Miguelito's Return From Lima

2012-02-02T23:44:00.002-05:00

I come from a suburb with beauty all its own. It's the kind of beauty that somebody who'd sneer at them just for being suburbs might not be willing to see. But my heart does not lie in the tame and quiet emerald green or the summer evening's mimosa fragrance washing over the neighborhood's inhabitants.

Rather, my heart lies just to the east, where the waterfalls and cataracts, the turbulent waters cascade down hills and cliff faces and plummet downward into black and white pools that laughingly skip along to the silently surging and giant vessel of the Columbia River.

This doesn't happen in a vacuum or in some deserted place of desolation. The misty tendrils of water careening down the cliff faces paint mosses and lichens over everything in sight, the seeds and spores bathing in droplets that float to the ground. Trees soar upward and plunge their roots deep, stretching to touch the sky and seize the ground, tapping into the pools below the rushing waters and quenching their gargantuan thirst. Ivy, that ubiquitous green parasite, has less a hold on the trees flourishing near the Gorge's veins (like a watercolor's bleeding) than in those of other stately forests. The trunks here are either bare or fully decked with mossy green beards that drip and sag with moisture as I imagine Vikings' beards did when on the sea or when after taking a particularly long drink of ale.

In the summertime the falls are a sanctuary from the heat, for even in Oregon there are days when the sun looks down without mercy and the pines and firs beckon us to come under their shade with boughs outstretched and their sweet, sweet, almost-blackberry smell. But that scent is often lost in the scene's clamor to overwhelm every sense, for the cool moisture of the air brings its own smell, and all that is green exudes the collective smell of green and life, not assaulting like grass clippings, but a prudent flaunt (if you will). The rocks and the dirt bring their own aged scent of earth and mineral.

I live west of this, in a land uniquely beautiful (as I've hinted at above), but a 30 minute drive acts as a true agent of change. Going just slightly east, out of dense civilization and into this fertile stretch, I drive past the airport, a reminder that though I'm not traveling by plane I nevertheless am making a departure into something distinct and beautiful. The trees gripping the right hand landscape all of a sudden come to the fore as a sprawling expanse of rolling evergreens, the majestic Mount Hood towering in the background and acting as both a gatekeeper and center of this system. It seems to welcome in a voice beyond vocal articulation with a confidence that those who enter for the first time will be in sufficient awe that they need no warning to guard this treasure they are encountering.

Coming in from the East is its own transition: from a rugged and arid landscape into the booming and crowded abundance of emerald sheen and azure sky, the water dancing in the sunlight with Mount Hood looming into view in grand style. I have wondered if this is a small indication of Creation kneeling before God, rejoicing as He jubilantly passes to the sea. Regardless, it is this passage that has joyously welcomed me home both by air and by land, and my heart cannot but sing upon seeing it anew, for a part of me has never left. A part of me wanders and roves through the lush green and swims in the frigid tributaries and sings and claps its hands as the rain descends or the sun's golden rays tease the forest's branches.

I would weep and mourn and rightly rage if that part of me could no longer find residence among the pines, if all were hewed down and the streams dried up and Mount Hood stripped of its snowy gown. I would rage at those who had turned a place of celebration into a truer wasteland than the desert to the East, for one exists by nature and the other is a human artifact. The nation jokes and jibes the unclean nut jobs who cling to trees and break chainsaws and meticulously recycle, right and wrong in their derision. IT is not the highest good, it is perhaps disordered, the region in unChurched, aching sorely for something deeper than a superficial pantheism and long jaunts in nature. But those who only see utility, who see buildings or progress or waste disposal or dispensable and unimportant crude matter rather than the treasure before them surely have a hard glint in their soul and do not know created beauty. I despair of ever being truly heard by them.

I have been lonely among friends, even in Portland, and I bemoan that when a part of me can rejoice for being home, another laments for having nothing of community or mutual understanding or affirmation or even like-mindedness. I can't talk about virginity as a source of pride and natural status for my state of life without defensiveness and judgment or simple lack of understanding. I am alone in my church, in my mid-20's with no brothers of the same age to embrace. I am constantly thirsting as I wander a city of beauty that so tragically will never adequately embrace the outpouring of natural majesty given to it because God is confined to the crazies' and the sillies' households or else seen as somebody who says, "Use this however the hell you want," leaving protection of this beauty a matter of preference rather than human vocation.

