayer work. It works because we are helpless. We can't do life on our own.

-Paul Miller

a garden, baby, some wine and best pals...

2010-05-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

This April and May have been busybusy. I finished up my last three prerequisite classes before I begin nursing school this fall...Nashville had a flood that brought immense devastation and as Karl, my housemate and patriarch of the Nashville Greenlands community I live in, so cheekly noted, "I know this flood's caused a lot of hardship, but our asparagus grew two feet!" So while our garden, indeed, has been producing wonderful vegetables, I have continued taking care of the sweetest baby, Eleanor. Seriously, best job I've ever had.

Three weeks ago my dearest Britta took the bus down from Chicago to Memphis for some good ole Southern lovin. This is that particular soul friend who I met working at the front desk of Many Glacier Hotel in Glacier National Park, Montana, four summers ago. From there, we spent about four months in Nepal the winter/spring of 2008 and a month in Costa Rica/Nicaragua last spring. I flew home to Chicago with Britta after our Central American adventures (see blog entry), and so this spring she was able to come down south. From bbq to block party, it was such a sweet reunion. Our next time together will be at Many Glacier this summer (she working that front desk and me visiting it)...whoop!

And to make this spring even more delicious, two of my bestest friends AND my oldest sister came in town over the weekend. Mandy is getting married in September and lives in DC, so while she was visiting her sweet mama, us girls in Nashville made it a good excuse to have a casual girls' night out to Arrington Vineyards where we drank their wine on picnic blankets with pears, cheese, and good conversation...maybe we got giggly. At least that's what the guys who let us do some wine tasting thought...After our silliness had sobered up a bit, we met a few others friends to end out the night. One of those was Jocelyn!! Her brilliant and talented self is getting a PhD at the University of Arkansas, so she rejoiced her finished semester by spending the week here with loads of laughter, good food, dear professors, a younger sister's graduation, and volunteering with all the Flood Relief we got goin on here. Sister Charlotte has known these friends for a good long while as well, and needed a fun weekend away from work--so she shared in all the festivities!

Here's to focusing on the good and beautiful...

radishes, about a month ago

oh goodness, I have LOVED the asparagus we've grown!

There's all sorts of stuff growing in this photo: blackberries, green onions, beets, black raspberries...

chestnut tree

Eleanor, six months

That's me and Britta with our trendy shades...

Her dream come true (actually, Britta didn't even know Graceland was in Memphis)

the king

Mandy's getting married...AND our 5 year college graduation reunion!

Sister Charlotte came in town for the weekend!

Mandypants...typical.

The group after several bottles of wine and wine tasting...apparently, we're hilarious.

Our hair is longgg...

Joce's hair is darkkk...

sneak peek

2010-05-01T15:29:00.000-07:00

Oh my goodness. These are the first photos I've seen of the kids at Harka since Britta and I were there two years ago. Pinky was a volunteer nine months after us and just was able to visit for a few weeks last month....she sweetly shared these with us! They are tiny images but adorable, nonetheless.

hajari

2010-04-27T12:54:00.000-07:00

As I woke this morning I noticed that the date on my phone was April 27...some people are more apt to knowing dates than others...I not being one of them. So even when I saw the date in my 6am delirium, I was pleasantly surprised. For today is Hajari's birthday. It snuck up on me this year, thus giving me all the more vigor to think of him throughout the day. Hajari was born six years ago, April 27, 2004, just six weeks before I arrived at Mother's Choice orphan home in Hong Kong for the summer months.

It is there that I fell in love with this chunky mohawked child, and for the briefest of moments, I became his adoring caretaker (along with many others, but I was the most obsessed). He was adopted to a local Hong Kong couple that November, and though I have been unable to stay in touch and see him grow, I have all the confidence that he is well loved and cared for. I smile thinking of how he's spending his sixth birthday, what friends he has made, what sport or toy he is most enamored with, etc. So while I think of him today, here are a few of those photos from our summer together.

the earth and grace

2010-04-15T07:45:00.000-07:00

In honor of Earth Day and the many other reminders of creation as of late, here is a favorite of mine from Wendell Berry's Leavings:

XVII.

Hardly escaping the limitless machines
that balk his thoughts and torment his dreams,
the old man goes to his own
small place of peace, a patch of trees
he has lived from many years,
its gifts of a few fence posts and boards,
firewood for winter, some stillness
in which to know and wait. Used
and yet whole this dear place is, whole
by its own nature and by his need.
While he lives it will be whole,
and after him, God willing, another
will follow in that membership
that craves the wholeness of the world
despite all human loss and blame.

In the lengthening shadow he has climbed
again to the ridgetop and across
to the westward slope to see the ripe
light of autumn in the turning trees,
the twilight he must go by now
that only grace can give. Thus far
he keeps the old sectarian piety:
By grace we live. But he can go
no further. Having known the grace
that for so long has kept this world,
haggard as it is, as we have made it,
we cannot rest, we must be stirring
to keep that gift dwelling among us,
eternally alive in time. This
is the great work, no other, none harder,
none nearer rest or more beautiful.

easter

2010-04-10T14:49:00.000-07:00

I ended up hopping in my car Saturday night to spend a last-minute Holy Weekend in Memphis with my family and friends. We shared in a feast that Sunday afternoon with a beautiful mosaic of children (could have manifested into a Baby Gap commercial at any moment).

my nephew, Levi

baby Danielle

Jonny and his new son, Kaleb

Kimbel

Lucy

namche bazaar

2010-04-08T08:04:00.000-07:00

Just a few short miles down from Sargamatha (Mount Everest)

thirst

2010-03-30T11:54:00.001-07:00

by Mary Oliver

Another morning and I wake with thirst
for the goodness I do not have. I walk
out to the pond and all the way God has
given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord,
I was never a quick scholar but sulked
and hunched over my books past the hour
and the bell; grant me, in your mercy,
a little more time. Love for the earth
and love for you are having such a long
conversation in my heart. Who knows what
will finally happen or where I will be sent,
yet already I have given a great many things
away, expecting to be told to pack nothing,
except the prayers which, with this thirst,
I am slowy learning.

soniya and baby manish

2010-03-26T09:41:00.000-07:00

Soniya and I both had a scar on our right cheek from a dog bite--she was also filled with sarcasm and a loud laugh. I called her my sista.

ashish

2010-03-23T08:30:00.000-07:00

I definitely haven't forgotten about my Nepali anticipation. Here is another video and some photos...oh goodness. Ashish is the ham of Harka orphan home. It's hard not to love his charming smile, contagious laugh, and huge head/belly combo. There were five children too young to enter school, so they would stay home with us as we spent our days reading Dr. Seuss, playing soccer, bathing, cleaning, preparing food, etc. Here, Laxmi (the 'director'/mother figure to all the kids) and Britta are helping Ashish practice his numbers in English. Numbers six and eight were usually skipped with much amusement.

Classic Old Man Ashish

my girls

2010-03-20T19:49:00.000-07:00

Kenneshia, QueQue & Dria
Sunday, March 14, 2010

utahhh

2010-03-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

Last week I had the pleasant opportunity to spend a week in Deer Valley, Utah, nannying for four families including my precious kiddos from Memphis--Mason, Carrington and Tucker. The weather was beautiful and the mountains were majestic as usual...they looked a bit more regal than usual, however, seeing how it had been over a year since I'd seen any. My Sheena Bean who currently is studying Arabic linguistics at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City came over for a girl's night which included hot tub, sauna, movies, food, repeat. And I even got to meet up with my cousins from Mississippi (who I had seen just a few weeks earlier at the family reunion) as they were out skiing for their spring break. Ah, and that skiing...I was blessed to get a whole day on the slopes. It took me about that amount of time to remember how to distribute my weight and glide with confidence, but it just reminded me of how thankful I am for life and mountains and big blue skies.

The view from our front porch...sunrise

Tucker and Carrington

toofless

mi sobrino

2010-03-18T09:40:00.000-07:00

This is my nephew, Levi, and I am completely aware of how many photos I just uploaded. But seriously, how cute is he. These were all taken the weekend of the family reunion when he and I went to explore the wonders of leaves and rocks.

family reunion

2010-03-18T09:21:00.000-07:00

Before I get back into a Nepal photo exhibit, I need to backtrack into the last month's details. My father turned 65 in mid-February, and for the occasion we had a surprise family reunion in Southern Mississippi. I saw cousins and aunts and uncles that I hadn't seen in years (some, ever), and my dad took my two sisters and I on a brief tour of his hometown. It was a very special weekend with some Holy Spirit-sanctioned weather.

(my cute dad on the bottom right with his brother and cousins)

(my beautiful little cousins: Mary Caldwell above, Shelby below)

secil

2010-03-04T10:20:00.000-08:00

Oh my goodness, I miss this kid. Secil was five years old in this photo, the youngest of our kids who went to school daily. He is pure boy, and played it suave and distant for the first week or so that we were there. Shortly thereafter, however, he was creeping his little cuteness up in our lives. He just loved to laugh, play tricks, and wear our shoes.

anticipation

2010-03-02T12:31:00.000-08:00

I realized last night that I will be going to Nepal in just four months. It's March...that's surprising and magical and so close to spring...then summer...and July's in summer. With such an event hovering just months away, I thought I would make it a habit to post either photos or videos from my time at Harka just two years ago. For those of you who may not be aware of my time there, you can read the stories at:
www.travelsinnepal.blogspot.com
This just happens to be my favorite video. Tulie was just over two years old here and we had a game where she would ask me what my name was and I would same any name (including poop, 'gu') until I finally said mine...it would keep us laughing for hours. That's Jamuna, one of the girl twins, in the background. Adorable...

work that is to be done

2010-03-02T12:09:00.000-08:00

"People notice peacemakers because they dress funny. We know how the people who make war dress--in uniforms and medals, or in computers and clipboards, or in absoluteness, severity, greed, and cynicism. But the peacemaker is dressed in righteousness, justice, and faithfulness--dressed for the work that is to be done."
-Walter Brueggemann

so calm the swelling billows

2010-01-26T09:27:00.001-08:00

Nothing will so enlarge the intellect, nothing so magnify the whole soul of man, as a devout, earnest, continued investigation of the great subject of the Deity. Would you lose your sorrow? Would you drown your cares? Then go, plunge yourself in the Godhead's deepest sea; be lost in his immensity; and you shall come forth as from a couch of rest, refreshed and invigorated. I know nothing which can so comfort the soul; so calm the swelling billows of sorrow and grief; so speak peace to the winds of trial, as a devout musing upon the subject of the Godhead.

-C.H. Spurgeon

composure

2010-01-10T10:21:00.000-08:00

"Like Snow"

Suppose we did our work
like the snow, quietly, quietly,
leaving nothing out.

-Wendell Berry

Recently, a few of my dearest friends gave me the hardback of Berry's newest poetry collection, Leavings. It was upon my own leaving from Memphis to Nashville. His poetry has the kind of force that crawls into your heart and sits for a while. There is a sense of recognition and familiarity--just as there is with those dear friends.

Appropriately enough, snow did fall this past week. Its prediction was anything but quiet as it tends to go in the South with a flurry of school cancellations, mass chaos on the side streets marked with ice, and the kind of panic that leaves a family camped indoors with hot tea and reruns of The Cosby Show as the only fuel for survival. Mind you, this is only after an inch or two of snowfall.

There was a moment just yesterday, however, when the house was quiet and I looked out the window to watch the flakes fall slowly, deliberately, needing no approval from the ground below. It was beautiful, and I thought that this was the kind of moment Berry needed from his Kentucky farm to write such a poem.

As I said before, I moved to Nashville just this past week after four years of a base in Memphis. Granted, much of those four years was spent traveling, but nonetheless, I left a home to return to another. It is in the first few weeks of any move or transition that you try to gain or regain composure. And so I'm trying to live with purpose in a simultaneous bold and quiet manner which is generally opposed to my personality. Speak less, listen more. Simple instruction as old as communication and relationships. Observe...check. Pray...working on it. Write...stop nagging me.

Last night, I left the patient glimpse from within a heated house to the bitter outdoors where my shoes left prints in the crunched flakes that had so beautifully fallen earlier. I was with a friend who is an outreach worker with the homeless community of Nashville. We had a trunk filled with blankets, gloves, coats, and a few empty seats to commute those who desired to an alternative shelter. I watched and listened as my friend spouted out name after name and the exact location of where they typically squatted or had a camp. With an eagerness that reflects the light of the gospel, she made quick stops, u-turns, one-way darts throughout downtown. I joined her under bridges down train tracks and behind abandoned buildings, to make sure those that were sleeping outside knew they had options tonight. $6 gave Thomas, Blackey and their cat Bobby enough gas to run their truck's heater for maybe an hour. It was a joy to see that most of the usual sleeping spots were already vacant, and we laughed as Nathan the Naturalist jokingly advised that body heat was the best way to stay warm. He's right, just not with us.

Do I trust that God is good while Phil and I zip three blankets into a new coat that he balances on his bicycle handles while sticking three tampons from Lindsey's purse into his side pocket for his girlfriend ("We only got toilet paper" he says)? When Yolanda is arrested regularly for being mentally disturbed, homeless, and sleeping on 'restricted' streets? When ex-sex offenders are banned from the one free shelter in Nashville? I do trust him--tonight anyhow. I trust that he cares for Phil and his girlfriend, that God delights in Yolanda's smile as we all listen to Sigur Ros driving down 65 South, that he remembers those most forgotten by society...ironically, God's concern is the very thing that provokes my questions.

I trust that he will bend my heart toward his, that he will direct me in the right path of education for the good of my character, that there will be a man that I will love for who he is and likewise, that I will one day hold a 2 month old that I will help raise to be a 12 year old--through the bratty and stupid cute years alike. And perhaps, if my trust proves to not look like this picture, then his concern for my life is still what will draw me to the hows and whys. He is good. I believe he takes great delight in watching us realize our stories as they grow longer and more complicated--leaving nothing out.

journey of the magi

2009-12-06T13:16:00.000-08:00

by T.S. Eliot

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times when we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities dirty and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wineskins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

wild geese

2009-11-25T08:36:00.001-08:00

A beautiful friend gave me this poem on a rather difficult day. I'm thankful for poetry, and friends who know the deep healing of words and creation.

"Wild Geese"
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

ego and soul

2009-11-07T19:30:00.000-08:00

"Is there anything that I can do to make myself enlightened?"

"As little as you can do to make the sun rise in the morning."

"Then of what use are the spiritual exercises you prescribe?"

"To make sure you are not asleep when the sun begins to rise."

-Zen master to his disciple

(from Richard Rohr's Everything Belongs)

instructions upon entering darkness

2009-11-06T07:26:00.000-08:00

You must hibernate:

Gather food,

Hold your rosary,

Hope (try to).

Always surround yourself with books,

not to read (necessarily)

But to remind yourself that some things

do last

and new stories are retold.

Transformation with time.

Don't talk too much,

Lips need slumber too.

Learn to listen,

Ears need constant vigilance.

Pray,

Only then will you know inherent value.

Drink wine with friends who don't

rush your pain.

Believe that humility rarely shows

up without humiliation.

Turn your face to the sky:

The earth will continue to rotate around an axis

toward the sun's rays.

Winter is coming,

Spring will come after.

The deep sleep will be aroused...

It will.

A frozen river still rushes water deep within.

And when the ice does thaw,

don't forget.

The sea was parted, the walls were tumbled,

the way was prepared.

