“See every detail around you, smell the air, let everything in the environment come to you.” –Deepak Chopra, The Third Jesus
How amazing moments in time can be…
Lying on your back in the “posa” of a waterfall, nothing but the sound of water crashing down around you, looking up at the falling white “chorreon”.
The smell of a savory chicken soup, prepared above a wood-burning fire, the billowing smoke burning your eyes.
The reverberating laughter of 7 Salvadoran children competing to kill a tarantula as “la gringa” skips around screaming.
Tasting the bitter bite of a mango “tierno”, right-eye twitching, mouth contorted, tongue curling…all in pure enjoyment.
The feeling of a child’s innocent arms wrapped tightly around your neck, a warmth that lingers even after the release.
“Whenever you have a flash of love, innocence, inspiration, awe, wonder, or joy, remind yourself: This is the real me. Don’t let such moments simply pass you by. Stop and appreciate them, and ask that you receive more in the future.” –Deepak Chopra, The Third Jesus.
Appreciate your experiences, but don’t try to own them.
Avoid thinking of the path as “my” path.
Let things come and go without attachment.
Don’t pretend to be more positive than you actually feel.
Don’t exaggerate your experiences, to yourself or others.
Share your path only with someone you trust.
Offer thanks with simplicity.
Don’t allow your experiences to set you apart from or above anyone else.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Summertime And The Livings Easy
Quietness has a strange, spongy hum that can nearly break your eardrums. (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees).
The rhythmic inhales and exhales of my own breath are the only things I can hear as I concentrate on keeping as still as possible. The sound of silence only exacerbates the sense of feeling. The trickle of sweat walking down my forehead, creeping around the curve of my eyebrow, rolling along my cheekbone and crawling up and over my chin is torturous, but I do not dare to expend the energy to wipe it away. Instead, I let gravity do its job as I feel the sweat droplet plummet and splash across my chest. My clothes are in a pile nearby, the cold side of the pillow only lasts 3 minutes before it has to be flipped, and the stagnant air is lightly, but noticeably alleviated by the fanning of flies flirting overhead.
I don’t remember this summer last year. Everyday, I swear I have never sweated so much before in my life. Not after running stadiums in The Swamp at college, not during soccer practice on the Pleasantville high school’s turf, not waiting 70 minutes in line at Disney’s Rock N Roll’er Coaster ride and not walking across the scolding sand at Jones Beach. Certainly, today was the most I have ever sweated.
Soo let me tell you about it. And as sure I am that I will hear at least 4 Aventura songs before I reach Gotera, I am sure that my bus stories NEVER get old, so this is how the morning started. Jam-packed and personal-space-free, I rode the bus to town cradling a 65 year old man on my lap. Not that he weighed more than the backpack hung across my back, but this would have been much easier if I were seated. Instead, I clenched the handrail overhead as old man Michael Finnigan hobbled over (with a line of supertramps on his heels) and setup shop upon my 2 patas without a sense of recognition for their caretaker. Although my baby toes of each foot cried out at each bend in the road, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud and all alone as I saw 5’2” Miguel’s expressionless face and glazed over eyes ride the bus to town, immovably planted upon the gringa. When he finally disembarked La Barca Jaime, his eyes met mine and we shared a sense of closeness and we silently said our goodbyes.
The day carried out equally as beautifully but dreadfully hotter as I entered the Gotera market. I briskly maneuvered the dried fish section, dodged the splatters of oil from revuelta pupusas and coaxed myself along passed baskets of pan dulce. When I finally arrived at the Self Defense for Women training center, I was ready for my first water break.
All complaining about the summer heat aside (I hate whiners), I was ecstatic that 4 girlies from my community were ready to learn about self-defense. We talked about the importance of being a confident woman, of walking with pride and being aware of your surroundings. We talked about the respect we deserve and ought to demand and how to prevent possible attacks. Finally, we got to the fun part. We beat up pillows. I walked out of that course looking like I had just swam 25 laps in the UF pool, but the smile on my face was fatigue-less.
