quick thoughts on the one month mark

I leave Nicaragua one month exactly from today. A couple of things that have been on my mind:

1)   I imagine myself looking into the face of my mom, feeling her skinny arms wrap around me, and having the deep sense inside of myself that life is right.  I feel it sitting here, now, in a café in Managua. It feels familiar and for a moment, I feel safe. Amidst the pain and the hurt, good people exist in this world. I feel it for myself, but the nagging voice inside of me wonders if all people have this sliver of hope to grasp onto when they are fearful or hurting. Here I am thinking of my homecoming, my sweet mother, and the out-of-body experience I will have when walking through my garage and realizing that these 5 months really did occur, I wasn’t dreaming, and I am different. But, what about the people that I carry inside of me? What do they feel? Do the girls at House of Hope feel loved by a momma? Do they know that through it all, people can learn to love? I do believe this particular part of me will never be the same. I house the hurt that I have seen and heard, and I will never be able to deafen my ears to it. In some ways, that frightens me, makes me feel sad and alone. But, more than that, it makes me want to fight. It compels me to take action, to use their stories as impetus to rise up and say NO to all the injustice in this world. And though I am one person, I am one more person that God is sending out into battle, one more torch set ablaze to bring light and expel the darkness. The reality: I have seen, and I am responsible now.

2)    I wrote a piece last year about the idea of hope, otherness, loss and love. As I was reading through it again, it occurred to me: I will arrive a stranger when I return home. A particular quote comes to mind: “It’s a funny thing ‘bout coming home. Looks the same, smells the same, feels smells the same. Ya realized what’s changed…is you” (Benjamin Button). I must admit: I do feel apprehension to confront my life back home. Though I have spent 20 years growing up in one place, so many things will be new to me in that place. Just to name a few: walking into a cool building, putting my trash in a receptacle, going to a private market, driving a car, feeling hot water, eating things other than rice & beans (ha!), using a dollar bill, paying more than $2 for a meal, having access to a printer, streets without stray dogs, not smelling burnt trash, actually being on time, the absence of street venders, and lastly—the unawareness that comes from living in abundance. I fear that. To put it into words: I am so sheltered from the poverty that exists everywhere around me, whether that poverty is spiritual, physical etc. There is something rich about seeing and feeling a lack every single day, about walking into a place where people are wearing shirts that have holes and stains down the front, about being with people that aren’t addicted to their cell phones because they don’t own one, people that wash their clothes in a sink, people that unplug their fans during the day to cut their electric bill, people that cook 3 meals a day in house, people that are grateful for the gift of life: the pure, sensory, nothing added, experiential life. Do not misunderstand me: I am by no means glorifying the poor or hating on the rich. However, I am agreeing with this truth: Jesus blesses the poor. I was reading the story of the fisherman that dropped their nets to follow Jesus when he called out to them. A thought occurred to me: those fishermen dropped their nets easily because they had nothing to lose. The emptier our hands, the easier it is to let go of that net and follow. When I empty myself, I leave room to be filled to capacity. I hope I don’t lose that awareness when I return because I do believe, despite physical circumstances, one can carry that truth at all times. It is the revelation that none of the exteriors really matter. It is the belief that we are all the same, that if hearts could be measured numerically, we would all be roaming the streets like beggars, all together in heaps and heaps really really feeling it: having the knowledge that we lack so much on the inside despite what the outside may look like.


For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 

Let's Draw by Gioconda Belli

LET'S DRAW
by: Gioconda Belli
Let's listen to the women
their feet are dancing on the sand
let's listen to them
and be silent.

Over there one is dragging her sandals
looking at her damp fingers 
she‘s coming from the factory 
with a handkerchief tied around her head
the machines still echo in her ears 
In the place she dreams 
there are children crowding noisily
around the chairs and the tables 
a big bundle of clothes to wash 
the raw vegetables 
the pots familiar with no other hands but hers. 

The other closer woman. Yes. Young
and walking in her floral dress 
like a balancing artist in her high shoes
with long fingers and red fingernails 
she came from the office 
tired of the telephone's incessant ringing
the coffee in cups of all sizes 
In the place she dreams there's a man
waiting for a smile 
and the bundle of clothes to wash 
the raw vegetables 
the pots familiar with no other hands but hers. 

Over there. Yes. The big woman who
looks like a monument against the light 
Her hands are rough and never have
known the sweet oil of almonds.
They resemble the earth. Clotted. Deep. 
She spent the whole day bent over
below the sun planting the
furrowed earth, 
busy taking care of the seeds' germination. 
In the place she dreams there are
Children crying. Children whose
Profiles resemble earthen jugs.
Children who appear when the moon is full.
And never stop appearing as long as the man
keeps returning from the fields, with dirty clothes,
hungry, and eyes that say fire in the hearth,
kindling in the kitchen,
corn for tortillas.

All the nocturnal bees are coming
with their honey hidden.
These women wanted to be butterflies and spread their wings
Inside the gentle walls of their homes when the day is over.

Let’s listen
here comes the man with his bundle of work on his back:
he leaves it at the door of the house
the raw vegetables aren’t waiting for him
the pots aren’t familiar with his hands
the children are asleep
She is the one who comes to the door
With a smile on her face
the woman, with her bundle of clothes,
the raw vegetables, the hearth,
and the eternal tired smile.

Let’s listen
Let’s draw the future in the sand
and men and women drawing
a world with no divisions
and a blue world where the sky isn’t compartmentalized
where love might leave the beds and the parks
and enter the bedrooms, the mops, the bundles of clothes,
the raw vegetables, the pots, and the children.
Let’s draw a man and a woman engaged in conversation
accompanying each other with their
eyes beyond the door

A man and a woman happily walking on 
the sidewalks on Sundays
as if they had been born together.
Let’s draw a single world where even
small things are important.
Let’s draw a home that’s the same size as the factory
the same size as the best, most valiant battle.

Let’s draw love with big letters;
and men and women loving each other
let’s draw them like the angular stone of a beautiful building.
Let’s draw the strength of a man and a woman
and their love like that of lions for their cubs
Let’s draw a star of light
a bright star on the man’s forehead
a bright star on the woman’s.
Let’s draw ourselves with the colors we love most
the color of peace
the color of tomorrow
The swaying color of sugarcane
the color of that house that we call my house
Let’s draw ourselves
like two hurricanes that hold hands
and draw the world over again.