Remember--for this will come again--

Just as the leaves fall, fertilize and recloak

the oaks of righteousness.

those of us most defeated and most elated

2009-11-06T06:47:00.000-08:00

"The words 'I' and 'Love' and 'You' are the watermark of humanity. Strung together, they convey our deepest sense of humility, of power, of truth. It is our most common sentiment, even as the feeling of it is so infinitely uncommon; each to proclaim these three words with his or her very own heart and mindset of reason (or lack thereof); a proclamation completely and perfectly new each time it is offered. Uttered daily and nightly by millions, the words are said in an unending array of circumstances: whispered to the newborn in a new mother's arms; shared between best friends on the playground; in the form of sympathy--said by a girl to a boy, as the respect continues but the relationship does not. It is said too loudly by parents to embarrassed children in the company of their friends, and by grown children--to their fading parents in hospital beds. The words are thought in the company of the photograph and said in the company of the gravestone. It is how we end our phone calls and our letters...the words at the bottom of the page that trump all those above it, a way to gracefully finish a message, however important or trivial, with the most meaningful gift of all: the communication of love. And yet the words themselves have been the victims of triviality, a ready replacement for lesser solutions among near strangers, burst forth casually as 'love ya.' Truly? To what degree? Why, how much, and for how long? These are questions befitting the stature of love, though not the everyday banter of vague acquaintance. The words have also been twisted by the dark nature of deceit; to say, 'I love you' with a dramatic measure of synthetic emotion; a snare set by those who prey upon fellow humanity, driven to whatever selfish end, to gain access to another's body, or their money, or their opportunity. In this realm, the proclamation is disgraced by one seeking to gain rather than to give. In any case, and by whatever inspiration, these words are woven deeply into the fibers of our existence. Our longing to hear them from the right place is maddeningly and simultaneously our finest strength and our most gentle weakness. The album 'I and Love and You' is unashamedly defined by such a dynamic of duality. As living people, we are bound by this unavoidable parallel. We are powerful yet weak, capable yet temporary. Inevitably, an attempt to place honesty within an artistic avenue will follow suit. [...] 'I and Love and You' is an album of obvious human creation, characterized by its best and its worst. Emotional imperfection is a reality for those who recorded the piece, just as it is for those who will hear it. The conclusion of the song from which the title is taken admits that the words 'I love you' have become 'hard to say.' And perhaps that difficulty is as common as its counterpart. Perhaps the inability to say these heaviest of words is as much a part of life as the lighthearted candor of those who say them without any difficulty at all. And so it ends with the phrase whispered to and by those of us most defeated and most elated...I and love and you..."

-The Avett Brothers

everything belongs

2009-10-28T10:39:00.000-07:00

Perhaps this is what love is for:

to live then die then live again.

Once, alone in perceiving self;

Now, hand is in the hand of nature.

Once, out of place with what seemed good;

Now, eyes see a leaf's veins as my own blood reservoir.

To know that our hearts beat

as the seasons beat

Life and Death and Life again

is good.

(Sometimes) love must end to birth resurrection.

fyodor dostoyevsky

2009-10-28T10:34:00.000-07:00

"Love people even in their sin, for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all of God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand of it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love."

from The Brothers Karamazov

a poem

2009-08-11T08:09:00.001-07:00

From Mary Karr's Sinners Welcome

"Descending Theology: The Resurrection"

From the far star points of his pinned extremities,
cold inched in--black ice and blood ink--
till the hung flesh was empty. Lonely in that void
even for pain, he missed his splintered feet,
the human stare buried in his face.
He ached for two hands made of meat
he could reach to the end of.
In the corpse's core, the stone fist of his heart

began to bang on the stiff chest's door,
and breath spilled back into that battered shape. Now
it's your limbs he longs to flow into--
from the sunflower center in your chest
outward--as warm water
shatters at birth, rivering every way.

where to love and whom

2009-06-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

I've snuck into another season. The post and pre of travel arousal. The middle--the in-between. I have always only found writing easy and necessary with new, tangible sensations of different languages and colors and strangers in strange lands, and it is now that I remain in Tennessee where my roots began and were cultivated and are ever still open to rain and strength. I don't write in Tennessee...not well, not naturally. (Well, there was that one time I gleefully dissected the male gaze theory within American Beauty).

These are ordinary times where I am training my brain to dissect the human body and press on toward the skills of nursing and being alongside those who are sick, hurting. Ordinary hopes to fit all my hair in a ponytail by the end of the summer, not kill all the plants I planted, and take my kiddos to church where they learn that the Lord loves them and made them special. I just saw the trailer of Where the Wild Things Are and though it may not come out until October, it keeps me going.

I want to learn the discipline of thankfulness--for the ordinary and expected, the slow patient time that wraps into months and years. I want to see the table in front of me with its mahogany wood once stained and now battered by coffee mugs rings and the weight of books and wonder who made it, how many thrift stores and yard sales it passed through before making home in this living room of a java market. I want to know people with such wonder: like the man at Kroger who works with such exhilarating confidence and joy as a grocer, or the Aussie who changed my oil the other day and had a tattoo of Elvis on his calf. I wonder if he moved to Memphis because of Elvis, or because of a woman, or both.

He had the inevitable dirt and oil underneath his nails that has recently become a favorite observation. To work in the earth or with tools is getting us closer to the way things used to be, how humanity was always intended to interact with creation. To build and plant and create are echos of necessity and birth and beauty. Ordinary, absolutely. Glorious, indeed. I am hopeful that the ordinary will be so simple and intoxicating that I will gravitate to such a discipline. But it does take new eyes and ears to see and hear the breaths of nature, the constant turning of love, mercy, restoration.

"We sleep to time's hurdy-gurdy; we wake, if we ever wake, to the silence of God. And then, when we wake to the deep shores of time uncreated, then when the dazzling dark breaks over the far slopes of time, then it's time to toss things, like our reason, and our will; then it's time to break our necks for home.

There are no events but thoughts and the heart's hard turning, the heart's slow learning where to love and whom. The rest is merely gossip, and tales for other times."

-Annie Dillard 'Holy the Firm'

May our senses break to the patient knowing of God and love.

let it go

2009-06-15T15:37:00.000-07:00

let it go--the

smashed word broken

open vow or

the oath cracked length

wise--let it go it

was sworn to

let them go--the

truthful liars and

the false fair friends

and the boths and

neithers--you must let them go they

were born

to go

let all go--the

big small middling

tall bigger really

the biggest and all

things--let all go

dear

so comes love

(brother ee)

el resto es silencio

2009-05-06T09:10:00.000-07:00

It has been on the more gloomy side of things here in Memphis since last Friday. This morning is no different, but I find myself typing on a small circular table surrounded by good and not-so-good artwork at a local coffee shop listening to the Amelie soundtrack. I am back from my travels. In fact, Britta and I flew out of Costa Rica two weeks ago, but I've been too busy or apathetic to write since I returned...mostly busy, but the apathy surfaces when I don't want to face the fact that I'm not on the move...an inevitable reality.

We really should begin at the end which would take us to Nicaragua. You saw the photos and read stories of Ometepe...I love the name so much, it might sneak into a child's birth certificate one day. After the volcanic adventure with exceptional comrades, we scurried on to our last new destination, Granada. A welcomed location for travelers to visit and never leave, the small colonial town bordering Lake Nicaragua, combines the warmth of Nicaraguan character and livelihood with a splash of former European development that reflects the pastels of coastal Spain, Italy or Slovenia.

Our hostel boasted numerous computers with free internet, a small pool, and an enjoyable silence. It also was housing one Rebecca Schneibel. Half German, half French, she was raised in Berlin, lived and studied in London for 4 years, is in the midst of her PhD in pyschology back in Germany, and took several months to explore most of South America and a good bit of Central America. She was splendid, and we spent the majority of our weekend doing the traveling dance known as instantaneous amigos. Her British accent was flawless and her gorgeous curly mass of hair framed a Tori Amos-like resemblance.

Since it was our last Saturday night on the Latino scene and the first time in a long while we were in an actual city, we promised her we would go out for a lady's night. Off to an open-aired cafe/bar we went with live music and mint mojitos. The only open table was alongside two Argentinian-turned-Costa Rican men who boasted charming smiles and made even better company. Carlos, shown below (along with Rebecca), is an artist who grew up in Patagonia and moved to Costa Rica 15 years ago. Leandro, not pictured because he was busy not dancing and guarding my purse, introduced himself as a cook who lived in Monteverde. Monteverde just so happens to be a tiny town with the best food we ate in Costa Rica...and as small and intimate as the world tends to be, of course it was that same cafe that Leandro had worked for the past 3 years. We laughed and chatted and danced until our yawns were too overwhelming to hide, and said good night. We tried to convince the fellas to go with us to Laguna de Apoyo the following morning for a day's worth of chillin', but they chose the always-so-tempting sleeping-in option. Unfortunately, we were away at dinner that next night when they came by and left a hilarious note at our hostel. And this is where that separate island of all the cool people you meet traveling would come in handy--no notes necessary.

Nevertheless, Britta, Rebecca and I had one amazing day relaxing, swimming, reading, and kayaking in the crater of a volcano. The weather could not have been more appropriate, and the hotel where we spent the day could not have been better suited for living slowly and deliberately. You can see that Britta and I promoted world peace while staying afloat on the intertubes, Rebecca and her British pal enjoyed the Nicaraguan handicraft of a hammock seat swing, and we developed our ripped arms by whitewater kayaking across the calm crater waters.

Back home in Granada, we took the remaining sunlight to photograph the very photogenic walls, cobblestones, churches, graffiti, passer-byers. You could roam these streets for a good lifetime.

We ate dinner, laughed at our note, and hugged Rebecca goodbye before we got on a much-too-early bus ride back to Alajuela, Costa Rica. TICA bus is basically the yuppy way to travel and we reveled in the comfort of the cushioned seats, ample leg space, easy border crossing, and the always humorous happenings of strangers falling asleep on each other's shoulders. And many hours later we arrived back to Hotel Cortez Azul where Eduardo was waiting with our stored winter coats and one incredibly large box that contained the handmade rocking chair (not our hands....some much more talented Costa Rican hands) I bought for my parents. Britta and I got a last fruit shake, some not-so-great seafood, and wandered back to the hotel where we finished one of my bottles of the homemade chocolate liquor hailing from Ometepe (Eduardo tried it, and stuck to his red wine). A starry night was the backdrop to our packed bags, finished glasses, and well-traveled laughter. The following morning I held my breath and my yellow fever vaccination card (of course, it wasn't needed, but I thought it was worth covering my bases) as I got my boarding pass for a flight to Chicago.

Britta and I have known each other for three years now. We met working in Glacier National Park in northern Montana for a summer season, and kept in touch the following year before we decided to hop on a plane to Nepal together. That was where our friendship grew in depth and where a common love for children, adventure, culture, love was indelibly printed. We had traveled the world together, but it wasn't until going to Chicago that we saw one or the other in a hometown familiarity. Similar to my childhood here in Memphis, Britta's parents have lived in the same house for a longgg period of time, and so to not only see the house where your friend grew up, but eat the Italian subs she ate everyday during high school, and spend an evening in the Wrigley Sanctuary of a stadium where she once spent two years selling tickets, is such a sweet way of getting to know her through the pulse of a childhood. Britta would never in her right mind live in Chicago again, but with days of glorious spring that erase a winter chill, the city was in a good season to show off.

While in Chicago, we reunited with other good friends from our summer in Glacier. Ken and Sarah who you see snuggled up in ski clothing with us in the photo above joined us in a rootrootroot for the Cubbies as we caught up on life since I last saw them at their wedding last June. We also had a coffee break just hours before my bus departed for Memphis--they're the kind of friends I never want to say, "Wow, it's been years since I've seen them." That should never happen. The other two gorgeous ladies seen below are the ones and onlies, Margaret and Gwen. Margaret, Britta and I represented the esteemed Front Desk for the summer 2006 squad, and Gwen managed the boxed wine heaven of our snack shop, Heidi's. We ate Chicago pizza, drank beer at Billy Goat's, and talked about old memories (I got a good cackle or two in with my laugh twin, Marge).

It has been my good fortune to have had only immaculate weather in Chicago the four times I've visited...such luck allowed me and Britta to bike around the city my entire last day with a stint of sunbathing at Lake Michigan to boot. Britta can sometimes be insane as you can so clearly see as she attempts a full immersion in sub-arctic lake temperatures. She just wanted to show off that tan.

I said goodbye to Britta in front of Union Station, and similar to our departure in Nepal, it seemed odd that we wouldn't be each others' shadows for the days to come. The first edition of my tour of the Americas had come to a close, but I feel certain the second will be lurking around some soon corner waiting to surprise and enthrall. For now it is Memphis, where two of my dearest friends in this world married last weekend and where I will begin classes to eventually become a nurse in just a few weeks. I will be soon starting on a small garden and hoping that my Vietnam Veteran of a dog will not die of post-tramatic stress disorder during an anticipated spring thunderstorm. Maybe not as exotic as jungle surfing volcano explorations, but a good life indeed.

the world will freely offer itself to you

2009-04-19T21:40:00.000-07:00

You don´t need to leave your room.
Remain sitting at your table and listen.
Don´t even listen, simply wait.
Don´t even wait.
Be quite still and solitary.
The world will freely offer itself to you.
To be unmasked, it has no choice.
It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

-Franz Kafka

It has been a gift to travel once again, meet new people, see the beauty of the world, suck the marrow out of life. We leave in the morning for San Jose where we will spend one more night with lovely Eduardo and fly out Tuesday afternoon. I will come up with a clever, or not-so-clever conclusion when I am nestled in Chicago watching the Cubs with Britta and old friends. Oh, and check out her blog for a bird´s eye view of her entire journey (including the 10 days I was letting anti-yellow fever settle in my system): www.morethanmountains.blogspot.com
She has some pretty hilarious anecdotes of other characters we´ve met along the way.

the beasts of ometepe

2009-04-18T17:36:00.000-07:00

It´s not that Britta and I aren´t organized. We are rather responsible and can be anally attentive to detail; however, when going to Nicaragua from Costa Rica, we didn´t make any..any..plans. We had only focused on CR with a big travel book in hand and preparations for months, but when Marcos and Sarah tempted us to the north with it´s cheaper accomodations and varied landscape, we left the travel home back in its home and got on the first local bus to Nicaragua from Monteverde. We were going to the Island of Ometeppe and Granada...we´d figure the rest out along the way.

But not before we had to cross the border. Oh goodness, no airport annoyance I´ve ever had could compare to this chaos. Exit one country with people screaming, lines curving, stamps stamping, cross an ambiguous divide where the security guy winked and flirted into the grand entrance of Central America´s second poorest country. This is where the headache began and the crowds started to feel like a mantra of every Nicaraguan trying to sell toothbrushes, throat lozenges, soda, chips, candy, whatever on the local, 90´s soft rock-playing buses--piercing, consistent, stop it I´m not buying. But we did, in fact, get through, and not throw up our hands and surrender ourselves back into Costa Rica...and immediately we were satisfied with the enormity of Volcán Concepción, one of the two volcanoes that makes its home on the small island of Ometeppe (meaning ´two hills´).

At the end of our ferry ride, a German by the name of Lennart whose profile resembled more of a Coldplay Chris Martin, and whose German obsession with being clean, organized, wearing tight tanktops and go-crazy-island shirts while he´s away from Berlin, made him hilarious. He must have seen the forlorn look we had not knowing where the heck we were going, and whisked us off with him in a taxi to the opposite side of the island in a farm hippy commune compost toilet ecological gem of a place on earth in Santa Cruz. For the next two days we refused to intentionally sweat under such a sun so we neglected the hike up either volcano. Instead, we drank smoothies, homemade chocolate liquor from the hippie compost commune, and swam in Lake Nicaragua (home to the only fresh water sharks in the world, you trivia nuts).