Back in La Montana, it dawned on me that some angel from Gringo-Land had once sent me a package with todavia-untouched water balloons. If any volunteers have been so smart as to read my blog, and lucky to have amazing friends like I have who send you packages, I urge you to pedir water balloons. I filled up about 120, and headed to the soccer field with a guacal of painfully heavy-entertainment on my shoulders (Note: learn how to carry things on head like normal people). The war that endured was some of the most fun I’ve ever head. I hate to brag (you know me) but I kicked some 4 year old @$$.
After cooling down in this 102F weather with some innocent but highly aggressive water balloon-fun, we decided it was time to sweat again….sooo we began to run the soccer field in some plastic futbol, flip flop wearing, skirt flapping, toe-stubbing fun.
Foot-tall Franky got pegged with shot-on-goal #1 but quickly recuperated to retake his position as portero. Older brother Damian had to be Heimlich-ed back to life (do not give out candy before sports) but you would have never known he suffered had you not seen the blue dulce projectile out of his esophagus. Fredi and I ran the field, swerving around pigtail princesses and diaper-wearing-Diegos. But the bee swarm of children running behind me will be an image forever burned in my memory that 24 gallons of sweat could never erase.
I promise you that even after standing under an ice cold shower from 5pm up until the sky was sprinkled with stars, I was still sweating. And so that is how I ended up, sprawled across my bed in a desnuda mess, begging a cold front to miraculously knock three times on the ceiling.
So, the point of it all is, it’s f#ck(ng hot. I hate to complain (obviously) but it can be painful to try to sleep concentrating on moving as little as possible, focusing on not thinking about the heat, but yet the only thing on your mind is the feeling of sweat beads emerging from your pulsating pores. I commend those who live by the beach. I beg sugerencias from those in Usulutan or San Miguel. I welcome the moldy inviernos to this everlasting sauna!
But you know what, it’s worth it. After a day of teaching an invaluable life skill and rewarding yourself with the smiling faces of two dozen children, the heat doesn’t matter. The REAL point of it all is, my job is f#ck(ng awesome. I’d never normally put on a skirt and make-up and run the soccer field in rubber flip flops. But I’ve never had so much spontaneous fun in my life. My feet hurt over the rocky field and slapping the plastic ball, I was certain I was going to trip over my long faldita and the dust burned my squinting eyes… But I ran my heart out, laughed like a maniac and scooped up falling ninos that I’ll love for the rest of my life. The FINAL and MOST IMPORTANT point of it all is, ….
Don’t sort-of-maybe live, but live like you’re going all out, like you’re not afraid. (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees).
The rhythmic inhales and exhales of my own breath are the only things I can hear as I concentrate on keeping as still as possible. The sound of silence only exacerbates the sense of feeling. The trickle of sweat walking down my forehead, creeping around the curve of my eyebrow, rolling along my cheekbone and crawling up and over my chin is torturous, but I do not dare to expend the energy to wipe it away. Instead, I let gravity do its job as I feel the sweat droplet plummet and splash across my chest. My clothes are in a pile nearby, the cold side of the pillow only lasts 3 minutes before it has to be flipped, and the stagnant air is lightly, but noticeably alleviated by the fanning of flies flirting overhead.
I don’t remember this summer last year. Everyday, I swear I have never sweated so much before in my life. Not after running stadiums in The Swamp at college, not during soccer practice on the Pleasantville high school’s turf, not waiting 70 minutes in line at Disney’s Rock N Roll’er Coaster ride and not walking across the scolding sand at Jones Beach. Certainly, today was the most I have ever sweated.