But despite the pains and woes it gives, I cannot but love it, for there I grew and there I have wondered and wandered. There I have seen the explosive beauty in the land of waterfalls. In the city I have spent a day drinking in a hundred perfumes of roses infinitely more alluring, appealing, and intoxicating than any concoction that Paris designers or Antonio Banderas or whatever is popular these days even if their brains were working at 100% capacity. There I've felt wind slide past my face in a caress to tell me that rain--and Spring--are nigh. It's there that a thirst for justice was planted in me and it is there that I return time and again when I need a reminder of God's goodness, whether in memory or in physical presence.

Finding Beauty

2012-01-02T00:52:00.005-05:00

The last month has been an interesting one. I've had a number of incredible blessings. One very prominent one is that of community: upon returning from Thanksgiving, things got taken up a notch. This is not to say that what was there before wasn't good, because it certainly was. However, I knew there was and know that there definitely still is a long way to go, and to feel the intensity and closeness grow a bit was and is...well, lovely. Definitely made the last weeks of school far easier to manage in terms of motivation (or lack thereof and countering said affliction), enjoyment, and more fun to celebrate after the fact.

Then came home: plenty busy and crazy, but still such a blessing. From the basic and silly things like seeing familiar landmarks, idiotic driving, hills and greenery I'd missed, etc. to the deeper things like a brief reunion with loved ones and the chance to talk to people who've been in my program and finished up. There were plenty of challenges, too. For one, I was negligent in my Christmas shopping, which resulted in my being in the mall on Christmas Eve (or maybe it was the 23rd...can't remember). The reason why I mention this is because I was not prudent nor exercising self-knowledge in an efficient way, because I HATE malls, especially with lots of people. From the silly things like having Christian charity and human decency challenged by the tunnel vision or preoccupation or whatever goes on in others' minds in the parking lot to deeper things like the onslaught of people and things and messages making insane promises about my mortal and dire need for 4G plans, bras for a nonexistent girlfriend, AXE body spray, etc. being sated (the deeper problem being what comes just short of...if not synonymous with...an idolatrous market). Maybe this is melodramatic, but doing that was a great challenge for me to dig deep into what Christmas means for me; without that knowledge and conviction, or if I didn't dig deep, I would just become hateful and cynical.

In spite of the downer that was my poor planning, I emerged with gifts in hand, only slightly perturbed.

Time at home was too short, as it always is, but even more so due to heading back to the Bend even earlier than the academic year required. Of course, I wouldn't leave time at home for anything arbitrary; I went back to see my classmate and his (then) fiancée get married...and, of course, help them celebrate. The wedding itself was beautiful. The prelude included the song "Bless the Lord, My Soul", a Taizé chant that I happen to enjoy immensely. The readings were well-chosen, the bride and groom administered the chalice to the rest of the congregation, and there was a meditation song sung by a musician whose earlier works were instrumental in my coming into the faith. The reception was equally lovely. I could gush good things about this couple and the folks in my program for a long time...but instead I'll just gush a little bit about a more general theme that encompasses all of them.

You know how earnestness can just shine out of a person? Like, when love earnestly shines through somebody or between two people? I noticed it from the get-go with these two getting married, but even speaking more generally, the love that is so obvious and sweet, transparent and obvious but onlookers' participation (not just witnessing, but a distant participation) is not violently grasped for but beautifully extended as invitation. I heard it and hear it every time I hear the aforementioned artist singing. I can see it in my classmates. More foundational than earnest love of significant others or spouses or even family members or friends is the love of God. That's the love that shines the most beautifully, abundantly, and which is the guiding principle for the other loves. It's the symphony; the other loves, the individual sections' music. Each part goes a certain way based on the overall plan for the composition both in that moment and overall.

I think that's the only resolution I'm going to treat with severity, and I feel better that I stumbled upon it in the beginning of the Advent season rather than January 1st (because I feel better formulating these things at the beginning of a new liturgical year...love me?)...deepening that love, rediscovering and forever discovering anew the Fount of Every Blessing. It's the one thing that I know matters, the one thing I know I'm "supposed" to do...and from that, everything else will flow. I'm grateful for the opportunity that my classmates and this program have given me to delve deeper into that aspect of me. It's been a while since I've felt so clearly (and occasionally explicitly) invited!

Advent and Some Songs

2011-11-28T20:40:00.003-05:00

We've entered into one of my most favorite times of year. It's not because of corny Christmas music (though I confess that I enjoy much of it), and it's certainly not because of the cold and gray and darkness in se. I love, love, LOVE the season of Advent. We just had a reflection on this tonight, and I've thought about it many times before.