Our first day we met Caroline and Sebastian...they had the same beach bum plans (and vacationed from El Salvador with only their passport, surfboard, money and the bathing suit on their body), so we ate a meal for 3 hours, baywatched ourselves in the water and ate more food together. They may get the prize for the ¨whoa, you´re how old and you´ve done how many things already??¨ Both at the ripe age of 21, they just met up a couple weeks ago in El Salvador. From Quebec, Caroline took her bike down to Mexico where she rode for hundreds of miles down the coast staying in homes, beaches, restaurants floors, learning Spanish and feeling adventurous. Britta and I kept wondering what her parents thought about this...After several months there, she met up Sebastian in ES to learn how to surf (they had met on couchsurfing.com which is something that gives hope to all mankind). Sebastian was born in Norway to a native mother and Mississippian father, and spent his high school years and now college semesters (the ones he attends) in North Carolina...Boone, that is, at App State. With long curly locks, skin that has been darkened 30 times over by the surfing sun, and a smile that looks like bleached tile and sparkles like the stars under the Alabama-Quaker-founded Monteverde sky, he is right up there with Hannah from London as most adorable creature on the planet. After he graduated from high school he spent 2 months on the Appalachian Trail by himself and another 4 months in a station wagon going to every national park...he has covered 49 of the 50 states (no Alaska yet)...at 21...21. These two kids (because I feel that graduating in 2012 means you´re young) were a blast.

And so the 3 days on the island were spent per usual: meet cool folk, frolic, exercise only to a destination of laziness, and marvel at the hand of God. Since the island is primarily farmland, and the water is free from saltiness, all animals walk the sandy beaches along with the few tourists.

And it is here in Granada where we bought the remainder of our gifts, have typed willingly on the free, fast internet at our fabulous hostel, met my sole other Rebecca, from Berlin as well (I will detail her later, for sure), danced and laughed with two good-looking Argentinian men (both now live in Costa Rica...one a painter, the other the cook at our favorite cafe in Costa Rica from Monteverde...no kidding, Britta went to the cafe 3 times, myself once), and are about to leave for a day at the local volcano´s lagoon...these folks are crazy about their volcanoes.

that second reason

2009-04-18T17:32:00.000-07:00

For anyone who´s traveled and hopped from one border to the next, one hostel to the other, there is an absolute common denominator that the folks you meet can make or break a location. As I´ve already mentioned, Jaco was a grand three days of surfing, laughing, Quizno´s (insert shame), and good conversation. It is a combination of the shared energy of vagabonds, outlaws, lovers that takes curiosity, magic, and gregariousness, throws them together in a wad of saltwater and creates instantaneous friendship. I have often thought that it would be a kind of Neverland to capture all the characters you´ve met along the way only for a breath and see how such a place would make you dream--naturally, the charm and romanticism would quickly fade, but the vision is still as fanciful as fairies.

Missy and Brian are from Colorado. We met them our first night in the Hostel owned by Edit, the Hungarian. They were immediately the most friendly couple I have ever met. We ate two breakfasts with them, chatted about good film, the art of packing, Brian took photos of all three of us learning to surf, etc. Brian is a counselor and Missy is thinking of going into nursing...we immediately wanted Brian to be our counselor, and for a film crew to run around Truman Showing their lives. Two gems right there.

What we have here are three Brits. We were thrown all together in a dorm our first night, and due to overbooking were sent as a team to another hostel down the road. Andrew, to the left with music genius, and Luke, to the right and resembling a bit of that royal family, are traveling nine months all-in-all having already been to Brazil, Peru and Panama. It is a surfing extravaganza up through Central America, the West Coast of America, New Zealand, and Australia. They are childhood friends who thought it a good time to take off a chunk of a year for one lengthy adventure. Our first night they usurped control over the one computer for over an hour to gamble on the Masters Tournament. We three women naturally gave them grief about it, but it turned out that Luke put a healthy bet on the small odds of Angel Cabrera winning it all...well, he did and Luke was $500 wealthier. Hilarious. Karma is bound to catch up with them in Vegas. They were handsome, splendid company with classic wit. POD...BT.

Hannah here, also known as Ms. Julie Andrews, is one of the more adorable people in this world (along with Hayley Kaimakliotis hailing from London herself, Mandy Spears, Sheena Mugavin, and that little girl from Little Miss Sunshine...just want to put em in your pocket cute). Traveling by herself without a speck of Spanish or Portuguese, she went through Brazil for 2 months, all over Costa Rica, on her way to Mexico, and then the West Coast of the US herself. With all the lone travelers we´ve met, there is the common thread of personality: outgoing, trusting, adventurous, flexible, and friendly as all get out. With her sharp British accent and fireball confidence she toured the Western Hemisphere with ease and an iron...for hair and clothes...seriously.

And the trend continues as I ziplined through Monteverde and we crossed quite the thick, shady border of Nicaragua to the Isle de Ometepe, and now in Granada. I have couches to sleep on in Quebec, North Carolina, Berlin, and London. Good people all around.

the first reason we fell in love with Jaco

2009-04-13T11:27:00.000-07:00

Britta, surfboard & a Jaco sunset.

We arrived in Esterillo Este for the evening after our long week on the farm. It was a kind of paradise with hardly any folk, fruit drinks galore, hammocks next to the beach, sand-dollared walks, and a pool to boot. So our need for bank cash money that forced us down the road to tourist/surfer heaven Jaco, did not thrill our souls. We may have only stayed the night but it being Semana Santa (Holy Week) kept the buses non-existent for a couple days.

By the end of our second night we had surfed and made good friends. With the adrenaline that comes with riding waves at sunset for the first time and getting chummy with three swell Brits, a Costa Rican surfer, and the sweetest couple from Colorado, we eagerly stayed here longer.

More stories and photos of our pals in a wee bit.

la finca

2009-04-13T11:12:00.000-07:00

Marcos and Britta with the chair

our treehouse home away from home

workin the field

cashews with its bosom buddy, the marañan fruit

the finished product

our afternoon sanctuary

papa

where we read books

When I was in grade school we had different kinds of fundraisers every year. They tended to focus on wrapping paper and magazines, and if you sold so many of either you would get prizes--cool to cooler. One year, maybe 5th grade, I won a tent. I am from the urbanization of Memphis, TN, and so to get the more bang for my free buck, I pitched the tent in my parents´dining room. They were good sports, and for the next several weeks, I would sleep in my prized tent with my tooth brush and toothpaste kept conveniently in the inside pocket where you store clever things. In years to come I would move the tents or just a sleeping bag under stars, near mountains, snuggled up to rivers, but it was that younger longing that took me there-thank goodness for People magazine.

Rivaling the star-bulleted ceiling of a July Many Glacier Valley was our home for the week we lived at the farm. Our cabaña was on the jungle floor of Mastetal built by our friend, Marcos, some years ago with the built-in surround sound of the rainforest to put you to sleep. Minus our first night´s encounter with the poisonous snake on our trip down to the cabaña, it could not have been a more perfect place to spend our nights. I will build one for my future niños (and myself) one of these days.

When we signed up to volunteer with Siempre Verde we had no idea that it would be so gloriously remote or so little actual farmwork. Their rainy season begins in just a few weeks, so we only did one day of real planting, clearing, shoveling, etc because hand watering all that stuff is something else. But we sure felt like farmers for that morning adding cantaloupes, cilantro, bean trees and radish seedlings to the earth. The rest of the working week we made a rocking chair. You know, professionals with amazing equipment may do one in a morning, but with Marcos, Britta, myself, a handsaw, sander and hammer, it took three. It rocks, that is all that matters in the end. Marcos, at the ripe age of 25, has already taken his entrepeneural mind to great heights by starting a Spanish Immersion school on his parents land (to see the cutest farmer dad of all time, look above), built the cabañas to hold students and eventually volunteers. He hopes to make the farm a fully sustainable land eventually, but first he hopes to continue to get used to marriage. He just married Sarah, a 19-year-old Californian who came to volunteer on the chocolate farm down the street and ended up becoming full-time partner to Marcos. They are in the middle of building a house, and furniture to go with (hence the rocking chair). She is quite the mature 19 year old who is becoming quite the Tica housewife.

A few of our small joys in such a short experience was collecting the marañan fruit with cashews attached on our way back from the river lazy afternoons, having Marcos roast and set them on fire, and then using a hammer and fingernails to break and peel the shell until a delicious cashew emerged to our satisfaction. Pineapple work breaks were pretty delicious as well.

Honestly, the only thing that really urged us to escape was our poor legs that got eaten alive by ants. Maybe there was another culprit as well, but those damn ants, we caught them in the act. So we said goodbye to Marcos, Sarah, his adorable father and the secluded riverside and jungle home for la playa.

jungle immersion

2009-04-04T09:37:00.000-07:00

I settled into Alajuela, Costa Rica, last Sunday, alongside Britta and Chelsea (Amanda and Emily had, unfortunately, left that very morning). In those two days we drank tasty fruit juices, watched a clown and some dogs compete with teenage cheerleaders for attention in the local park, bought winter coats (oh, the irony), got a close-up view of the local volcano, and slighty fell in love with our hostel´s owner...his name is Eduardo Rodriguez, and he made us home-made seviche, served us several glasses of wine, and talked passionately about his art and music...Britta and I have already made our reservation to stay there on our way back through.

We waved goodbye to Chelsea as she scooted off to the airport, and boarded several buses to Mastatal, our home in the middle of the jungle and mountains for the next week. Our first night we came across a poisonous snake on our way to the cabanas...our tree house in the middle of trees and every piece of tropical animal known to man. We have spent our days making rocking chairs...rough rocking chairs, eating pineapple, guava from trees, roasting cashews, napping in hammocks, and spending afternoons down by the river by ourselves. Yes, I may have surpassed the sunburn for the moment and have not seen to many hippy souvenirs, but heck, I am in Costa Rica.

Considering our location, internet is iffy to say the least. I will write more in detail when I get to the beach, and hopefully have some photos to share.

a natural colonialism

2009-03-28T21:30:00.000-07:00

In my almost one-month stay in Colombia, I have come to recognize quite a few stand-out qualities. For one, Colombians love poodles. Now, there are plenty of other kind of dogs roaming the streets, keeping you up at night with their constant screeching, but poodles outnumber the majority (and the yuppy ones still wear sweaters). There are an abnormal amount of adults who wear braces. Seriously, you would think it's a fashion statement the way they sport the metal...including an actress on one of the country's beloved soap operas. The current hair styles of modern teens and cooler twenty-thirty somethings is a male fauxhawk or a rather unattractive rat-tail-like concoction, and a female 80s rocker mullet. Chips are a far more acceptable food item for a meal, and it is common to have 2 cups of coffee and 2 cups of hot chocolate everyday. My salt and sugar levels have been rather unhealthy this past month. Of course, these trite observations are accompanied by the facts that Colombia is spectacularly beautiful. The land I saw by bus and truck is so similar to that of Nepal, but even more luscious due to its more consistent rainfall.

Colombia is a fine place to get an extra ten days on earth. Even though Jorge, Ginny, and Matilde were all incredibly ill for the past two weeks, we still managed to have fantastic movie nights. Jorge would hook up the projector and we would enjoy films like Australia (I mainly just enjoyed Hugh), Gosford Park, and Son of the Bride (an Argentinian film that was the best thing I've seen in ages). The weather was rather gloomy and disagreeable in Bogota, but time spent watching those movies with G & J or The Cosby Show with Suzie and Jonny were comforting moments of community and laughter.

I was able to help G & J with more technical aspects of their ministry such as updates on their website, a newsletter, and their expansive list of contacts. Thrown in the week was a day with Suzie when she took me downtown to the local markets. You don't see many tourists flocking toward these small vendors selling everything from toilet seats to the most beautiful jewelry on earth. But before I was to leave for Costa Rica, I wanted to seize the opportunity to explore a little more of Colombia....Villa de Leyva, specifically. We were going to all go as one big family, but the Enciso illness kept them at bay, and so with some extra convincing to Jorge, I made the decision to head off to the small town outside of Bogota by myself. And so it was that I awoke at the crack of dawn Thursday morning (too many crack of dawns lately) and caught my 10-passenger van to VdL.

It is considered to be one of the finest colonial villages of Colombia, and when it was named a National Monument in the 1950s it made sure that the architecture would remain unspoiled. I worked at Many Glacier Hotel in Glacier National Park, Montana, a few summers ago, and it is known (except to those yuppies with sweater-wearing poodles) as a historical hotel because its architecture resembles the time period in which it was built (finished in 1914). Think of an entire town that is maintained this way. It is entirely romantic; its large cobbled-stones hold many secrets of generations that have come and gone, and changes in footwear in the past 500 years. It is pristine not only for its architectural preservation, but also for the nature that surrounds the small pueblo: mountains to the north, desert to the south and east, a mixture to the west. So I wandered that first day. Wandered. Sat on benches, drank coffee, read, prayed, thought, wandered even more, and shared some Henri Nouwen lovin'. For me, it was perfect. And the surprise arrival of Jonny and Suzie around 10pm just capitalized my emotions of joy. They are moving to the States in just a couple weeks, and thought it was the perfect time to enjoy one last Villa de Leyva adventure.

After a late dinner and a parting for the evening, we awoke on Friday to brilliant blue skies and big billowing clouds. The three of us met in the plaza, I climbed into the Bronco beast they had borrowed from G & J, and we scurried off to La Periquera, where waterfalls are the wanted attraction. We hiked to the first and largest fall trying to find a reasonable place to cross the river for more hiking, but the recent amount of rainfall and the fact that a girl died last week trying to cross kept our more dangerous instincts at bay. We spent a few lazy hours laying in the sun next to the noisy pounding of the Periquera. This would be the trend of our day: spend lazy hours in good conversation, under calm weather, enjoying the tranquility of our moment. From waterfall, to cafe, to a pool of natural springs, we made it last til the sun was starting to go to bed. That was our cue to buy some food for dinner and head out to our campsite. I haven't camped since last August, so you can understand my giddiness to do so in Colombia. We pitched our tent, started a fire, sang to Jonny's guitar, and ended an already emphatic day with a starry sky.

We returned to Bogota this morning as I re-packed for a supposed departure early in the morning. In my mind, I'm not in Costa Rica until I have a good sunburn and hippy paraphernalia. The weather here was the most splendid it has been since my first few days, so we made an afternoon visit to the park where Ginny, Matilde, Junior, Juan and I enjoyed the sun, threw a frisbee and football, and I out-raced JR and Juan (except for the time they both cheated). Later in the evening we went over to the church where we joined a good group in cheering on Colombia's national team. They beat Bolivia 2-0, and I enjoyed my momentary surge of Colombian patriotism. It was only appropriate that eight of the neighborhood boys were playing street soccer in front of the house when we returned. So Laura and I joined in for a good bit--quite the way to say ciao to Colombia.

fibre amarilla

2009-03-22T16:06:00.000-07:00

Yellow fever. Raise your hand if you've ever had this vaccination. I imagine that will be quite a few of you with the amount of friends I have who have crept into the Amazon or Sub-Sahara Africa. Now, raise your hand if you've ever been inside a country that didn't require the vaccination to get in, but required it to get out. I think I may be the lone girl back in the corner with puppy-dog eyes and a slight frown holding her hand high. That's me. I can't leave Colombia. Last Thursday, I walked unassumingly into the Bogota airport, presented my documentation, and then began the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realized the woman wasn't kidding when she said I couldn't enter Costa Rica without the vaccination. Okay, so I'm kind of the fool that had no idea, but I'll just get the shot in the convenient store of shots located in the airport, and be gone the next day. Oh no, the similar smugness entered the shot nurse as it had the airline ticket master of a woman, and I was informed that I would have to be here for ten more days...ten...diez...10.

Yes, the technicality was indeed frustrating, but the reality could have been scores worse than it was; for instance, Jorge and Andres had already escorted me inside the airport to see me off and they single-handedly worked every supervisor they could find to make sure there was no working around the system, and then they took me back home to Ginny. I could have been stuck in the middle of nowhere South America without a friend or shelter. And Britta could have been waiting for me in Costa Rica by herself. Instead, she had Amanda, Emily, and Chelsea to greet and hang with this entire time I'm on quarantine. But, that's the one major bummer of this ten day window...I won't see any of these three ladies because they leave the day I will arrive. Bummer.

But Colombia is still here and still beautiful. There is a plethora for me to do in Bogota and in a few towns surrounding, and several things I can still help with in the neighborhood, church, and for Ginny and Jorge. I spent Friday afternoon and evening downtown going to a few museums that, similar to DC, were free. Any city with access to art, public transportation, and books is a premium city in my mind. I bought a beautiful necklace made of seeds from a great guy on the street, told him I was from Canada (for kicks...and as a safety precaution), and helped him out with a little English. Afterward, I drank a cappuccino while reading A Severe Mercy and watching people. Perfect evening.

The next few days are up in the air...my folks and sisters are trying to do a little black market/CIA magic with an old vaccination card I have in the States a la Catch Me If You Can to see if I can leave a bit sooner for my pals in Costa Rica, but if not, I will let you know of my extended adventures in Colombia.

Ciao.

photo shoot

2009-03-18T18:30:00.000-07:00

This past Monday, Ginny, Jorge and I spent the day roaming around his old college, Universidad Nacional de Colombia, where we met up with Laura, a sweet 17-year-old hipster who stays with G & J every weekend, plays guitar in the church's worship band, and is studying to be a dietician. It is always fascinating to visit different universities, but particularly in different countries. Universidad Nacional prides itself for being very radical best seen in their Che (Guevara) plaza, the overwhelmingly amount of grafitti and signs posted for a cause, and the fact that they are closed several weeks out of a semester for an arrangement of protests. It was so charming to hear the stories of how Ginny and Jorge met, how he clumsily asked her out, and about Jorge's idyllic days of studying law and being a revolutionary (brought sweet memories of my own days at Lipscomb...minus the Che plaza, of course). We left Laura to her Chemistry lab, and piddled on down to eat one delicious Corral burger and spend the afternoon reading and talking in a coffee shop. The following are some favorites from the day.

what the first one says.

he wishes...

young kids on the block

2009-03-18T17:04:00.000-07:00

There are loads of kids in Ginny and Jorge's neighborhood. They ooze out the windows and doors to play futbol, ride bikes, play in the park...to be kids. Bogota is basically one giant grid that conveniently keeps each level of class in their own corners--similar to any urban city, just more logistical. Here in their neck of the woods, it is known as a Estrato 3 (the higher you get, the wealthier), being our equivalent of lower middle class/working class. The neighborhood's steadily becoming more commercial with salons, supermarkets, countless bakeries, and a long street of knickknack stores that look like all the unsold items from yard sales exploded within. Their house in nestled in one of those corners with a park next door that provides a quieter hum than the overall noisiness and busyness of the streets.

It is there where the children hover: the park, outside this door...waiting. Waiting for a chance to play American football, an open door to get help with their homework or maybe a glass of hot chocolate, but most of all they wait for their birthdays. In just the first year of living in this particular location on earth, Ginny and Jorge have made all sorts of effort to begin traditions, discipline, and consistency with these kids who lack one or all of the three. And so it is that they have made it a point to focus a load of attention and celebration for each child's birthday. Like most children, each one counts down from day 75 until it's their time to eat cake and party, so the day is much-anticipated in general, but even more so when they know that a family that is not their own blood family will make food, play music, and bring out the ping-pong table just for them on their special day.

And so it was Esteban's day out of the year to bare his shy grin, open his eager eyes just a bit wider, and blow out candles only after making the wish of a 12-year-old living in his shoes on these streets in Bogota. For hours last Saturday evening, the kids used sidewalk chalk, puzzles, cards, boardgames, and, of course, ping-pong, for their constant entertainment, and everyone was given a piece of the cake made by Ginny, Matilde (see photo above), Junior, and decorator extraordinaire, Lorena. Long after sunset, with several pieces remaining, Jorge walked up to the man and woman picking up the recycling with horse and buggy to give them some chocolate cake covered with icing and sprinkles. Love means including all: the overlooked, the brat, the time-consuming. Saturday night was putting action to a theory. The theory that Christ did, in fact, desire the children to come to him, and that he loved the least of these, those, them.

This is why I came. Not for any specific effect or project, but to see two people who I respect and consider kindred walk in love. To live where you work and work where you live is, unfortunately, a rare thing these days. It takes courage and sacrifice to disregard absolute privacy and to exist for others. A heart yielded toward compassion is the foundation of this house, in this Estrato, bordering these childrens' lives.

I am thankful for the gift of comradery and union of friendship that the past few weeks have been for me.

that's who I is.

me with the birthday boy.

the boulevard is not that bad

2009-03-14T23:40:00.000-07:00

This might be exhaustive. Consider yourself forewarned.

This long week began with a 5am wake up call from my otherwise useless cell phone. Jorge and I left at sunrise to pick up Eliana for our 5-day adventure to the mountain town of Medellin. Eliana is the 17-year-old intern at Jorge and Ginny's church, and is a-dore-able. Seriously, if I packed her in my suitcase for the States she would get an immediate vocation as Target's model for all Mossimo clothing. Her English is a chunk better than my Spanish, and so with our 10 hour bus ride, we spoke little except to explicate the absolute beauty of the Colombia's green, mountainous frontier. It was starkingly similar to long bus rides throughout Nepal; however, since Nepal's rainy season is isolated to a few months in the summer time, Colombia's year-long dampness makes it that much more luscious this time of year. And to calm any nerves early on in this post, there was not one sign of danger our entire journey to and fro. Sure, the military men with machine guns were regular on the sides of roads, but the two nuns that were our neighbors on that first leg of the ride were a sign from God that no one would mess with us.

Arriving in the early evening, Jon, our contact and a friend of G and J's, along with the entire staff of JUCUM (Jovenes Con un Mision...Youth With a Mission) welcomed us to Medellin and their work there. That night, Jon gave us a look at Colombia through his literal lens, as he went through hundreds of photos of outreaches and cute kids. Similar to Ginny, Jon was raised in Colombia as a missionary kid and after a stint in the US came back to Colombia to work with street kids and displaced families. He was in Bogota for the better part of three years, and is going on his second year in Medellin. He has a grand vision, a desire for conflict resolution within the church and the country of Colombia, and reads Henri Nouwen and Dostoyevsky...solid individual.

Besides Jon, my only other English translator was Luz. She is Colombian by birth, Dutch by adoption, and just 9 months ago moved to Colombia to do ministry, learn Spanish, and spend time with the family she has here. She was overwhelmingly hospitable, and took Eliana and I under her wing. And so it was that the following morning, we arose early to spend the day at the boys' home with Luz and another woman on staff. JUCUM's main focus in Medellin is with displaced kids. When I say displaced, it is meant to differentiate from street. The majority of street children, depending on the location, of course, means that they may be homeless and orphaned, or they're shelter is a mere cover from weather and their parents are either prostitutes, addicts, in jail, or a combination of the three. I am generalizing here, as one generally has to do when discussing such oppressive, non-objective, and complicated situations. So when I say displaced, I refer more to those who have known existing family (whether it be parent, grandparent, aunt/uncle, or cousin) but who are unable to support the life of a child either physically, educationally, emotionally, or a combination of the three. JUCUM has been a constant presence in the city for fifteen years, and has a boys' home with 18 fellas from age 6-18, and a girls home with 16 ladies from a similar age range where they provide those resources the children would otherwise not have.

Eduardo, Jonatan y Felipe

So for a full day on Tuesday, we played 'Va Pescado' better known to us gringo chillun' as 'Go Fish',

Luz to the left

Eliana and Felipe

a memory game that put all us adults to shame (it is phenomenal how a six-year-old can embarass you in the realms of memory), practiced our shooting form with a form of basketball (really, it was a mop bucket placed against the wall and the ball is several socks wadded up...resourceful and creative mark the child devoid of video games), and helped with all the childrens' homework.

Eduardo

Alex

Every boy minus one goes to school at various times (either the morning shift or the afternoon), and the majority of the afternoon is spent keeping the child who prefers play-doh over mathematics accountable to his immense school responsibilities. But don't go thinking that the one boy who is too young to go to school just gets out of the same routine. Filipe, the six-year-old mixture of Secil and Ashish (a reference for whomever kept up with the children at Harka Orphan Home in Nepal) who is entirely too cute for his own good, spent over an hour with me that afternoon doing his 'homework'. He has a notebook which contains his daily homework of repetitive symbols. For instance, the day before he had to draw 80 triangles. This is more for him to get used to such a discipline more than to be particularly cruel and pointless, but the afternoon he was with me he had to draw 80 cats...yes, cats, gatos...however you say it, that is too many.

So after he finished his first two lines we started playing a game. Filipe would look at me with those knowing-how-cute-i-am eyes, charming smile and say, "Yo catorce, tu cuatro." (Me fourteen, you four). I caved in and helped him draw his cats while the other tutors weren't looking (I know, my potential influence was used solely to encourage cutting corners), and he continued his business guile by getting me down to a "Yo ocho (8), tu cinco (5)." That's as bad as it got, but by that time we were basically done with his homework. Filipe 1, Rebecca 0. But you look at this kid and tell me you wouldn't do the same.

It was 6pm, and as they sat down to enjoy their good behavior reward of Scooby Doo, we gave them all hugs and kisses and said good night after one long day of loving and being loved. What joy.

The following day Eliana and I went to her grandmother's home to enjoy a traditional Colombian lunch. Her cousin, cousin's precious two-year-old daughter, and uncle joined us for the occasion. I was in the dark for the majority of conversations but made out that her grandmother wanted me to come back and marry a Colombian (sounds good to me, I replied). I caught a glimpse of bead work on a desk next to our table and exclaimed how beautiful the bracelets were. Turns out her grandmother made them, and in typical, over-hospitable character, she gave me the most beautiful one as a gift. After such a generous meeting, Eliana, her cousin, Sandra, and I went to the pride and joy of Medellin, the Metro. Never have I been to a city where the metro is the number one tourist attraction (that and a singer and artist I'll get to in a bit). But considering the fact that it is the only metro system in Colombia, spreads throughout the entire city above ground, and connects to a cable car system that allows public transportation to the poorest of the poor (even though they most likely can't afford the ticket), it is rather impressive. Our destination was the aforementioned Metro Cable that is identical to a ski gondola but without the snow, skis, boards, steaming goggles, or nylon-shelled pants. It proved to be an enjoyable mini-roller coaster that gave beautiful, rainy views of the city, a glimpse into the levels of economic classes in Colombia, and time for two cousins to catch up who hadn't seen each other in over a year.

Later that evening we departed on what would be quite the adventurous night. In addition to the full-time responsibilities of both boys' and girls' homes, Rosita, a woman on staff with JUCUM in her forties is in charge of their weekly visits to street children and the homeless. Though their more focused efforts are toward the displaced children as I explained before, the need is still overwhelming to love the homeless and destitute in Colombia (as it is everywhere). Therefore, every Wednesday night, Rosita, a few other staff members, and a couple of the older boys pile two 10-gallon Igloo water coolers filled with hot chocolate, garbage bags filled with loaves of bread, squeezable jam, and bags of suckers into a couple of taxis and go to what is known as the Hotel. In the heart of downtown lies an abandoned hotel that now houses (the mere shelter from weather kind of house) over fifty children, mostly mothers, and a few fathers. The majority of women are prostitutes and their preteen daughters dress as if they will follow suit. It is with a consistent schedule that Rosita and crew show up around 8:30pm, play with the absolute over-energized children, listen to the women, sing songs, tell a story, and pass out the pan y chocolate. That many kids with such little structure leaves one exhausted after a few hours stay, but just before we left, Mauricio (32-year-old long-haired Colombian hippy on staff with a longing to go to India), Luz, Eliana and I took one of the cuter little boys up to his room. There his mother, his five siblings all under the age of seven, and aunt live in a space no bigger than 15ft x 15ft. Their skin and eyes prove their beautiful Colombian Indian race, and as the mother held Mauricio's hand she asked him to pray for her family as her husband is in jail and they are just trying to survive. So there we grabbed the hands of each child, mother, aunt, and prayed that God would give this family grace and peace, remind them that they are not forgotten, and that he loves them with a mighty love.

With one Igloo cooler drained, the other went on the shoulder of Andres, a Swiss staff member who has been in Colombia for more than two years and more recently brought back with him his new bride, Sarah, who together desire to begin a school for the street kids through JUCUM in Medellin. I was handed the squeezable package of orange marmalade that looked entirely unappetizing and filled with 99% preservatives, and my job was to partner with Sarah as she handed me the bread to be decorated. From 10pm to 1am we walked the streets surrounding the 'Hotel' where the vast majority of homeless were men that ranged the ages of fifteen to sixty-five. Apparently, they have a few other boundaries that they rotate serving, one with mostly working prostitutes and the other with elderly men. It is very difficult for me to describe the three-hour tour. Never once did I feel uncomfortable or fearful, and this is not without grand awareness of where I was and what we were doing. I mean, this was similar to skydiving--you don't tell your mama you're doing it until after you haven't been splatted on the ground. However, the company I was in with both gringo and native alike, had spent a long, committed time building trust amongst such a crowd. That, coupled with the fact that there is a human heart that longs for belonging beating inside every teenager huffing glue and calloused-foot man living under the stars gave me a quiet, observant confidence in why God calls his followers to love the least of social standards. I watched Mauricio walk in the Spirit of Peace as he comforted the addict so violently shaking he couldn't eat his own food, Luz's smile bring smiles to others, and Rosita's confident tap on the blankets of sleeping men making sure no empty stomach missed out. It is in nights like tonight that the usual whispers of God's love and presence become grand bellows of assurance.

The exhaustion that comes with such events made us sleep a little too soundly as we awoke to our last day in Medellin with much to do. Besides the Metro, the other two claims to fame Medellin possesses are the pop sensation Juanes and the modern artist Fernando Botero. To all Colombian women's dismay, I had to admit that I had never heard of Juanes (this is a man who Eliana would most likely give her firstborn child to in order to just gaze into his eyes), and even Botero sounded unrecognizable until I saw some of his paintings. It is to Botero that we dedicated our last afternoon (to the disappointment of Eliana, naturally) as we found our way to two different parks with his fat statues (obesity is his signature in the realms of art)

and the Medillin art museum that celebrated an entire floor to his work. Thanks to a suggestion by Jon, the second park we hiked to was by far my favorite. Botero was quite incensed by the amount of power and violence the Medellin drug-traffiking cartel brought to his hometown, and in efforts of peace donated a beautiful dove statue to the downtown park. In June of 1995, a guerrilla group who claimed Botero's sculpture as a symbol of oppression, planted a bomb at its base killing twenty-five civilians. In a rather powerful statement, Botero kept the maimed sculpture as it was in honor of those killed, and created a new dove to stand beside it.

After being filled with local art, we spent the rest of our afternoon/early evening with the girls. Since they were just finishing up their homework, and the rain decided to hold itself off for a few hours, we took a basketball and headed to a local court. The younger girls enjoyed the jungle gym, but I was with seven girls with the average age of twelve and together we played the most disorganized game of basketball I have ever witnessed. It was more a mix of American football and futbol with a goal and net thrown in just for kicks. Oh, but we had fun. A handful of the boys joined in later and we switched to the more local sport of choice, futbol. We ran around freely until darkness settled over the mountains and headed our separate ways.

That night we packed in preparation for another early morning departure, Jon and I talked about our common love for The Mission and its oboe-led soundtrack, and we were left to three full days of images and moments that were new, poignant, and difficult to forget. That next morning we left Medellin, the city whose taxi's horn sounded similar to the Sesame Street Honker (you squeezed his nose, of course) horn I had on my tricycle and whose bus made the noise of a dying walrus. It was ten hours back to a welcoming Ginny and Jorge and an "hasta luego" to my partner-in-crime Target of a model, Eliana.

It is now Sunday, and it has been certainly a day of rest, but first came yesterday that, well, wasn't. It was Esteban's birthday, one of the boys in the neighborhood, and with that came a traditional neighborhood party that Ginny and Jorge have created with their kiddos. However, since this blog has turned into a gypsy's small dissertation, I will save such a highlight for another post in the next few days.