Soo let me tell you about it. And as sure I am that I will hear at least 4 Aventura songs before I reach Gotera, I am sure that my bus stories NEVER get old, so this is how the morning started. Jam-packed and personal-space-free, I rode the bus to town cradling a 65 year old man on my lap. Not that he weighed more than the backpack hung across my back, but this would have been much easier if I were seated. Instead, I clenched the handrail overhead as old man Michael Finnigan hobbled over (with a line of supertramps on his heels) and setup shop upon my 2 patas without a sense of recognition for their caretaker. Although my baby toes of each foot cried out at each bend in the road, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud and all alone as I saw 5’2” Miguel’s expressionless face and glazed over eyes ride the bus to town, immovably planted upon the gringa. When he finally disembarked La Barca Jaime, his eyes met mine and we shared a sense of closeness and we silently said our goodbyes.
The day carried out equally as beautifully but dreadfully hotter as I entered the Gotera market. I briskly maneuvered the dried fish section, dodged the splatters of oil from revuelta pupusas and coaxed myself along passed baskets of pan dulce. When I finally arrived at the Self Defense for Women training center, I was ready for my first water break.
All complaining about the summer heat aside (I hate whiners), I was ecstatic that 4 girlies from my community were ready to learn about self-defense. We talked about the importance of being a confident woman, of walking with pride and being aware of your surroundings. We talked about the respect we deserve and ought to demand and how to prevent possible attacks. Finally, we got to the fun part. We beat up pillows. I walked out of that course looking like I had just swam 25 laps in the UF pool, but the smile on my face was fatigue-less.
Back in La Montana, it dawned on me that some angel from Gringo-Land had once sent me a package with todavia-untouched water balloons. If any volunteers have been so smart as to read my blog, and lucky to have amazing friends like I have who send you packages, I urge you to pedir water balloons. I filled up about 120, and headed to the soccer field with a guacal of painfully heavy-entertainment on my shoulders (Note: learn how to carry things on head like normal people). The war that endured was some of the most fun I’ve ever head. I hate to brag (you know me) but I kicked some 4 year old @$$.
After cooling down in this 102F weather with some innocent but highly aggressive water balloon-fun, we decided it was time to sweat again….sooo we began to run the soccer field in some plastic futbol, flip flop wearing, skirt flapping, toe-stubbing fun.
Foot-tall Franky got pegged with shot-on-goal #1 but quickly recuperated to retake his position as portero. Older brother Damian had to be Heimlich-ed back to life (do not give out candy before sports) but you would have never known he suffered had you not seen the blue dulce projectile out of his esophagus. Fredi and I ran the field, swerving around pigtail princesses and diaper-wearing-Diegos. But the bee swarm of children running behind me will be an image forever burned in my memory that 24 gallons of sweat could never erase.
I promise you that even after standing under an ice cold shower from 5pm up until the sky was sprinkled with stars, I was still sweating. And so that is how I ended up, sprawled across my bed in a desnuda mess, begging a cold front to miraculously knock three times on the ceiling.
So, the point of it all is, it’s f#ck(ng hot. I hate to complain (obviously) but it can be painful to try to sleep concentrating on moving as little as possible, focusing on not thinking about the heat, but yet the only thing on your mind is the feeling of sweat beads emerging from your pulsating pores. I commend those who live by the beach. I beg sugerencias from those in Usulutan or San Miguel. I welcome the moldy inviernos to this everlasting sauna!
But you know what, it’s worth it. After a day of teaching an invaluable life skill and rewarding yourself with the smiling faces of two dozen children, the heat doesn’t matter. The REAL point of it all is, my job is f#ck(ng awesome. I’d never normally put on a skirt and make-up and run the soccer field in rubber flip flops. But I’ve never had so much spontaneous fun in my life. My feet hurt over the rocky field and slapping the plastic ball, I was certain I was going to trip over my long faldita and the dust burned my squinting eyes… But I ran my heart out, laughed like a maniac and scooped up falling ninos that I’ll love for the rest of my life. The FINAL and MOST IMPORTANT point of it all is, ….
Don’t sort-of-maybe live, but live like you’re going all out, like you’re not afraid. (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees).
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Familia
Familia
“She’s flirting with the customs man!” We watched from the windows outside the airport as Christina smiled and twirled her hair in her fingers, the customs man with his back towards us. “So she can speak Spanish?” my friend asked. “Nope. Shes speaking English Im pretty sure” I replied. How long are they going to talk for? Whats going on?