Firstly, I love Advent simply because of the continuity the new liturgical year holds with the old: the Church does a lovely job of switching from talk of the End Times and the eschaton into the time of preparation both for remembering Christ's Incarnation and for His Second coming. It works so well that we remember those who have died with All Saints' and All Souls' Days in November and discuss the End Times in each Sunday's readings. December seems almost a second time to reflect on those words and ponder and work to put them into action in our own lives. To ponder mortality, our poverty of finitude, and reflect on how clearly we are NOT God both in November and as we begin a new liturgical year is fitting during a time of cold, darkness, and possible isolation. The mood that winter sets, that quasi-seasonal affective disorder (or real for those who truly suffer from it), allows us to reflect on the knowledge of our own deaths. They may come soon, they may not, but they truly will come. There is no way to escape it. I find that the thought can almost be paralyzing, but it's a moment of honesty. Death will come. We will be put face to face with Jesus. We will (perhaps the more terrifying aspect of it all) come face to face with ourselves, how we truly are: both what lies in our hearts and what our actions tell of us; both our intentions and how our actions are interpreted by others.

Perhaps this is why I have issue with some songs sung at Mass, e.g. "Send Down the Fire of Your Justice." I guess I just have issue with that line, as it's sung in such a joyful way. There's so much more to Christ's Majesty than everybody celebrating in love and going to heaven. There's the painful realization of what has gone on in our lives, how far we are from perfect, and justice is the last thing I want to be raining down at the moment. To understand a little more how I feel, try googling the image of "national shrine upper church mosaic" to get a look at a jacked, Arian Jesus who's got a blazing look in his eyes that you KNOW will make any feeble excuse wilt and/or melt away. That look would only let the absolute and piercing truth remain, which is beautiful, don't get me wrong, but it's intimidating to say the least. I don't think it's theologically WRONG to sing those lines with that tone. But how many people actually reflect on what the words mean, reflect on the mystery, and then come to sing it with a trust that with justice will also be mercy? To sing that song without having some pause is either to be trite and glib or perfectly trusting in God. It's like what the Beavers say about somebody looking Aslan in the eye without trembling in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

Getting off of that tangent, I love Advent because of the time of year in which it falls (both liturgically and temporally) and I love it because it addresses a fundamental characteristic of being Christian. Christ brought God to the world, but the world persists in evil. We still await the coming of the Lord in glory. We still have to face our own demons. We still have to face our death. Advent is a time to reflect on that, like I said. It's a time to ponder in fear and trembling our frailty and dependence on God. We depend on God because of that frailty, but it's not a grudging dependence on a distant or cold God, nor is it a dependence whose hope disappoints. We hope and wait for God, trusting God, having that final unity with God be a guide to help us as stable footing through an uncertain present. This is why I love the song "My Soul In Stillness Waits." Advent is a time of realizing that we are in process, on a journey, still becoming. It's not always easy or wonderful or lighthearted, but it's fruitful and life-giving and allows us to delve deeper into faith. Of course, once again, the words of that title should give us pause. How still do we let our souls be? As light and cheery as the "Holiday Season" (which soon will start around Easter and envelop Halloween) can make us during a cold/depressing/stressful time of year, how much of it is genuine joy and how much is an attempt to flee from reality? It doesn't mean we should all be killjoys and somber and solemn in this time (see below), but it does mean that examination of where our happiness, hopes, cheer, etc. stems is due.

Thirdly, there's an exhilaration that comes with Advent as we prepare for Christmas. For those a little too focused on the justice of Jesus and are tempted to go legalistic, pharisaic, pelagian, jansenist, etc., we have to remember that climax of the time of waiting: Christ, the Word made Flesh, God's only-begotten Son, entered the world as a helpless babe, was laid in a manger, and was human. The wisdom of years has looked at this self-disclosure of God, this demonstration of self-emptying, and seen from that moment (well, from the conception of Christ, but especially in the birth) the amazing love God has, even for those who would kill the Son of God. That's why I love the song "People Look East": there is a sense of awe and joy that we must have, one of wonderment and rejoicing, that the Word became flesh and dwelled among us. Make yourself ready, don't despair, for love is on the way.

I love Advent because it addresses those realities: where we objectively stand, both as less than dust in comparison to the perfection and majesty of God; our dependence on God for that very reason; and the hope that comes from the demonstration of love made manifest most fully in Jesus. The beauty of Advent, for me, is one that is too abundant, necessary, and life-giving for me to divert most of my energies to singing "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire" (I absolutely abhor that song) or even to Christmas carols, or to bypass it in favor of simply thinking of "pre-Christmas" which culminates in one day of celebration and then ends (whether due to needing to think about New Year's and/or Valentine's Day or just because Christmas is "over"). To do that makes a superficial and trite sham of Christmas: it has its own OCTAVE, it has its own SEASON, partially because of everything that stands at the end of the last liturgical year and partially because of the grace that it is as demonstrated in part through the readings throughout Advent. I love Advent, then, for a fourth reason: it makes Christmas truly meaningful and allows me to more deeply understand and celebrate throughout the Christmas season instead of one day.

In Tribute

2011-11-13T21:33:00.002-05:00

You know, way back when it was time for Freshman year of college, I was distressed with the whole prospect of making friends again. I mean, the thrill of meeting new people is something I've come to truly love, and most of the people who've come into my life have been tremendous blessings. Even the acquaintances, if I simply reflect on what I know of their character, their personality, it's easy for me to be wowed. What can I say? I'm a softie.

That said, we return to the daunting task of the actual friendmaking. That discomfort, wondering when it's okay to unleash that particular brand of weird. It escapes and has escaped on its own, make no mistake, but there's that obstacle of the conscious articulation or imparting of it..."When can I be comfortable?" Sometimes the caution is prudent, sometimes I just gotta get over it and make the move and bring people in. I'm working on trusting the Spirit on that one.

Anyway, I was dreading it. I met some terrific people throughout my college experience, but that freshman year was a terrifying one, and I realized that I was living a very different life from...just about everybody in that University. Those who heard me talk about CUA after my freshman year probably thought I was going to transfer. I was pretty bitter, and overjoyed to jump back into that group of folks from high school who will always have a special place in my heart. And while there was some drama that summer, and growing pains were not the most fun thing, a truckload and more of good memories came from that summer, not to mention sleep deprivation and far more laughter than I can ever recall happening in my life since.

My senior year, I remember confiding to somebody that I was kind of sad that entertainment in this last year together had become focused on alcohol (legality made it the thing to do), not to mention that the sheer insanity that was summer (or even high school) escapades towered over the experiences I had in high school. I don't say this to belittle anybody in college, because I've met some of the most solid folks ever through that experience, and I always could have been more vocal (without belligerence) when challenged about my reluctance to go to bars. In any case, this friend was straight up blunt with me: I was whiney and living in the past. I'm sure it wasn't the most pastoral move, but it was a fair point...my anecdotes revolved around my high school friends, my nostalgic waxing was for the Oregonian landscape and comfortable times with friends, and...well, you get the picture. Somebody without the context would be hard-pressed to be nearly as enthusiastic and certainly to relate to my story.

I guess she was right to some extent, but at the same time, Peru showed me that I had had a truly privileged upbringing. I mean, duh, materially: I graduated from college, went to a private high school, lived very comfortably, etc. But my richness was even more apparent in the quality of my friends, and I had no idea until I had heard how many people had suffered at the hands of friends who weren't nearly as loyal, not nearly as sympathetic or empathetic, supportive, etc. It was a shocking revelation, and it continues to amaze me in the vast majority of conversations where high school friends come up: "Wow, you still are in contact with your high school friends? That's...awesome!" "Dang, I don't have a single friend like that! You have about 20."

If you were to ask me HOW I managed to be graced with such amazing friends, I'd have to tell you that it was pretty much all their doing. I've been a pretty superficial friend in a lot of ways, definitely petty, and there's very little that I have done since good friendship was established 7+ years ago to merit such amazing friends. That's just further testimony to how great they are.

I said that I met some of the most solid folks in college. Well, only some of them. My high school friends are my first love (I can see certain people raising an eyebrow to this...no jokes, please). This past weekend, I got to see the solidest of the solid get married. If that weren't amazing enough (and watching him be all manner of crazy excited, scared stiff, and launching beams of happiness to bound all over the great hall), there was a reunion of folks from high school. It was...kinda unreal. I hadn't seen a good number of folks in over 2 years. To dance with them was a joy I'd forgotten I'd missed so dearly until the music started, and once it did, I was sad to see the end of it. And even if I didn't get much sleep and even if I've got some papers due, I feel far more renewed than I ever would have expected going into that weekend.

The next month will be crazy, and life isn't gonna be like the first summer back from college. My friend was right: I can't live in the past. However, if you think for a second that I'm going to forget or downplay how absolutely fantastic it is to be with folks who, even after this time, can still pick up where we left off, you'd be dead wrong. I mentioned this a couple of posts ago: I so markedly don't deserve this caliber of friends, but I hope to be a little more worthy. Part of that is clearly being a better friend, and a part comes from loyalty. Loyalty, that is, to who I am, the facet that I'd not quite forgotten but definitely hadn't let loose until I was in the presence of everybody. So, here goes on both fronts.

As an afterthought, I'd simply add: I'd be a Musical Theater major in another life. I also love academia. Working to find a better way of satisfying both sides. Love to all.

Displaced

2011-09-25T21:08:00.002-05:00

6 good months post-Peru, I realized more fully than I did upon my arrival: this isn't a displacement that can be ignored. I don't think I ever wanted to ignore it, really, but it's a natural impulse for me, i.e., I was in the States, so it's time to look at the State-side reality. I could talk about Peru, I could be critical of the US culture and the Peruvian one, and I could certainly tell stories. I could show off my Spanish, I could talk about how amazing the experience was, how nice some things about home are. For anybody who hadn't lived abroad, I bet I was convincing. Even for people who had lived somewhere else for a good period of time, I believe I did a good job. I definitely managed to keep myself at bay.

A single weekend undid it all. A retreat with a center on prayer, fellowship, and preparation for a wonderful formation experience going through 3 years allowed that small voice of truth to play its message at full volume from within because of the silence and prayerful mood without. I couldn't tell you what all was being said--it was so muddled, garbled, being expelled all at once, that all I could tell was that my attempts to make all things "okay" was disastrous.

I'm here about a quarter through the semester of graduate school, and I truly love it. It's an experience of learning through being drained, of relearning discipline I hadn't needed, and discovering some that I never had. Tackling these classes, this coursework, without a skeptical eye and eager to gather all the information my teachers posit as valuable, can be draining. Some days I find myself not feeling the "earnest scholar" mode rising to the surface of my mindset, but I am doing my best to be studious, devoted to community, and to prayer. It's a balancing act, to be sure, and I'm sure I'll not be perfect. I'm already not perfect: I should be asleep now. But at the same time, I wanted to make tangible somewhere and somehow a feeling that's been nagging at me. I miss Catholic U. I miss Oregon. I miss Lima. I miss the Andes. I miss people from all of those locations. In turn, I will miss this place upon leaving, perhaps even during vacations, and I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I'll miss these people and the attitude of the community.

I was reminded to thank God for both what I have and what I don't have. One of the hardest things for me to do is to thank God for not feeling absolutely blissful. I really like feeling good; heck, who doesn't? Perhaps now after a few ground-breaking moves around the world (mostly the US, but hey) I can settle and be content with contending with that realization that I'm not going to find wholeness in any one physical place. Andean instrumental music is a long series of love songs for my mind, Spanish and open markets and shockingly genuine people bring smiles and watery eyes, greenery and rolling hills and fresh smell of spring are vehicles to sublimity, old friends and the feeling of home are hard to beat, the grandeur of the National Shrine and closeness to friends and brothers tugs at my heart, and the crisp smell of a cold Fall night, music that at least weekly brings me to tears because of its beauty and its majesty...

No one place will make me happy, forever, without end. Many great gifts come from travel: new people, new cultures, new foods, deeper understanding of where one comes from, to name a few. One of the greatest gifts that I have received from traveling, though, is the gift of restlessness. The gift of restlessness awakens in a person the difficult fact that happiness is fleeting, pleasures only please so far, and no one place on Earth can fulfill the newly-aware heart's yearning, be it sighing slightly or tearing one apart from the inside. To be sure, this can lead to any number of not-so-great things, like addictions, thrill-seeking, superficial relationships to avoid missing people, being too busy to breathe. But none of these responses stem from a genuine dialogue with the heart: most try to stifle it, to stuff it with the "food" of experience, fleeting pleasures and aesthetic delight until it, being full to bursting, cannot utter a word of protest. This generally fails miserably, or people have to keep it going til they die. Depression seems to me to be a seeing that something is wrong or off and obsessing over the fact that it's not right. Is it wrong to get depressed? Eh, I wouldn't say that. It's sometimes part of the process, but if one hopes to get through it, dialogue is necessary.

If one is content to sit with the discomfort, listen to it, wrestle with it, dive into it, then one has the opportunity to discover perhaps a small taste of what allowed Paul to consider loss as gain, the martyrs to be willing to die, even what gave and gives joy to the saints and allows the greatest poets to capture the mystery of each moment. One might find the opportunity to find a stable resting place not of this world. I wouldn't say I'm there, but I'm grateful for the continued opportunity to plunge deeper into the mystery. I'm truly grateful at this moment for not having all things being hunky dorey, and I'm just as grateful if not more for the ability to see the possibility of grace acting in it. I pray for the ability to cooperate with it.

Somewhere New

2011-08-05T15:08:00.002-05:00

Where did the non-August months go? I've found myself itching for work to end, for the next step to come, and now I find it comes too soon.

Only slightly exaggerated. