NUMBER 1....
Right now I am at the Professional Development Camp for youth that was made possible by donations from friends and family at home.
I want to sincerely thank you all for donating and supporting my projects here in El Salvador. I am amazed by the successful experience our community kids are having at this camp, as I watch them on day 2. The change in their demeanor, the confidence they have already gained, the laughter, the new friendships, the bright eyes, is very rewarding.
Many of these kids have traveled across the country and are spending 2 nights with a new group of kids from around El Salvador. My fellow 8 PCVs and friends and I have designed this camp to provide Professional Development skills to deserving youth. After months of planning and fundraising, it has been exciting and highly rewarding to see the camp at work and the kids progress.
I want to Thank Everyone who donated for making this amazing opportunity possible. Soon you shall see photos posted on Facebook!
NUMBER 2....
For the past few months, my Community Development Team in La Montana and I have been designing the plans and work committees to build a foot-bridge over a creek in my community. Hundreds of men, women, and children cross this creek to get to school, to the coffee fields, or to the town center. During this time of year, the creek floods making the passage near-impossible.
I have been approved my Peace Corps to make this project possible through writing a Peace Corps Partnership Grant which is posted on the official PeaceCorps.gov project website, under my last name.
If you would be able to spare some fancy dinner money or some happy hour specials to this cause, it would be immensely appreciated.
I have agreed to extend my service to see this project through if needed and while I love La Montana and its members, I deeply miss my family and friends at home and hope that I will be back to see them as planned in March!
So every DAY counts. If you can afford to donate, please DO IT, and most politely, DO IT NOW!!!!!
Thank you so much in advance.
Thank you to those who have already donated. Thank you to those who read. Thank you to those who care and support and love and are spreading the love!
xoxoxo
from El Salvador
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Listen
Listen
Let our breath be gentle wind,
Let our ears be of those who listen,
Let our hearts be not ones
That rage so quickly and
Thus blow dramatically,
And uselessly.
Let our spirits attend and be
Most diligent to the soft
Yet desperate whisper of
Hope and peace for our world.
-Mattie J.T. Stepanek
Ambassador of Humanity
It was 5:05am. I was freshly bathed, hair still well and toes rubbery. I swung my backpack around onto my lap and strategically placed one-full and half-the-other butt cheek on the miniature bus benches, using my right hand to brace myself for the dips and climbs and my left hand to cradle my bundle of capital clothes and hot-water-awaiting toiletries tucked safely in my mochila.
My eyes were just rolling back in my head as some old feller (or perhaps young lad) stomped his green rubber boots upon my helpless left foot and I sprung ferociously back to life. Alls I saw was the back of his head as he anonymously marched away and I stared down at the victim that was my foot. Covered in mud, with pieces of corn stalk and grass creeping out from between the crevices, I wondered what percentage of the guck was cow maneur. In my head I replayed the scenario over and over, right eye twitching uncontrollably and mouth taut. My eyes were beating down on my toes like those of hypnotized Aladdin under Jafar’s evil trance and for an undefined period of time I lost all sense of human character traits. Im not sure if it was the frustration of the return to dirty-campo-toes or the actual worms and critters living in the muck upon my foot, but the agony began eating me alive. My left foot began scraping itself against the bus bench in front of me in a desperate attempt to quitar the foot-parasites. I’m not actually sure what else was happening to my body in those moments of internal rage but I can imagine my body rocking back and forth (as I relive this awful memory) and my fingers tapping rhythmically.
My trance was disturbed as a guy my age sitting across from me reached across and handed me a napkin.
My face immediately turned red as my ridicul-osity (some words just make sense even if they don’t appear in Websters) dawned on me. I feared how long this guy had watched me suffer over a dirty pinky toe. Although by that moment I was beyond all concept of time. I cleaned myself off, returning to my abnormal state of having mud-less toes, in a total of 37 seconds and graciously/shamefully thanked my good Samaritan.
The rest of the trip I had random fits of giggles over the mess that I became at the site of my tainted toes, interspersed with revels of my once again sparkling foot.
My month has been marked with stores like this; dreadful nightmares alleviated by wonderful awakenings.
A few weeks ago I came back from that bus trip to find out my beloved chucho had been run over by a car. Before you worry, my dog is alive and well (with the exception of a mangled tail). But for a good week or so, I was not sure. And while I was pained by Vaquito’s suffering, I was glad to see that he had finally learned his lesson and was no longer chasing the passing motorcycles or throwing himself Extreme-Sport-style in front of pick-up trucks.