But, before we depart one another's company, I will make it known that I went salsa dancing with G and J and several of their friends last night. Please keep in mind that I had received salsa dancing instruction only once before by Kirk Stephens in downtown Memphis two Septembers ago; therefore, I was in no shape to keep up with the hip-moving DNA Colombians possess. Thankfully, my two instructors this go around, Johnny and Jorge, were very patient and encouraging. And so it was that at a downtown Bogota bar with a small stage and pop-culture posters plastering the walls (from the Beatles to Taxi Driver), we danced to spectacular salsa music via DJ and later heard the music of a local Colombian band that used 3 1/2 ft long flutes, all kinds of handdrums, maracas and a clarinet to entertain the crowds. I have a new appreciation and attraction for any man who can shake the maracas with such unprecedented rhythym (:

slated button of a nose

2009-03-08T18:38:00.000-07:00

"Rebecca, what is your relationship status?"

It is the Sunday night before I depart for Colombia, and this is not exactly an out-of-character question from Jorge with Ginny giggling alongside.

"Um, that would be single."
"So is that a single single...or a desperate single?"
"Definitely a single single."

I laugh and throw my head against my Jeep's driver seat. I will be leaving for Bogota in just three days, and our final phone arrangements of what I can bring them from the States and what we should plan on while I'm there included Jorge trying his handful of male options to hook me up. Colombian hospitality at its finest.

One week later and I'm remembering new senses that have come with a new environment. I told Jorge that it had been a long time since I was 20, and therefore, a 20-year-old dude was just not going to work out...yes, his desperate option. Along with resolving such an issue, they both told me that we would go salsa dancing with a group of their friends here (still to come), and it was at this moment that I realized I was going on another adventure. I packed my bags, had good conversations with honest friends, and put myself, willingly, on yet another strand of planes. From Memphis to Charlotte I think I paid attention to the safety instructions for the first time. The previous 63 flights were spent in subversive rebellion as I creatively refused to buckle my seat belt. I did this time, as well as finding my floating device underneath my seat. Phew, good thing. Later on, I spent the night at the Miami airport. I made the wrong move to try and sleep on the marble floors, and awoke one hour later to a fierce chill. That marble made me have to go into the bathroom at 3am so that I could do jumping jacks and run in place just to raise my body temperature. I looked myself in the mirror and realized how ridiculous I looked. Luckily, I arrived into Bogota seven hours later to 70* temperatures.

Ginny got out of the 1982 Bronco jeep the size of a small tank with her six-month-old pregnant belly carrying baby Maya, we hugged, and climbed into said tank where two-year-old Matilde Lina was waiting with her bob haircut and button nose, and Jorge was grinning behind the wheel. Ginny, the blue-eyed beauty of a gringa, grew up in Bogota as her parents helped start a church and Jorge is the tallest, skinniest and most attractive (this last adjective was pressured by the subject himself) native around town.

They met when Ginny came back from Colombia after going to university in the States. They married, moved to Memphis, became good friends to good friends of mine, and three years later, bore Matilde and were making efforts to return to South America to pursue ministry once more. Their original pursuits of doing mission work in Peru took them down a long road that led, almost ironically, back to the very church that Ginny's father pastored. They have been here for over a year, and they have gone from a big vision as community workers to an even bigger one as that as well as pastors themselves (Jorge one of the teaching pastors and Ginny the children's pastor). My desire to come visit was for a lot of little and not-too-phenomenal reasons. The little time I got to know them in Memphis, I quickly realized that both of them are the kind that see. I mean that in the ee cummings kinda way. They're creative, love Christ, know beauty, manifest laughter, pursue people (the displaced, in particular), and are filled with humility (Ginny more than Jorge (: ). I had a great desire to see what they were doing down here. After 8 years of studying German, I grew frustrated that I never capitalized on my high school foundation of Spanish. I had yet to visit South America. And, finally, my almost obnoxiously flexible character has made me completely open to any corner of the world. The pseudo (as in, whatever and ever, amen) plan is to start classes toward nursing school in May and finish 2 years from that May. From there, I want to use those skills and my love to know folks and to be known in the vein of ministry somewhere...maybe Colombia. And so I come here as a kind of preview. To be encouraged by funny, soulful friends and see a new land and the beauty within...sounded like a good enough reason to travel to me.

Since Thursday afternoon when I arrived in sunny Colombia, I have been able to be a fly on the wall, an extra set of hands, and the bearer of trumpets and one clarinet (carried from the attic of 3116 Waynoka inside two thrift store pieces of luggage to the amateur trumpet skills of Jorge and the deafened ears of Matilde). G and J have had one full house since I arrived including Nayibe and her two sons, Javier (Javi) and JoJo, for my first night. Nayibe's grandparents live in Colombia but she has been in America her whole life, met her husband in the Airforce, and their family has spent the past 6 months in Bogota in hopes to adopt and see the hand of God. I liked her and her two unbelievably adorable boys immediately. Andrew, the husband and father, left that morning for a two-week hike in the Patagonia (needless to say, even in his absence I liked him immediately as well).

We spent that first day in the park outside the front door with several neighborhood kiddos (Juan, Esteban, Daniella, Ivan, and Junior) throwing frisbees and an American football.

Matilde and Fishy with Junior and Lucy Osito

Actually, I have spent every day since teaching the boys and beautiful Daniella the perfect Joe Montana spiral as they help me out with my painfully basic Espanol. I have come to believe that there are 3 universal languages with children: smiles, tickles, and John Cena. Yep, he's here too, and they love him. Being here just reminds me how effortless it is for children to need and trust and desire love. It reminds me to remember.

On my second day, Ginny, Matilde, Nayibe, Javi, JoJo and I took a trip to one of the larger libraries in Bogota. The architecture was impressive and the horizon held mountains to the East. Libros y montanas...the perfect world.

Javi, Nayibe, JoJo, Ginny and Matilde

Later that afternoon, Ginny, Matilde and I explored one of the more posh areas of Bogota with upscale shopping and your local Juan Valdez Cafe. Apparently, Starbucks tried to make their move on Colombia, but in typical resistance fashion, Colombians said a strong 'No' to *$s and created their own version with their signature mustached farmer and his burro. The coffee was much better. G left me to myself as I read and stared at people...I realized that every big city is alike if you find the right neighborhood. That is, they're all trying to look European. I found my way back in buckets of rain, and spent the rest of the evening with food and kids.

Yesterday was by far our busiest as "A Day in the Life of G & J"...meeting at church led to preparing a large lunch and transitioned into making an even larger onces (dinner) for their small group. I am truly thankful that I enjoy cooking and washing dishes. I babysat 7 children and just continued to embarass myself with my speaking abilities.

The exhaustion of hosting yesterday gave us sweet slumber for a full day of excitement which is ending as I type. I was able to be the photographer for their first church baptism where two of the teenagers that live around the corner from G & J in an orphan home, Crystal and Juan, made professions of faith in Christ. It was a celebration. We were invited over for lunch by two members of the church who have been there since Ginny's father started preaching, and stuffed our bellies with fried platanos...que rico. Our entertainment continued as we picked up G & J's closest friends, Susan and Johnny, and headed downtown. I more than enjoyed myself with such company, cobbled stoned streets, slated rooftops, and a thankfulness that I can, yet again, see, touch, smell and hear something new.

I have already taken way too many cute photos of this girl.

I leave far too early in the morning on a bus to Medellin, Colombia's second largest city 10 hours away surrounded by mountains. Ginny and Jorge have a friend doing ministry with YWAM there, so they thought it was a great way to see what's happening and see a lot more of Colombia. I enthusiastically agreed and have just finished being briefed by Jorge on how to avoid a Guerrilla kidnapping. We prayed. I'll let you know how it goes (:

well-rooted

2009-02-05T20:06:00.000-08:00

There are four trees in my parents’ backyard. They were planted over 30 years ago, and now, for the sake of a house expansion, my folks are cutting them all down. I have made them feel adequately guilty about their decision saying things like, "I see how it is, these trees have done nothing but grow bold, tall and beautiful as they provide shade and shadow, and suddenly, overnight have become disposable for the sake of progress and comfort." Adequate. After speaking on the trees' behalf, I turned my advocacy to the understanding that this is my folks' house which they spent over 30 years paying off and took the coldest corner of the first floor as their somewhat pathetic bedroom 26 years ago so that we three girls could have our own room. They have promised to replant one large tree. I told my mom that the math was off.

Apparently, their initial intent was to remove the two smaller ones and only one of the thick trunked mamas. However, since they were planted at the same time decades ago only 25 feet apart, their roots weren’t given the room to grow to their needed capacity, and if one tree is taken away, then the likelihood of the other to fall is great.

Two days ago, I stood at the base of one, put my arms around it to fulfill a stereotype, and looked up. My hands didn’t come close to touching and the nests that squirrels have built seem closer to the clouds than my feet. This tree is big and strong, but only as strong as its source of life underneath the earth. Roots are to the tree as internal organs are to the human: often under-appreciated for their absolute necessity by the mere fact that they can’t be seen. But as I hugged the bark I hugged the roots I stood on who will be destroyed when its other half is detached from the earth.

Trees are famous throughout literature. Whether it is Welty’s magnolia as the South or Frost’s swinger of birches, trees have proved to be profound symbols of life, change, opportunity and stability, My favorite spiritual writer, Henri Nouwen, writes in his book Reaching Out:

"The roots of loneliness are very deep and cannot be touched by optimistic advertisement, substitute love images or social togetherness. They find their food in the suspicion that there is no one who cares and offers love without conditions, and no place where we can be vulnerable with being used."

Only one tree was planted inside of my chest when I was born. It’s not as old as the ones condemned to die, but its roots were given the chance to spread the length of my body: from toe to pore to fingernail. When I love, I love with the fuel of a 5’10” framed set of roots. When I fear, I fear with similar sustenance, and when I’m lonely my suspicions are sweating out of those very pores.

But these suspicions are soon (or sometimes not so soon) quelled by another force altogether: the force that made them so beautifully and tragically detailed and well-extended. It is the grace and presence of God that has given life and love precedence over all fear and pain and loneliness.

Today, in the midst of fertile solitude that is slowly taking the place of a lonely winter, I can look at the trees in my parents’ backyard and think of another rather life-altering tree. Four years ago today I skied into a tree. Sometimes I forget it happened. It seems ridiculous when I explain my scar to someone these days. A couple lifetimes have begun and ended in these four years. Led Zeppelin is playing in the background…I didn’t listen to them pre-tree. Weird.

Last night I was reading my reflections of this anniversary just one year after, and I caught myself ‘amen-ing’ quite a few times. There is no way that I could articulate myself any better now than then, so I will echo my words.

___

fear...isn't it funny how the majority of our decision-making and emotions are motivated by fear? fear of rejection, vulnerability, failure, happiness, loss, expectations...i feared pity and pain.

i feared being needy. a self-proclaimed independent woman, i hated the idea that i couldn't do ANYTHING for myself. my mother helped me go to the bathroom, medicine controlled my pain, sheena and jocelyn washed (tried to) my hair, dr. c cleaned my wounds, countless people drove my morphined self around....this fear of need led to anger and tears. i hated my altered state; i hated that i couldn't control my motion and emotion.

my weariness quickly morphed into apathy. i had no desire for spirituality, and was quite lost in the realms of faith. i questioned the character of God, found little comfort in the suffering of Christ. swallowed whole by grief, i survived.

through the life of best friends, families i have since adopted as my own, mentors who came in the nick of time, God knew how to keep me afloat.

one of my pastors taught me how to pray because i didn't know how; one of my pastors reminded me of God's patience.

and slowly, patiently, my eyes were dried, my ears open, my mouth kissed...i became aware of the comfort i tried so hard to deny.

life exists in great contradictions: death for life, depravity for fulfillment, humility for confidence...suffering for freedom.

i said earlier how the tree had taught me how to suffer, how to need, and how to fear. well, the bigger picture is that only through those elements of life did i finally understand liberty. like most things, our culture has perverted the concepts of freedom and liberty to help build a western empire; however, Christ brought freedom and liberty not for the building of an empire but to put an end to fear.

jeremiah, the prophet, likens God's faithfulness and patience to the deep roots of a tree near a stream's water. their length unseen, their strength unknown, their importance essential, the deep roots constantly provide, nourish, give life to the tree. i like to think of the Spirit's presence in my life like those roots. my limbs think they know how to take care of themselves, but the truth is they are weak and break...but my brittle bones have a much richer well of life.

i came to realize this past year that God is patient with my wayward soul. i read psalm 23 for the first time this year...or perhaps it was just the first time i read it with those dried eyes. "He lets me rest in green meadows; he leads me beside peaceful streams." timing. God knows it and i only think i do. he knows my fear, my doubt, my need, my suffering, and knows when to let me rest beside peaceful streams...what sweet, deep-rooted life.

thank you, Lord, for giving me freedom from fear...

thank you, Lord, for giving me comfort in the midst of suffering...

thank you for times of mourning, for trees that change everything i thought i knew...

and for the deep roots of your spirit that are present even when my vision is too blurred, my hearing too deaf, and my voice too dumbed.

____

I think I'll go give those trees another hug tomorrow....make sure there are no hard feelings.

it must be sewn on

2009-01-01T21:06:00.000-08:00

The sun is a star. Within its exterior lie reactions of nuclear fusion that provide the energy to the solar system. George Bailey’s promise of the moon could be lassoed only because of the sun’s reflection. The tides of a sea rise and fall because of its attraction to that very sun and that same moon. And it is the position of the sun to earth, its reflections off the moon, its billions of cousin stars, and the inventions made from photosynthetic inspiration, that birthed the world of shadows.

The media of shadows has given us the alligator hand puppet, a terrestrial carbon copy, Caravaggio’s signature trademark, and the 2^nd chapter action series that brings Peter Pan back to the Darling children’s bedroom only to whisk the three away from Kensington Gardens.

Three night-lights shown for the three children, one fire burned by the one mother, and Peter blew in with the wind alongside the charming light of his lady fairy friend. Illumination was present, no doubt, but what made Peter’s shadow so vulnerable to the sudden drop of a window and the fangs of Nana? Maybe it was the part of him that wanted the life of a normal boy, like John or Michael; perhaps, along with his full set of baby teeth, his shadow had not grown strong enough to endure a close escape. Or maybe the point is not to wonder why it stayed behind, but to think that if the night-lights and fire had out-shown the moon and its cousin stars, his shadow would have been one step ahead of him, leaving him no reason to come back.

It is our physical position between rays and surface that determines the casting of our framed opacity. Our attachment. For the tree that stands tall and regal with the occasional dance in the wind, it is the tilt of an axis that casts its shadow from one horizon to the other. Earth’s attachment. An inextricable existent. Even in darkness our shadows are a part of us, hovering patiently, sleeping like the sun, waiting for the smallest streak of light to give it form. To make us remember that we’re not alone.

Memories can be like these shadows. Thoughts can lay dormant for years like those of my childhood. I didn’t grow up until I was twelve. It was then that I officially stopped believing in Santa Claus. Finally, I accepted that I was too old to have such infallible faith in the kingdoms of fairies and angels and miracles and Santa Clauses (I’ve since reverted back to my childhood genius, and daily pray for such a faith). I don’t have many memories from before I was twelve. Maybe it’s because I didn’t yet see the necessity of having to remember the beauty of such an age, a being. Those memories hide in the darkness, but again, they exist all the same, and I believe though my childhood memories may not be cognizant in mind, they are the very whispers in my heart that beckon me back to the glory of imagination and trust in a kingdom that is to come.

In the years post-Santa disillusion/re-illusion, most memories are more traceable—an adult’s picture of how a coherent map should appear. Of course, they become more prominent depending on one’s emotional position between rays and surface. Photos and songs and scents and tastes that look like tan children branded with bindis, sound like Bollywood dance, smell like the freshness of mountains, and taste like curry and chile will undoubtedly put me in the position to trace the vividness of my time spent in Nepal. Memories that are too sweet and too hilarious, so I want them to stay. I want to think here for a while.

" ‘I wasn't crying about mothers,’ he said rather indignantly. ‘I was crying because I can't get my shadow to stick on. Besides, I wasn’t crying.’

‘It has come off?’

‘Yes.’

Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she was frightfully sorry for Peter. ‘How awful!’ she said, but she could not help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with soap. How exactly like a boy!

Fortunately she knew at once what to do. ‘It must be sewn on,’ she said, just a little patronisingly.”

(from J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan or The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up)

To live a life without a shadow, one’s reminder that light and dark exist, would be just as odd as living a life without a memory. Especially the good ones; especially the good ones. I want those tattooed all over my body so there is no need to remember anything else. But those tattoos would look like saggy inked wrinkles the older (and we do get older, by golly) my arms and legs become and would remind me of my age rather than those beautiful sacred memories.

And the kingdom has not come in its fullness. We’re still in the midst of a painful pregnancy that will soon enough bring re-birth, re-earth, re-life. Soon enough. But not this minute. This minute it’s just pain. Those good memories have been trumped by a 24-hour sun day of bad memories. I don’t want to think about them (being old lovers, old friends, old being not any more) anymore. I want the Eternal Sunshine remedy…I want my shadow to be unsewn. I would go without a shadow if it meant I could go without these thoughts.

But a spotless mind is no mind at all; Wendy knew this. She saw Peter’s shadow bruised and beaten, got her needle and thread, and warned, “I daresay it will hurt a little.” She would look at my shadow of the most prominent thoughts that stay with me even in my nightmares, give me a lecture on how it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all (I would reply, “bullshit, Wendy, you don't know what it means to grow up”), and she would get her needle and thread just to warn “I daresay this will hurt [most likely more than] a little.”

timing

2008-12-15T08:30:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. It's been almost a month. I gave no conclusion to my time in Vienna, and have failed miserably to try and write such a detour of a transition that I met upon my arrival back in Memphis. That was wordy. But. But!!! I have grand news of subjective, epic proportions. I received an email today from Laxmi (director of the orphan home I spent time at in Nepal last winter) that included photos. I don't think I can convey the enormity of such a surprise. For one, Laxmi doesn't exactly know English so the few emails that Britta and I have received over the past 8 months go something like this:

All children fine. Love you. Ashish hospital. Okay. Festival and no school. Very cold now.

You get the idea. Mixed with the facts that she never gets on the internet and the difficulty of actually putting photos on a computer over there, the following that you are about to witness is somewhat perplexing...and perfect. Perfect timing for me as it swells my heart to workable proportions. I miss these kids something awful and hope to visit next Christmas. It's hard to believe Britta and I left almost one year ago already.

So enjoy. May it give a little jolt to your lifeline as well.

Because they're that cute.

yoga..

I started crying when I saw this picture--Tulie, Jamuna, Gonga and Ashish are going to school now and looking much too itty-bitty to be wearing uniforms. Nevertheless, adorable.

snacktime

festival decorations--Sirjana is a great big sister

Sirjana (standing and wearing the outfit my family sent), Sima (left squatting), and Soniya all dark and gorgeous from the long hot summer.

vignettes of vienna

2008-11-22T13:03:00.000-08:00

It snowed today. Dumped it all over the place. At one point in the day the flakes were the size of thumbnails, light as feathers, and then I turned my head to feel small dip n' dots upon my hands and eyelashes. Being from Tennessee, snow never quite gets less magical. The majority of our group is still traveling outside of Vienna seeing as it's Saturday, but there were 8 of us today that kept running outside to stick our face toward the sky and decided to use our giddy energy on something more athletic, or in my case, more humorous: ice skating.

Bintu in action

Last weekend they opened the outdoor rink near Staatpark, and we thought that today's setting gave us few excuses not to participate. I think I've ice-skated twice in my life, and neither one of those times was anytime recent. So let's just say that the 3-year-old was definitely out-skating me. It was like learning how to ski all over again: 100% muscle tension, crouching back/beant knee syndrome, the distant fear that that same 3-year-old punk would take me out and I'd break the other half of my body. Ah, but I didn't fall once. Considering the fact that I was too scared to try to be half-way decent, I don't think the balancing act was anything to be proud. But the fact that we laughed, sang, and looked a fool altogether was more than worthy of a hint of pride.

Lately, I have realized how many things I've done in Vienna this go around that I never got around to or had inkling to pursue in the past. It has given me great pleasure and a sense of satisfaction to love a place with more energy, effort, and surprise. Six weeks ago, Denton, Matt and I sat together in a train compartment on our group's trip back from Italy. We were accompanied by a Viennese couple who had been to Venice for a weekend. It wasn't long until Martin, the husband, definitely the more gregarious of the two, stole my heart. He told of his adventure to America in the early '70s during which he traveled cross-country by Greyhound bus: from New York to California, California to Macon, Georgia (because there was no way he was going to America and not stopping through Allman Brothers Band territory). Turns out he's a pediatrician who ran in the Boston Marathon and has been in a cover band (mostly 70s music) for some years now. He casually mentioned their next performance: November 21st at The Little Stage. We enthusiastically replied that we would love to try to make it. Well, we made it: that is, me, Denton, and Bintu (Matt meandered off to Amsterdam). As we turned the corner from Pilgramsgasse U-bahn stop on the green line to see the sign for Little Stage we jumped at the realization that this was also an Irish pub. Oh goodness--Irish pub in Vienner.

There were most likely a hundred or so folks gathered (please take note, however, that I am the world's worst at projecting numbers in masses...it could have been 50 or 300, anyone's guess, really) together to hear cute marathon-running Martin's cover band in a rather small venue...they weren't kidding with the Little adjective. Part of the overall exhilaration was actually listening to live music, and the other was when Martin's daughter in her early 20s climbed up onstage, grabbed the microphone, and belted out the most soulful alto. We danced and laughed and, of course, sang along. And when Tina Turner's "Proud Mary (Rolling on the River)" came to "Cleaned a lot plates in Memphis," you best believe I screamed my own alto Memphian voice to add to the hub-bub. It just made the evening better when we gradually made our way to the front and Martin's sweet, quiet wife caught our attention, greeted us a hello, and turned to all her friends with our history. During intermission Martin proved to be ecstatic over our presence and even gave his 'Nashville' and 'Memphis' friends a shout-out three more songs into their set. We were the subjects of many a stare, and my first live show in Vienna ended up being a classic.

Along with my mother's and Kenna's visitations the past month, my middle sister, Rachel, also came over for a week. In addition, Sarah, friend I visited in Cheb, Czech Republic, the first weekend came down for her birthday weekend to reunite with Rachel and explore the glory of Vienna. It just so happened that Rathaus Christkindelmarkt opened that very weekend. We drank mug-full shots of rum (rather, we sipped 1/10 of the mug-full and threw the rest out), bathed in the unusual november sun and warmth, and enjoyed time together, yet again, in a foreign city.

Sarah, Rachel and me at the Christmas Market drinking that juice

Rachel and me at Schonbrun Palace

Somewhere in between these visits, I got together with Balazs and Georg, friends of friends that I sat next to at Mandy and Eric's wedding reception 2 years ago. Being great local hosts, they invited (and I subsequently invited 3 of my students: Allison, Matt, and Chris) for dinner out in Grinzing (the Vienna Woods) known for its Heuriger cuisine. Heuriger is an Austrian meal centered around their local wine served. With vineyards surrounding our small restaurant, we enjoyed one another's couple in a truly native setting. During our conversation, it came to our attention that Georg was just about obsessed with football. We made mention that we would have loved to have gone to a match while in Vienna, and the next day I have an e-mail saying that he was able to get 6 tickets to the following week's Austria Wien vs. Rapid Wien local match-up. So that Tuesday night, us four were off on another adventure including: tour of Georg's family sausage-packaging company, gulash and schnitzel from a local restaurant, and the absolute madness of a 3,000 seated stadium. I swear it was louder in that small stadium than a packed house in FedEx Forum for WWE Monday Raw. These fans didn't stop for 2 solid hours. Their 'head cheerleaders' stood with megaphone, green or purple make-up pending the team, flags serving as dresses, and with upmost loyalty and pride screamed songs and chants unceasingly...I'm pretty sure I was more impressed by the cheering sections than the football players. The fear of post-celebration/rivalry fights (non-alcoholic beer was the only thing served due to past brawls) caused the local Viennese police to stand shoulder to shoulder blocking off the entire road's walking and driving transportation with helmets, shields, and clubs....We waited in the late, cold air for 30 minutes. Intense. Austra Wien upset Rapid 2-0.

And there you are, a glimpse into the ever-random, always-revolving views from this life at this particular time.

walking on water

2008-11-20T11:31:00.000-08:00

excerpts from Madeleine L'Engle's Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art

"We do not draw people to Christ by loudly discrediting what they believe, by telling them how wrong they are and how right we are, but by showing them a light that is so lovely that they want with all their hearts to know the source of it. If our lives are truly 'hid with Christ our God,' the astounding thing is that this hiddenness is revealed in all that we do and say and write."

"Our sins defeat us unless we are willing to recognize them, confess them, and so become healed and whole and holy--not qualified, mind you; just holy."

"But only if I die first, only if I am willing to die. I am mortal, flawed, trapped in my own skin, my own barely-used brain. I do not understand this death, but I am learning to trust it. Only through this death can come the glory of resurrection; only through this death can come birth."

"In the realm of faith I know far more than I can believe with my finite mind. I know that a loving God will not abandon what he creates. I know that the human calling is co-creation with this power of love. I know that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Jesus Christ our Lord."

Amen.

Thank you, Kristen. You are my sister and in my prayers.

hooters and hikin'

2008-11-13T14:03:00.000-08:00

Die Schweiz Collage

Halloween weekend 2002, a group of 8 girls met up with another similar group of fellas in Interlaken, Switzerland, at the tail end of their European fall break. Some paraglided, others rode horses, and a few even dove through the sky from a plane with a man attached to their body. It is not hard to fall in love with Switzerland--its romantic rivers that carve veins in between villages of quaint, delicate homes that map out valleys bordered by mountains of magnificence.

And so it is that I returned with another group of fellas and a few ladies. After an overnight train that dropped us off into the cozy town and an even cozier, crunker Balmer's hostel, Marc, Matt and I set off for a quick stroll up a hill. Turned out to be not so quick, strenuous, and a mountain. But to be outside hiking with weather pristine, skies the color of these photos, and good company is usually the formula for my perfect days. That afternoon we enjoyed a lunch from the local COOP, Matt, Allison, Allison, and Chris went skydiving (Brad and Tyne followed suit the next day), and after some rest we prepared for dinner. Being in Switzerland we thought fondue was the most appropriate dinner together, but after looking at a menu, we decided 49 bucks was a bit much. So our American appetites looked across the street and was drawn in by the smell of burgers, fries, and tackiness. I couldn't stop laughing at the irony of it all: my first time at the classy establishment was in..switzerland. Allison's club sandwich came with some kind of streamers on toothpicks, and the waitresses wore the same hideous nylon hose that resembled white plastic tubes on their legs. Amazingly entertaining...as was beating Chris in foosball and Matt in ping pong...don't mess. I gave Matt and his pipe company into the night under a cold starry black blackdropped sky.

After morning coffee and a newspaper read, our group (minus the 2 skydivers) went on our Gimmelwald adventure. And that it was. We hiked high enough for our lungs to hurt and snow to rest at our feet. The Jungfrau, also known as the Top of Europe, was our neighbor for our day's trip, and the faces of sheep and cow looked amused that we would even come into their presence. We took photos and meandered throughout the small roads where no cars ride and a few residents stride. Everything was right for a moment, and so it has been for the past few months. Moments of peace and truth, community and clarity. I am thankful for this time.

May God's kingdom come and his will be done. May his servants be given the strength to be imitators of his love and glory.

sunset says, "we see this all the time."

2008-11-05T18:46:00.000-08:00

I set my alarm for 3am. And I woke up. I've always written better in the middle of the night when the mind is somewhat untainted by a day's worth of thoughts and responsibility. And so I hope to document the past few weeks when my mother flew to Vienna and we traveled by train, metro, bus, and foot to Italy, Switzerland, Germany, and, naturally, Osterreich.

It was mandatory that she stay in Vienna at least 4 days in order to understand the diversity of beauty in this city. An opera, a symphony, museums dedicated to Gustav Klimt and Friedensreich Hundertwasser, a handful of palaces, and a cemetery honoring several million (post-humously, of course) were just a bird's eye view of this beloved home's treasures. Two Saturdays ago we reserved couchettes (a sort of bed) on an overnight train to Florence where our 'abroad' journey would begin. Sleep is more of a theory on overnight rides for me, and without the companion of music my mind may have succumbed to the hypnotism of the train's rhythms and anonymity of dark skies and street lights.

'For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Ypsilanti' - Sufjan Stevens

'Hey ya' - Obadiah Parker

'Seasons Change' - Corinne Bailey Rae

'Raining At Sunset' - Chris Thile

'In Your Atmosphere (Live)' - John Mayer - the last minute and a half...just put it on repeat.

'Daughters (Live)' - John Mayer

'Free Fallin' (Live)' - John Mayer

'Gravity' - John Mayer

'Worlds Apart' - Jars of Clay

Just to give you an idea of my sanity.

With bags under our eyes and ache throughout our limbs, we walked into Florence at dawn, around 6am, Sunday morning. We started our 6-hour tour with the cobble-stoned streets to ourselves...streets to ourselves. This, in Florence, is a profound treat. The stillness in a town where 25% of world's classic art resides makes your ears hear a little better and you start looking out the corners of your eyes in order not to be surprised by Caravaggio's ghost or Michelangelo's exhaustion. The silence wasn't exactly frightening because nothing can be too frightening at the beginning of a day, but it was eerie, like I shouldn't be there. Or maybe that I shouldn't be allowed to be there. But I was, and so was my mom, and we watched the sun rise over Tuscany's famed hills from Ponte Vecchio bridge.

that sunrise from ponte vecchio

That afternoon we caught our train to Cinque Terre. Six years ago, a large group of us escaped to this Mediterranean haven made popular by Rick Steves for the day (on our Italy group trip), and Austin, Josh, Hunter and I started hiking. We went from Riomaggiore to Manarola, Corniglia and Vernazza. Somewhere along the four (of five) villages we ate seafood spaghetti from a woman on the coast. It has remained a favorite day in my life. Having heard all the hype from my past experience, my mother was insistent on seeing such a place. Cinque Terre doesn't disappoint.

Manarola

And, as in many moments in the livelihood of traveling, we met instant friends. Unlike many of those moments, these were not just interesting roamers, they were more like kindred spirits: Mariah and Tor. When this quiet, handsome shaved-headed man in his mid-thirties introduced himself, I understandably repeated, "Tor?" He casually responded, "Yeah, my parents were hippies and thought Tom was too common and came up with Tor instead." I liked them immediately. They have been married a couple years, live outside of San Francisco, and were traveling throughout Italy for 3 weeks to celebrate the end of long schooling in both their lives. Mariah is now a psychologist who studied for a year in Italy twelve years ago. They met working at a non-profit organization where they invested in the lives of teenagers, Tor just finished film school on top of co-fostering two teenagers while he was still single, and Mariah was busy reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. Yes, conversation was unceasing. They sweetly invited Mom and I to join them for dinner after we had gotten settled into our hostel, and so we dropped our bags in Levanto (5 minute train ride from Cinque Terre) and wandered, ate, and communed with Tor and Mariah until long after sunset. It is often I wished there could be a place on earth where blessed strangers could become dear friends.

We awoke the next morning to the kind of sky where the sun rays burst through thick clouds dramatically, and dance upon waves. We hiked just two of the villages, breathed gallons of fresh air, and left for Nizza Monferrato to visit with my friend, Rachel Stowe-Scarci, and her darling husband Giulliano. Their cute and cozy apartment where the year-long newlyweds have lived was a inviting refuge for two nights, as was their company. Tuesday, our full day with them, we spent the day touring Giulliano's family vineyards, the winery where they take their harvested grapes, and Rachel and I went to yoga. First things first, the moment Giuliano took us outside of the winery with small plastic cups (just larger than a Protestant communion beverage), went to the container that held 100,000 gallons of wine, poured us cold, un-filtered, dessert wine, I knew that that very moment would be a good one to remember.

Giuliano, Rachel, me, & Mama

The fog was caught in between the rows of grape farmland and gave the small Northwest Italian countrysides grand mystery. It was a lovely contrast to slow down our travels and observe the sleepy town that made no money from tourism, and to distance myself even further from the whirlwind of hop-scotching across Europe through yoga...yes, of course, in Italian. Being the fantastic hostess that she is, Rachel invited me along to her weekly class that met in a elementary school gymnasium in a nearby town. About a dozen women ranging from the age of 20-50 took their instruction from a soft-spoken middle-aged man, who, incidentally, was the object of six out of twelve women's (above the age of 35) flirtation. The combined factors of the foreign language, the 9pm starting time, our hunky instructor's whisper of a voice, and the elevator music turned classical turned Kenny G and Toni Braxton soundtrack made my rigid body quickly want to fall asleep on the wooden floor with only a thin foam mat to border my skin to its cool temperature. Relaxing? Yes. Entertaining? Absolutely. Since I couldn't exactly concentrate on his more spiritual implications for our exercise, I looked to the gym's walls for amusement instead. It was well-documented by the hands of 8-year-olds that Halloween was just three days away. Witches and pumpkins were colored orange, purple and green; however, my favorite pieces of decor were the colored in pirates. It was the stereotyped visual of a man with peach skin, an exaggerated snarl, crooked teeth, large hat, gold hoop earring, and the eye patch with a skull and bones taking the place of a useful eyeball. It was so non-counter-culturally hypnotizing. And, thankfully, the musical genius was redeemed by the Salzburger bus driver 4 days later with a bit of Bobby Dylan. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Post-yoga sweet slumber prepared us for the following day of trains...out of Italia into the land of Switzerland. At the small town of Visp, we transfered to a local, posh train that slowly took us higher in elevation to the wealthy, elite, community of skier and snowboarder, snowbunny and bum alike, Zermatt. We were welcomed by thick fog and heavy flakes of snow, and so we combatted the elements with hot chocolate, tomato soup, and buttery croissants...best military defense a girl can ask for. Thick white quilts covered the land, cemetery laying to rest approximately 37 people, trees, cars, and church steeples. The morning was beautiful, and after our long breakfast, mother and child saw the fog lift for our final hour...the Matterhorn revealed the majority of its jagged face, and the father and son duo that slept above us on the hostel bunk beds were able to shred the gnar gnar after 80 mph winds the day before.

Matterhorn: Zermatt, Switzerland

It is hard not to be so satisfied with velvet snow, but our schedule pushed us onward to Salzburg, Austria--home of Redbull, mountains, and the worldwide spectacle of a 1965 Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer.

Our midnight arrival begged for slumber, and an early departure on The Sound of Music tour. Sue, our bombastic, humorous British leader kept us going with the most touristy, cheesy, and fabulous bus ride filled with trivia and celebrity gossip. From the gazebo where Josh danced with me 6 years ago (we were 19 going on 20), the family house, and wedding chapel, we ended up spending 4 hours climbing every mountain and fjording most streams.

small town outside of Salzburg, Austria

The evening was filled with fajitas and a hostel-wide viewing of that same 1965 classic...it really is spectacular how 75% of Salzburg's tourism comes from that one film.

One major city left: Munich. The vast majority of the designated time was spent going to and fro Fussen, land of Neuschwanstein, the castle-making of crazy Ludwig and destination of all Asians and Americans. The hike up was filled with the golden nature of autumn and the stroll down was highlighted by 4 euro bottles of water. Returning to the streets of Munich, my instinct navigational magnetism took us to the downtown streets with lights, brezels, kirches, and one large rathaus, but it still had nothing on our Vienna Hogwarts Rathaus.

Eight days, four countries, and six cities later, Mom and I made it back to the comfortable confines of Hotel Theresianum. Nothing like home after too many trains. Sunday was spent resting, welcoming Kenna to a land on the other side of the world, and hearing the many anecdotes of my students and their even more impressive travels.

And thus ended fall break zweitausendacht. Monday was busy with Van Gogh, Schonbrun, perfume buying, and candy accumulating. Mom, Kenna, Kayce and I ate good food and gabbed. Tuesday morning I hugged my mama and sent her off to the airport. Kenna time and Interlaken followed quickly thereafter. Die Schweiss will undoubtedly be covered in the next few days.

patricia in pula

2008-10-21T08:07:00.000-07:00

In the week and a half between the day I got this job to Vienna and left for Vienna, there was one new destination I knew I had to visit: Croatia. There have been rumors and stories humming in my head about this lengthy coastal, homeland of Toni Kukoc for several years now--how it rivaled the scenic beauty of Greece and still remained unaffected by the suffocation of too many tourists. And so upon my arrival, I leeched myself upon Allison and Matt and their similar weekend plans toward Croatia. It turned out that none of us had too many specifics in mind--we just wanted to go. The southern part including Split was what most of those rumors included, but it seemed days away by train and not worth the exhaustion, and then, naturally, Daniel came to be our finest resource. He encouraged us to spend half our time (again, weekend...3 1/2 days more or less) in Slovenia and then go to a village in Northern Croatia that was just a smaller version of Split. So with a couple days of reviewing suggestions, booking hostels, and hoping for the best, we jumped on a train toward Ljubljana, Slovenia's capital, Thursday just after noon.

We arrived early evening with slight mist and eager anticipation: we were staying in Hostel Celica, former prison turned art gallery/creative living quarters. We weren't disappointed. Apparently, some 800 Slovenian artists have contributed into the building's transformation giving 20 something individual cells unique character and layout. You should check it out for yourself: http://www.souhostel.com/

my prison cell for a night--the wooden contraption over

the window comes down as a table...yes, very cool

I thought the entire concept of this hostel was a beautiful shadow of the gospel. To take something that bred death, darkness, loneliness, and hopelessness and turn its confines into a building that supports exploration, safety, economic sustainability, and, of course, partying is an idea that we should practice more often. Death to life, darkness to laughter, toxic to restorative. Now I'm not saying that we should go ahead and close all our active prisons to open alternative businesses such as hotels, restaurants, museums, allthewhile training the former inmates in professional skills...okay, maybe I am... (: Maybe I'm just scared that our culture/world has forgotten how to use their imaginations...or perhaps it's that we never knew how.

Truman, a 21-year-old American stationed in a German Airforce base, had just returned from Iraq and was on a mini-vacation to regain his sanity. He was in search of community and proved to be a great tour guide of the town from his 4-day stay in Ljubljana. 20% of the population is university students, so needless to say, the town was humming with activity. We ate falafels and had a good conversation with a Bangladeshi man studying economics in Slovenia...of course his English was perfect and he wanted to peacefully converse over the economic state of affairs and America's next president. He was brilliant and made us some darn good falafels. The next morning thunderstorms boomed in the surrounding mountains to suggest that we move on to the coast of Piran which meant an inadequate stay in Ljub, but there's not much you can truly savor in one weekend's worth of jumping through two countries.

And it turns out that we made a great choice. Our hurricane winds off the coast of Piran offered a rather entertaining afternoon and subsided just in time for a crystal clear evening. The entertainment came when we all decided to change into our bathing suits, run through the small alleyways around our hostel and jump into the Adriatic Sea. Bernard, a Canadian visitor at our hostel saw us in the lobby, asked where we were from, and responded by, "Of course, Americans." We're representing our nation well in Slovenia, no worries. I'm pretty sure I laughed for an hour straight, and shivered simultaneously.

'Americans'

After warming up, we hiked up to their local church and further to the quaint castle with its grand panorama.

Piran, Slovenia

We spent a riveting night in our hostel's warm lobby resting and chatting it up with Bernard and his wife, Patricia. I would guess they are in their 50s/60s and come from Banff National Park, Canada. We bonded over a common love for mountains and the close proximity between Glacier and Banff, and realized that we were both headed toward Pula the following day. Following that conversation, the four of us decided that the Travel Channel should start airing a show entitled, "Patty in Pula"- one, because it sounds fabulous, and because Patricia would inevitably do a darn good job representin' Pula. Catchy, isn't it?

between Piran and Portoroz

We awoke to glorious blue skies and had a good chunk of time before our afternoon bus to Croatia, so we walked to the nearby town of Portoroz, drank cappuccinos, and laid out on one of the ports. I highly recommend this lifestyle. It was a pretty unanimous declaration that Slovenia is a splash of heaven on this earth, and what we saw of Croatia wasn't too bad either. All bus rides should be as pretty as the one we took that afternoon. Seriously, if Greyhound guaranteed Croatian coasts, I wouldn't even think of any other form of transportation.

And so we arrived in time for a sunset over a horizon of water, and gave ourselves a quick tour of Pula (Patricia had already headed on to the hostel, so we were lacking our guide, unfortunately).

Post-dusk we checked into Pula Youth Hostel located on the beach, went out to get oven-baked pizzas, slept, and woke up to a chilly sunrise. Then we left. An entire day of travel was performed without a glitch, except for the fact that the Slovenian train men couldn't get it through their heads that they weren't supposed to stamp our Eurail Passes. Just shake your heads along with me on that one.

After such a weekend, I am rethinking whether or not God wants me to spend the rest of my life renting out motorbikes in Piran, writing Slovenian poetry, and continuing my addiction to coffee and suntans. I wouldn't exactly be opposed.

And tonight it's Wednesday, October 22, 2008. I picked my mom up from the airport this morning, and we have quite an exciting 2 weeks planned together. We leave for fall break this weekend: Italy, Switzerland, Germany, and, of course, Osterreich.

Ciao ciao for now.

trip mom

2008-10-15T14:39:00.000-07:00

That's what some of my sweet chillun' call me. Here are some favorite photos of them.

Bintu & Chelsea in Budapest

Bintu, Allison & Allison pose at the Coliseum

Some of the gang at the Spanish Steps in Rome

All the ladies minus Bintu our first night in Florence

Marc, Matt & Denton in Pisa

buona sera

2008-10-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I went for a walk. There is a park not too far from our hotel in Vienna, just south of the Belvedere, and for some unknown reason I had yet to visit it over the months/years I've been around. I sat on a bench, Henri Nouwen in hand, and kept being interrupted by fall. The tree in front of me wore mustard yellow leaves burnt around the edges as if they were carefully dipped in dark chocolate. As I listened to the Amelie soundtrack and watched the tree, the bouncing accordion music made me dance from one leaf to the next and with the couple sitting across the pond, and the woman walking her dog. So many things were happening at once: autumn, words, sounds. Therefore, I practiced the only true skill I've somewhat honed over the years, observing. It's the closest thing I have to a vocation. And as I observed my surroundings, the Spirit ended up observing me.

(Nouwen's The Inner Voice of Love)

'Acknowledge Your Powerless'

"One way you keep holding on to an imaginary power is by expecting something from outside gratifications or future events. As long as you run from where you are and distract yourself, you cannot fully let yourself be healed. A seed only flourishes by staying in the ground in which it is sown. When you keep digging the seed up to check whether it is growing, it will never bear fruit. Think about yourself as a little seed planted in rich soil. All you have to do is stay there and trust that the soil contains everything you need to grow. This growth takes place even when you do not feel it. Be quiet, acknowledge your powerlessness, and have faith that one day you will know how much you have received."

____

Two weeks ago I wrote about travels in Cheb with Sarah, the closing of Tichy, and the hospitalization of one of our students...well, that week turned out to be our very own mini-plague. I spent the vast majority of my time at the hospital, fixing soup for the ill in my Harry Potter cup purchased at a thrift store down the road, and passing along a well-tested thermometer. And then I fled to Budapest....with about a dozen (healthy) students the day before we left for Italy. I had spent a rather humorous 4 hours in the Hungarian capital 6 years ago with Holly, Hunter and Austin. We arrived just in time to miss the spas (our main objective), grab a meal, and run to the last train leaving for Vienna. This time, we started out in similar fashion. We all literally ran to grab the earliest train out of Vienna to have optimum time in Buda and Pest. The adrenaline rush lasted most of the night as Chelsea, Bintu and I had the best meal thus far (even when comparing to Italy) in Europe, and meandered down to Hero's Square with its castles, museums, statues, and climbable trees. Since our earlier meal had given us wings, we walked the streets back toward the river. The weather could not have been more pleasant and I could not have been more taken with Budapest. The pleasantness turned to rain by morning, but we got up early enough to soak our sore bodies in the best Hungarian baths there were to offer. Eleven girls and one speedo-renting Matt giggled and sighed as our skin was smoothed and muscles relaxed. Our train got us home with just enough time to nap, pack, and pile in a night train to Rome.

hero's square-budapest

Similar to the Prague weekend one month ago, our week in Italy was a 32-member event (28 Studentin, 3 faculty [that includes me...yes, faculty], and one Daniel Kravina). It is our second, last, and greatest group affair with 4 days in Rome, 3 in Florence and 2 in transit. The way the week itinerary is prepared by Daniel, our week is non-stop from start to finish--a kind of baptism by fire. Just an hour or two after we'd awoken from a restless night on the train, we were whisked away by 4'10" Roberta for the grand tour of Roman Ruins which is, essentially, the entire city. From the Coliseum, Forum, and Arches to the remnants of where they (who 'they' is, I'm not really sure) say Paul was imprisoned while in Rome, it was an exhausting day (first of many) filled with floods of historical and artistic education (again, first of many).

roman coliseum

We stayed in a Catholic monastery for our entire time in Rome. Some of the nuns were crabby, but it was a delightful experience with a large garden, chicken coop, and a fancy crucifix above the front door on which Jesus was wearing a neon halo. Pretty impressive. Foodwise, Daniel never failed with our scheduled dinners one of which was a kind of international mission--the waitresses were missionaries from South America, Southeast Asia, Africa, etc, with wide smiles, the peace of God, and the mandatory task to lead each guest in Ave Maria. (oh, and the best gnocchi I've ever had came from the missionaries) Then there was pizza, pizza, pizza and gelato 3 times emphasized as well. Just stick around the Pantheon and you can not only find 101 flavors of gelato, but about the same amount for pizza. One night, a small group of us wondered to a pub down the street from our convent (which a pub in Rome is strange anyway), and just so happened to sit at the booth where a large Jack Daniels sign decorated the wall. And just so you know, whenever any European asks where you're from, the response to Tennessee never gets Elvis or music in general, but Jack Daniels. International fame. It was there I had my curry risotto...yum...and per usual, the deliciousness made me think of my Asian meals...I'm pretty sure my students are tired of hearing me talk about Nepal. I stuck my hand in the Mouth of Truth for my love of Audrey and Gregory, and spent a long time in the small apartment of John Keats's memorial. In 1820, he came with his friend to Rome. One year later, at the age of 25, tuberculosis killed his genius. And so, perhaps poetically, at the age of 25 I walked into his bedroom and thanked his tragic life for giving us 'Ode to Autumn' among others. Young brilliance is confounding.

Then we were off to Florence where 25% of the World Heritage Masterpieces are nestled into one tiny town filled with Americans. Daniel calls it the Disneyland of Italy. In just two days we went to 7 museums, among of course, the Academy in which stands Michelangelo's glorious David, and the Ufizzi Gallery that holds Bonticelli, Da Vinci, and Caravaggio.

ponte vecchio-florence

In the midst of trying to absorb at least a pinch of the Renaissance explosion, some of us went to Pisa for dinner. Honestly, I think most of the time there was spent trying to think of creative ways to 'hold up' the Leaning Tower with both legs, or 'push it over' with an effortless pinky. It is a strange existence.

when in pisa...

I might have to say that I even enjoyed this long week to Italy even more than 6 years ago. Most of that reaction is because of Rome. It was just far too overwhelming to me back then with it's 2 lines of a Metro, but now, maybe after living in more chaotic cities than itself, I loved Rome. Loved it. Also, I felt this trip allowed me to get to know the group so much better. Through girl talk, cultural observations, a common love for the man below, and thoughts of God and our response as his servants, last week was a perfect example of what makes this program in Europe so indispensable: community.

the one, the only, daniel kravina

With only a couple days of recoop time here in Wien, I'm off again in just an hour...to Slovenia and Croatia! Two of the three Allisons, Matt and I will be exploring three different towns over the weekend (2 being on the coast!). I'll have stories and pictures soon and very soon.

the coup for gelato

2008-09-30T08:45:00.000-07:00

It is Tuesday evening as I write from Vienna. The last day of September was beautiful here. So beautiful, in fact, that I threw my blanket and jacket in my bag and headed off to the Burggarten (one of the parks near downtown) just before noon. The sky was the color of my nephew's eyes, the leaves a shifting green, yellow, orange. And it was there, underneath a shifting tree, that I sprawled my blanket taken from the good people at United Airlines on grass and wadded my jacket beneath my head. There can't be many better perspectives than from under autumn trees and picnic skies.

Of course, just an hour later I came back to the hotel to find a group of my students waiting next to an ambulance. Um, not okay. Michael came back from Salzburg Sunday night real sick and hadn't been able to keep any food or liquids down for two days. Dehydration led to the hospital. So it happened that two of his good friends and I hopped in the car with Hotel Theresianum's Employee of the Year, Florian. What a guy. In every way, to every student, he goes out of his way to serve and care for us. Today, he works the night shift starting at midnight, but just so happened to be in the area, so he took it upon himself to spend the better part of the afternoon showing us to the hospital, acting as our translator, and making sure everything was set up for Michael in his room. Unbelievable. Michael already looked better from the IV and should be released tomorrow morning.

Now, it is dusk and a gentle rain just joined me out on the patio--shelter is nearby. But that's just today. And we need to go back and recount some other agreeable moments.

This past weekend was our first free travel of the semester. There were groups to Venice, Munich, Salzburg, and Poland. Poland proved to be a little tricky, humorous, and altogether annoying for the group involved. Cameras, money, and ipods were taken from the train ride, their hostel was shady and unnerving, and the only thing they did there was go to Auschwitz--the Nazi's deadliest concentration camp during World War II. All in all, they weren't the most chipper kids when they came back. But they came back.

As they all got on their separate trains Friday after class, the worried mother in me (ha) convinced myself it would all be okay...and hopped on my own train...to Cheb, Czech Republic to reunite with a friend from Hong Kong days, Sarah. Working the train system is a little bit like riding a bike or getting back into my car after months away, but there is still that subtle sense of urgency to make sure you get off at the right station, transfer to the right train, and not sit in an angry German's reserved seat. Everything went smoothly across Austria, into Germany, and finally to the border Czech town of Cheb.

I finished my first Bill Bryson book while I sat next to a young Austrian professional reading his own comical novel. Goodness gracious, I have never in my life seen someone laugh so hard while reading. Three times he had to place the book on his lap, remove his glasses, and wipe the tears from his eyes. At first it was endearing, but by the second stop when he departed, I was glad to see his humoured self go. Nothing can be that funny--maybe Dave Chappelle.

I love trains for the people watching (the bigger picture is that I love Europe for the people watching), and after my obnoxious Austrian laugher left, I fixed my gaze on a elderly couple sitting opposite of me down a few seats. They looked like they had lived a long life together through World Wars, communism, recoveries. And as I watched the woman's hands they reminded me of my grandmother's hands. One of my last days in Memphis before I left, I spent some time next to her while she slept in her bed fighting the grogginess of pain medicine. When she awoke from restlessness she looked at me and said, "Hey, sweetie pie." I sat softly on the bed and grabbed her hand. My grandmother has large hands for her size (larger hands than my own) with large knuckles that I stroked while I prayed. And they were warm. The kind of warm I felt during our sleepovers in that same bed eighteen years ago. The kind of warm that makes you think cold never existed. I am thankful for the ways God reminds us of himself, of those we love, and even those we don't love. I am thankful for the old woman's hands on the train.

cheb town square

some more czech graffiti

me and sarah drinking some eastern european pop

the birthday party surprise

walk in the woods

After 7 hours of watching people I made it to Sarah in the Cheb train station close to 10pm. Sarah worked for a total of 3 years at Mother's Choice orphan home in Hong Kong where both my sister and I met her (summer of 2004, for me). The next summer we chilled in Memphis as she participated in my sister's wedding festivities. We haven't seen each other since. And our reunion couldn't have started with a bigger bang. That night was their first English speaking pub night. Context: Sarah is in her second year of teaching English in the small town of Cheb. The school year just began, and to encourage all years to speak in English, they do a pub night weekly where all 7 English natives come and spread the love. I made 8. Not only did I immediately meet all of Sarah's fun natives of the USA, but her adorable (mostly) students as well. There was one guy named Henry who looked like he should have been a Scottish rugby playing sleezeball. Well, he is married with two kids, owns a hotel, has a horrible accent, terrific vocabulary (definitely busted out 'Allegedly' on me), and is convinced that the greatest music came at the end of the 1960s. And I couldn't disagree.

Our late night turned into a nice late morning. Sarah took me on a lovely tour of her newest home filled with castles, cathedrals, graffiti walls, birthday crepes (which was, essentially, an ordered strawberry crepe that came out looking like a birthday party), and a hike on the first perfect day of my European days. We wandered, she introduced me to the Czech soft drink, Kofola, and we talked about life, love, and the fate of writers (more specifically, English majors). It was a delight to catch up with her and fellowship. And we may go on a Berlin excursion later this fall.

Seeing that everyone made it back to Vienna, for better or worse, yesterday's glorious day was celebrated by all in a variety of ways. Bintu, Chelsea and I went walking around Schloss Schonbrun Palace. We watched children run, tourists take pictures, ducks swim in ponds, and mothers push their babies all around the decorated gardens of the late Maria Theresa (mama to Marie Antoinette). A couple hours later we added a few more fans of gelato to mourn the last day of Tichy Eis. As we walked out of the U-Bahn to our destination, we saw that 75 Austrians had the same idea. It seemed that we had underestimated our plan of action. We divided our group into groups of three across the unorganized mass throwing Euros at the women in pink and white striped aprons. Give me gelato. For the first 15 minutes, Mandalynn, Bintu and I thought our side of the unorganized mass was a clearly defined line...clearly not. With my limited German, I tried to nicely tell a couple women to make their way to the back of the line. But apparently we weren't playing the same game--or maybe speaking the same language. My patience was running thin and tension was rising in the crowd. A coup could have developed at any moment to overthrow the gelato into cups and cones and bellies. The more women (always women) tried to push their ways in front of us, the more I realized that I was a foot taller than them all and that God gave me these hips for a reason. "Erdbeer, Bananen, Haselnuss!" I yelled, and came away with my cup held high so that the crazy common folk wouldn't do anything rash. In another ten minutes each one of us convened near the street...triumphant. And so it was that Tichy closed down for the season. It was worth the battle.

I think I'm going to Budapest for the night Friday with a small group, and then our entire crew leaves Saturday night for a week in Italy! Hooray, more gelato!

prague

2008-09-24T01:45:00.000-07:00

i took a photo of this man 6 years ago...same flower and all.

czech grafitti

the famous astronomical clock

good times bowling

jewish cemetery

vienna & prague

2008-09-24T01:27:00.000-07:00

karlskirche-first night

hundertwasserhaus

the ladies with tichy eis gelato

excited to be in prague

prague's charles bridge

easter in praha

2008-09-23T12:04:00.000-07:00

Two years ago I came back to Vienna. I stole the phrase ‘delicious strangeness’ from Ian McEwan’s Atonement to describe my re-immersion. It was used when Cecilia came back home from being at university. Older, independent, and now a woman, she recalls memories and imprints from her youth as she settles back into her bedroom, strolls around the yard, sits by the fountain, remembers hidden places—gratifying familiarity—delicious strangeness.

So it was two years ago, and so it is now. My first night here, last Thursday, I strolled down with my jetlag, jacket and scarf to Karlskirche. I visited this same cathedral one of my first nights as a student six years ago, only then, I got lost (the kind of lost where the vastness of the city demands your respect; akin to the reaction of mountains when you find yourself cliffed out). But not this time. As a seasoned veteran I took my camera, sat, watched, and thanked God’s hand for placing me here—what a gift.

In not even a week’s time, I have found this group of 28 students so easy to love. Smart, kind, passionate, curious, they are eager to learn, find their way to 19 countries, explore, appreciate and include. Matt, Bintu and I meandered our way to the Hundertwasserhaus Friday to experience yet another of Vienna’s eclectic treasures of art and architecture. And before we knew it, Daniel took us all to Prague.

The first day was an entire afternoon of free time to roam, so I ate lunch with Daniel at a classic, non-touristy Czech pub with warm, spicy food and cool, tasty beverages. I spent the rest of my time walking past statues of Franz Kafka, signs that encouraged U.S. citizens to make their absentee vote count (sponsored, of course, by those crazy Democrats Abroad), wander across the most famous Charles Bridge where artisans sold their craft, and all the while kept my footing over the beloved Czech cobblestones.

Tired and satisfied, our group settled quite nicely into one large hotel—with a bowling alley in the basement. Naturally, we all went down and either made fools of ourselves or made fun of those making fools of themselves. I was the latter, and it was fun.

The next morning we enjoyed the company of the most adorable, Eva, our stylish 27-year-old tour guide. She had a very professional, contemporary, and realistic manner of speaking to us. She went into depth about the reign of communism that began after World War II when the Allied Russians came in and that fell with the Berlin Wall in 1989, and that has not only casted a dark shadow over her generation, but how the new ‘democracy’ has been a painful experiment; in fact, she considers her entire generation a kind of painful experiment. She spoke truthfully and with some shame about the rampant materialism that plagues younger people, and the atheism that is a considerable foundation for the same younger people. There was an honesty in her that was respectable and trustworthy.

Eva took us around the castle’s grounds where she convinced me that this very Prague castle has the largest castle grounds in the world…beats Versailles…believe it or not. After walking down a couple hundred steps past pubs and stores, we stopped in front of Saint Nicholas Cathedral where she explained to us the traditional Czech St. Nick day and Easter. And you got to hear about Easter.

To her credit, Eva mentioned that we would not understand this custom before she told us the Easter story. Apparently, single women spend weeks preparing elegantly painted eggs to give to suitors that hopefully come to their door on Easter. The men, on the other hand, don’t do a thing until they all get together early that morning with their sticks. Yes, their sticks. These men and their sticks then go to the houses of the women they find attractive, knock on the door, and then proceed to beat the best looking women. The best looking women then limp to the table where the detailed eggs lie and thank him for thinking so highly of her. Soooo, Eva says that the next day, women desire to go to work or university with the most bruises or sore butts. And in her words, the women who don’t have sore butts but instead are butt ugly have “psychological issues”…no joke. Oh, and let’s not forget that this just encourages abusive relationships in an entire country.

My mouth was open the entire time she told this story. And she was right, I don’t understand.

Easter aside, we had a delightful end to our time in Prague, and took the bus back to our home at Hotel Theresianum. We are trying to eat Tichy Eis gelato as much as possible since it closes next week, had a movie night last night with Before Sunrise as our featured film (a sweet tribute to Vienna and good dialogue), and everyone is getting details in order for this weekend’s adventures.

Today I spent more than half the day with sweet Chelsea. She had her purse stolen yesterday, which included everything but the kitchen sink. For future knowledge, if you lose your US passport in the city Vienna just give me a call. After spending hours figuring our way to the Embassy we find that passports are issued at the Consolate. Oh good, where in the world is that? Again, call me. Chelsea and I later found our way to the Austrian Police Station and a Western Union on the other end of town. We are such pros at appearing lost and in need here in Vienna. She is our Georgian Belle with the friendliest demeanor, most inviting smile, wakes her roommate up with a “Good morning, cupcake,” and desires to know and understand people from around the world. What a trooper she has been in light of losing everything, and what a cohesiveness she brings to the group.

And what joy it is for me to know and understand these students of Wien Zweitousandacht.

one long sigh

2008-09-18T06:27:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Yesterday morning I put on my long-sleeve shirt. Before I did that, I snuggled under blankets as the cool wind came through open windows. Yesterday, the world turned to fall—well, the world, being the world within the borders of Memphis. This much-anticipated metamorphosis is not uncommon; it occurs the middle of September every year. However, like an obvious literary device, this change of season cued a paralleled adjustment within my own life.

I came back from Nepal at the end of spring, and as summer began so did a new relationship, different plans for location, vocation, permanence. And summer was one long sigh. As she was beginning to give up her fight a few weeks ago, so was that relationship and those plans. So with long sleeves came a freedom I didn’t desire but have embraced, and the quintessential gift of a few months in Europe.

Soon enough I will be lighting candles in cathedrals, staring at works of Caravaggio, Klimt, Michelangelo, and sipping coffee in coffee shops that inspire you to write and dream and become something new.

Soon enough.

But let’s talk about the long-sleeve day…yesterday. Both emotionally and physically, the past month has left me sitting on the steps, drinking coffee, praying, and watching the wind blow the limbs and leaves of the trees in the distance without touching my own skin—as if something was happening right in front of me, but was reluctant to inform me of any decision, shift in pattern. Then the wind pushed through the trees and against my face and over my thoughts to lead me to Austria in just two days. And to WWE wrestling that night.

Now, let me explain. There is nothing about professional wrestling that has ever intrigued me; in fact, I have always found it quite repulsive. When Britta and I traveled to Harka Orphan Home last January, we quickly realized that the 15 children not only had a television in the middle of the jungle, but all they watched was the 24-hour WWE wrestling channel. We would soon find out in the next few weeks that that was all any of the children in the surrounding villages watched. It blew our minds.

As two women who advocate non-violence, creativity, being outdoors, and nurturing the imagination, we cringed every time the children adoringly watched the masculine soap opera….and even more so when they tried to emulate such grotesque lifestyles on their bunk beds and bedroom floor. Once, when we took a few of the kids to Chitwan National Park, Ishwor saw protective ropes surrounding a garden and excitedly began to climb through them and onto flowers yelling, “Wrestling!” as if they recreated a pen just for his entertainment. Their one true obsession.

Repulsion, however, turned to humor when I came back to Memphis from Nepal only to find the hidden secret of all my children on our street and around our neighborhood: it was their one true obsession as well. It seems that if the good news of Christ looked anything like John Cena, every child in the world—that had a television with a 24-hour WWE channel—would be saved. Alas, the gospel calls its followers to die to flesh in order to live in the substitutionary body of Christ instead of trying one’s best to kill each other in the flashiest, sexiest of wrestling rings.

Now, with the understanding of such a global phenomenon, I thought it much more hilarious to go with Cedric (C-Rock, his wrestling persona) to Monday Night RAW as a kind of farewell-for-now event. And what a cultural experience it was. I think the only place more diverse in Memphis is the Greyhound Bus Station. Whether it was the wrestler who resembled Sloth from the film, Goonies, that invoked the crowd chant, “Brush your teeth (teef)” or the painfully obvious dramatic scripts they insert for cheap thrills and/or boos, I found myself shaking my head or looking at Cedric next to me in order to copy his ruckus.

And with such a classy exit, I say ‘Shalom, Y’all’…and…

Auf Wiedersehen.