She finally comes outside, curses the heat and enlightens us with the customs man extensive English vocabulary and even better pick-up line “facebook?”
I know I do this with every visitor, but I cant believe she is gone already. I remember a poem I read in high school about the Time Keeper. Sometimes, I hate that bastard. He is pretty inconsistent you know? A veces turning minutes into hours and then just as suddenly hitting fast forward. Don’t you think we should have just a little more control? But then again, I’ve also read time doesn’t exist…
From night 1, to changing in the gas station bathroom and hanging with friends at a Guns N Roses cover band, to night 9 at the same bar we started, burned faces and sleepy eyes, I could not have asked for a better week…or sister (Gracias a Dios, I was given triple).
Day 1, we beat the sun to the horizon and headed to the beach from the dark and dreary Eastern Bus Terminal. The ride was long and sweaty but the viejito behind me only clawed my head with his extra long Salvo nails 3 times (instead of 5) so we pretty much arrived unharmed.
We got down to business and covered ourselves in paint since the Ultimate Frisbee Gringo Tournament was about to start. We played our hearts out, as the photos can tell you, and then ran down the beach to do our best to rinse off in earth’s largest Jacuzzi. The night was spent bonding with volunteer friends, scarred-for-life questioning by Greg and Tyler and the occasional “Ice-ing” (Christina’s voluntarily).
Day 2 was my dinamica for the sis to the Safety and Security charla, so we hitch-hiked our way to San Miguel, to the desvio, to Gotera, to Osicala and finally my community, effectively paying $0 from the $0 I andar-ed (don’t let your debit card expire). We arrived, once again tired and sweaty, (summer’s here!) and Christina “oh shit!-ed” her way through her first ice-cold shower.
We wasted no time traversing my entire community and so my sister met everyone from my wheel chair recipients and scholarship winners, to no-teethed-Tina and always-giving-me-Papayas-Pedro. Before racing the sun, yet again, we had swayed in approximately 14 hammocks and eaten 8 refrigerios. With every food offering, Christina would look at me with wide-skeptical eyes and ask “Can I eat this? Is this okay to drink?” and I would shrug my shoulders while cocking my head and already be swallowing… (Confianza 1, Immune System 0). Note: See blog “Amoebas”.
Day 3-5 were more of the same, visiting my community. One particular day we did a hike through the mountains, visiting a molienda where we watched my diligent piropo-ers turning sugar cane into honey. We tasted the sweet candy they had made, as Vaquito stole sips from the pila. Interesting how dogs are. I leave the little guy running loose without food for a week in my community and yet when I return, he is never more than 4 feet by my side. Actually, upon my return I was sitting outside in my plastic chair and cell-service-spot when he came bounding across the fields and jumped straight up onto my lap, nearly botar-ing me backward and covering me in paw prints of cow dung. But that’s another story…
So, there we were, Christina and I hiking through the mountains, nibbling on bananas and swimming in the waterfalls that irrigate my community. We laughed at how awkward we looked in pictures and lamented at Vaquito’s insistence to be welded to my shin. More than once I was forced to go rescue the helpless canine since he had subir-ed where he was unable to bajar.
And por fin, Thursday had arrived and we were being awaited by La Playa Tunco so we woke at 3:30am, did our best to bathe in the dark of the morning and the wintery water and hopped on the 5am bus to San Miguel. We stood almost 2 hours, since I guess everyone was headed to the beach that morning (actually none were) but at least looked forward to the next “special” bus that would provide us with 2 hours of air conditioning. Much to our dismay, there were no seats left on that bus either and so El Salvador is never a surprise.
The next few nights were spent at the beach, fighting off the local surfers “yes we know you LIVE at the beach, no we’re not going to “date” you, yes that’s cool you’re a local, no we’re still not going with you, yes you have nice abs….”.
We played ping pong and soccer, swam and surfed (AKA watched surfers), ate good food and had good drinks. By day 3 the color of Christina’s skin told us it was time to go and my butterflies multiplied exponentially as I realized her time was coming near.
Back to San Sal for the last remaining hours, the car ride was quiet. The panes were down and we each looked out our respective windows, feeling nothing but the summer breeze across our faces. It reminded me of the serenity of silence. The loudness of the wind that is almost unperceivable as you let it envelope you; Equivalent to the utter calm of water. When you completely submerge your body and head and you are alone, completely alone in the world. It is why I love the water… Because you can go under there and hear nothing but the peace in the world. I think I smile every time I am underwater and I feel and hear the peace and I think to myself “I Love this, I want to live here”. It doesn’t matter if your eyes are opened are closed; it is the greatest feeling.
And so, again, alone in my thoughts on the windy car ride back to reality, I long for another week. But, for the better, I feel my world has changed. They say you live by a city your whole lifetime and may never really get to know it. 19 years I’ve been with my sister, yet there was so much I didn’t know. I blame myself for not getting to know her sooner.
For not appreciating her song-like laugh that is undoubtedly exactly the same as that which she had when she was 4 years old while watching Homeward Bound, and the same laugh I hear when I look at the photo on my wall of her running toward the horsey at my Dad’s yacht club. For not acknowledging her desire to learn and not admiring her shameless yearning to understand the unknown. For not recognizing sooner her incapability of hurting someone’s feelings and not hugging her enough for it. For the maturity with which she carries herself, yet the humbleness that keeps her level (prestame some por favor?) For her genuineness; I don’t think I’ve met someone more genuine. For her confidence and independence, which impressed me more with each passing day. For the way she talked to me and made me feel. For being my sister, for loving me and for letting me love her. For hopefully letting me show her (and believing) how important she is to me and what she means to me. For forgiving me for maybe not showing her sooner.
Because really, my world changed a little since having her here. I realized that estoy enamorada de mi familia.
“She’s flirting with the customs man!” We watched from the windows outside the airport as Christina smiled and twirled her hair in her fingers, the customs man with his back towards us. “So she can speak Spanish?” my friend asked. “Nope. Shes speaking English Im pretty sure” I replied. How long are they going to talk for? Whats going on?
She finally comes outside, curses the heat and enlightens us with the customs man extensive English vocabulary and even better pick-up line “facebook?”
I know I do this with every visitor, but I cant believe she is gone already. I remember a poem I read in high school about the Time Keeper. Sometimes, I hate that bastard. He is pretty inconsistent you know? A veces turning minutes into hours and then just as suddenly hitting fast forward. Don’t you think we should have just a little more control? But then again, I’ve also read time doesn’t exist…
From night 1, to changing in the gas station bathroom and hanging with friends at a Guns N Roses cover band, to night 9 at the same bar we started, burned faces and sleepy eyes, I could not have asked for a better week…or sister (Gracias a Dios, I was given triple).
Day 1, we beat the sun to the horizon and headed to the beach from the dark and dreary Eastern Bus Terminal. The ride was long and sweaty but the viejito behind me only clawed my head with his extra long Salvo nails 3 times (instead of 5) so we pretty much arrived unharmed.
We got down to business and covered ourselves in paint since the Ultimate Frisbee Gringo Tournament was about to start. We played our hearts out, as the photos can tell you, and then ran down the beach to do our best to rinse off in earth’s largest Jacuzzi. The night was spent bonding with volunteer friends, scarred-for-life questioning by Greg and Tyler and the occasional “Ice-ing” (Christina’s voluntarily).
Day 2 was my dinamica for the sis to the Safety and Security charla, so we hitch-hiked our way to San Miguel, to the desvio, to Gotera, to Osicala and finally my community, effectively paying $0 from the $0 I andar-ed (don’t let your debit card expire). We arrived, once again tired and sweaty, (summer’s here!) and Christina “oh shit!-ed” her way through her first ice-cold shower.