The story I was told by my 9-year old neighbor was that he “quedo muerto” (was lying for dead) on the side of the road for awhile, after a long fit of ear-piercing yelps for help. It was then that his mara of neighborhood dog-buddies came to his rescue, lifting Vaquito on their backs and dragging him to safety.
I would love to think this as true and am awaiting offers for his leading role in Lady and the Tramp 3. But however it came to be, I am very grateful for his survival. A week he laid upon my dirty patio, echar-ing a smell that I thought was quite indicative of his demise, and I prayed silently for his peace. I even went to the nearest vet I could find and bought him some meds and while the expiration date read November 2007, I was confident he would pull-through. And he did.
And now, I worry practically never for his survival among the moto’s and pick-ups. The bucking bulls and kicking caballos are another story…
Nightmare number 3 can be explained in 2 words: rainy season. If there is one thing I took for granted in New York, it was mold-less clothes. Things just don’t dry here. My clothes were on the line after a weekend by the beach, as a few rays of sun were beaming down upon them in their best efforts to beat the 4pm showers. However, without warning, the hot day turned sour in a matter of seconds as the rain began to fall. I began tearing my clothes down from the line like a maniac, my neighbor and good friend Lucy running to help. As we repositioned the clothes on a line inside my home to await their moldy destiny, Lucy asked me why I washed my other neighbor, Karime’s clothes. Karime is 5. For a few moments I was confused, and then as she gentley placed my mini-jean shorts (stolen from my sister on her visit and ONLY wore when my community is NOWHERE in site) on the line. You see, women in the countryside DO NOT show anything above the knee. My jean shorts worn at the beach and small tank tops could only be perceived as Karimes. Fortunately, my explanation was not needed as we began to hear a pelting sound on my tin roof and ran to look out the windows. It was hailing! Well never in my year and a half here did I think it would ever hail in El Salvador! How cool…
My final story is yet again about the lack of privacy I have here in my little house. I honestly think only a handful of days have gone by when I have not had a visitor. Sometimes my blood starts curdling at the sound of approaching “strangers”. And I feel bad about it, I do. I know they are all in good intentions. And I really love them as people, I do. But sometimes, you just wanna be alone. You wanna read in the hammock or do yoga without someone staring at you.
There is one family, in particular, that comes by for no good reason. I have learned though, I think, to stay in good spirits. To appreciate the fact that they want to spend time with me. And so, as I played with my 4 year old friend the other day, I laughed instead of lamented. As we spent the day listening to Aventura while coloring and then dancing to “Si no le contesto se desespera”, I got to know Franky on a different level. Before he left, his mother asked if he could use my shower, since they do not have running water at his house. I let them, of course, and then Franky and I styled his hair together in the mirror. Before they left that day, his mom told me that he says “Im going to Jaimes house” whenever she is mad at him. That put a smile on my face…for a long time.
As I was reading that poem pasted above by Mattie Stepanek, I was inspired to write this blog. Because amazing things happen when you really listen. Listen to the peace and beauty in the world. Sometimes, you have to find it. And sometimes its so obviously right there in front of your face that you forget to acknowledge it. But it is so important to take the time to do so.
Let our breath be gentle wind,
Let our ears be of those who listen,
Let our hearts be not ones
That rage so quickly and
Thus blow dramatically,
And uselessly.
Let our spirits attend and be
Most diligent to the soft
Yet desperate whisper of
Hope and peace for our world.
-Mattie J.T. Stepanek
Ambassador of Humanity
It was 5:05am. I was freshly bathed, hair still well and toes rubbery. I swung my backpack around onto my lap and strategically placed one-full and half-the-other butt cheek on the miniature bus benches, using my right hand to brace myself for the dips and climbs and my left hand to cradle my bundle of capital clothes and hot-water-awaiting toiletries tucked safely in my mochila.
My eyes were just rolling back in my head as some old feller (or perhaps young lad) stomped his green rubber boots upon my helpless left foot and I sprung ferociously back to life. Alls I saw was the back of his head as he anonymously marched away and I stared down at the victim that was my foot. Covered in mud, with pieces of corn stalk and grass creeping out from between the crevices, I wondered what percentage of the guck was cow maneur. In my head I replayed the scenario over and over, right eye twitching uncontrollably and mouth taut. My eyes were beating down on my toes like those of hypnotized Aladdin under Jafar’s evil trance and for an undefined period of time I lost all sense of human character traits. Im not sure if it was the frustration of the return to dirty-campo-toes or the actual worms and critters living in the muck upon my foot, but the agony began eating me alive. My left foot began scraping itself against the bus bench in front of me in a desperate attempt to quitar the foot-parasites. I’m not actually sure what else was happening to my body in those moments of internal rage but I can imagine my body rocking back and forth (as I relive this awful memory) and my fingers tapping rhythmically.
My trance was disturbed as a guy my age sitting across from me reached across and handed me a napkin.
My face immediately turned red as my ridicul-osity (some words just make sense even if they don’t appear in Websters) dawned on me. I feared how long this guy had watched me suffer over a dirty pinky toe. Although by that moment I was beyond all concept of time. I cleaned myself off, returning to my abnormal state of having mud-less toes, in a total of 37 seconds and graciously/shamefully thanked my good Samaritan.
The rest of the trip I had random fits of giggles over the mess that I became at the site of my tainted toes, interspersed with revels of my once again sparkling foot.
My month has been marked with stores like this; dreadful nightmares alleviated by wonderful awakenings.
A few weeks ago I came back from that bus trip to find out my beloved chucho had been run over by a car. Before you worry, my dog is alive and well (with the exception of a mangled tail). But for a good week or so, I was not sure. And while I was pained by Vaquito’s suffering, I was glad to see that he had finally learned his lesson and was no longer chasing the passing motorcycles or throwing himself Extreme-Sport-style in front of pick-up trucks.
The story I was told by my 9-year old neighbor was that he “quedo muerto” (was lying for dead) on the side of the road for awhile, after a long fit of ear-piercing yelps for help. It was then that his mara of neighborhood dog-buddies came to his rescue, lifting Vaquito on their backs and dragging him to safety.
I would love to think this as true and am awaiting offers for his leading role in Lady and the Tramp 3. But however it came to be, I am very grateful for his survival. A week he laid upon my dirty patio, echar-ing a smell that I thought was quite indicative of his demise, and I prayed silently for his peace. I even went to the nearest vet I could find and bought him some meds and while the expiration date read November 2007, I was confident he would pull-through. And he did.
And now, I worry practically never for his survival among the moto’s and pick-ups. The bucking bulls and kicking caballos are another story…
Nightmare number 3 can be explained in 2 words: rainy season. If there is one thing I took for granted in New York, it was mold-less clothes. Things just don’t dry here. My clothes were on the line after a weekend by the beach, as a few rays of sun were beaming down upon them in their best efforts to beat the 4pm showers. However, without warning, the hot day turned sour in a matter of seconds as the rain began to fall. I began tearing my clothes down from the line like a maniac, my neighbor and good friend Lucy running to help. As we repositioned the clothes on a line inside my home to await their moldy destiny, Lucy asked me why I washed my other neighbor, Karime’s clothes. Karime is 5. For a few moments I was confused, and then as she gentley placed my mini-jean shorts (stolen from my sister on her visit and ONLY wore when my community is NOWHERE in site) on the line. You see, women in the countryside DO NOT show anything above the knee. My jean shorts worn at the beach and small tank tops could only be perceived as Karimes. Fortunately, my explanation was not needed as we began to hear a pelting sound on my tin roof and ran to look out the windows. It was hailing! Well never in my year and a half here did I think it would ever hail in El Salvador! How cool…
My final story is yet again about the lack of privacy I have here in my little house. I honestly think only a handful of days have gone by when I have not had a visitor. Sometimes my blood starts curdling at the sound of approaching “strangers”. And I feel bad about it, I do. I know they are all in good intentions. And I really love them as people, I do. But sometimes, you just wanna be alone. You wanna read in the hammock or do yoga without someone staring at you.
There is one family, in particular, that comes by for no good reason. I have learned though, I think, to stay in good spirits. To appreciate the fact that they want to spend time with me. And so, as I played with my 4 year old friend the other day, I laughed instead of lamented. As we spent the day listening to Aventura while coloring and then dancing to “Si no le contesto se desespera”, I got to know Franky on a different level. Before he left, his mother asked if he could use my shower, since they do not have running water at his house. I let them, of course, and then Franky and I styled his hair together in the mirror. Before they left that day, his mom told me that he says “Im going to Jaimes house” whenever she is mad at him. That put a smile on my face…for a long time.
As I was reading that poem pasted above by Mattie Stepanek, I was inspired to write this blog. Because amazing things happen when you really listen. Listen to the peace and beauty in the world. Sometimes, you have to find it. And sometimes its so obviously right there in front of your face that you forget to acknowledge it. But it is so important to take the time to do so.
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