We wasted no time traversing my entire community and so my sister met everyone from my wheel chair recipients and scholarship winners, to no-teethed-Tina and always-giving-me-Papayas-Pedro. Before racing the sun, yet again, we had swayed in approximately 14 hammocks and eaten 8 refrigerios. With every food offering, Christina would look at me with wide-skeptical eyes and ask “Can I eat this? Is this okay to drink?” and I would shrug my shoulders while cocking my head and already be swallowing… (Confianza 1, Immune System 0). Note: See blog “Amoebas”.
Day 3-5 were more of the same, visiting my community. One particular day we did a hike through the mountains, visiting a molienda where we watched my diligent piropo-ers turning sugar cane into honey. We tasted the sweet candy they had made, as Vaquito stole sips from the pila. Interesting how dogs are. I leave the little guy running loose without food for a week in my community and yet when I return, he is never more than 4 feet by my side. Actually, upon my return I was sitting outside in my plastic chair and cell-service-spot when he came bounding across the fields and jumped straight up onto my lap, nearly botar-ing me backward and covering me in paw prints of cow dung. But that’s another story…
So, there we were, Christina and I hiking through the mountains, nibbling on bananas and swimming in the waterfalls that irrigate my community. We laughed at how awkward we looked in pictures and lamented at Vaquito’s insistence to be welded to my shin. More than once I was forced to go rescue the helpless canine since he had subir-ed where he was unable to bajar.
And por fin, Thursday had arrived and we were being awaited by La Playa Tunco so we woke at 3:30am, did our best to bathe in the dark of the morning and the wintery water and hopped on the 5am bus to San Miguel. We stood almost 2 hours, since I guess everyone was headed to the beach that morning (actually none were) but at least looked forward to the next “special” bus that would provide us with 2 hours of air conditioning. Much to our dismay, there were no seats left on that bus either and so El Salvador is never a surprise.
The next few nights were spent at the beach, fighting off the local surfers “yes we know you LIVE at the beach, no we’re not going to “date” you, yes that’s cool you’re a local, no we’re still not going with you, yes you have nice abs….”.
We played ping pong and soccer, swam and surfed (AKA watched surfers), ate good food and had good drinks. By day 3 the color of Christina’s skin told us it was time to go and my butterflies multiplied exponentially as I realized her time was coming near.
Back to San Sal for the last remaining hours, the car ride was quiet. The panes were down and we each looked out our respective windows, feeling nothing but the summer breeze across our faces. It reminded me of the serenity of silence. The loudness of the wind that is almost unperceivable as you let it envelope you; Equivalent to the utter calm of water. When you completely submerge your body and head and you are alone, completely alone in the world. It is why I love the water… Because you can go under there and hear nothing but the peace in the world. I think I smile every time I am underwater and I feel and hear the peace and I think to myself “I Love this, I want to live here”. It doesn’t matter if your eyes are opened are closed; it is the greatest feeling.
And so, again, alone in my thoughts on the windy car ride back to reality, I long for another week. But, for the better, I feel my world has changed. They say you live by a city your whole lifetime and may never really get to know it. 19 years I’ve been with my sister, yet there was so much I didn’t know. I blame myself for not getting to know her sooner.
For not appreciating her song-like laugh that is undoubtedly exactly the same as that which she had when she was 4 years old while watching Homeward Bound, and the same laugh I hear when I look at the photo on my wall of her running toward the horsey at my Dad’s yacht club. For not acknowledging her desire to learn and not admiring her shameless yearning to understand the unknown. For not recognizing sooner her incapability of hurting someone’s feelings and not hugging her enough for it. For the maturity with which she carries herself, yet the humbleness that keeps her level (prestame some por favor?) For her genuineness; I don’t think I’ve met someone more genuine. For her confidence and independence, which impressed me more with each passing day. For the way she talked to me and made me feel. For being my sister, for loving me and for letting me love her. For hopefully letting me show her (and believing) how important she is to me and what she means to me. For forgiving me for maybe not showing her sooner.
Because really, my world changed a little since having her here. I realized that estoy enamorada de mi familia.
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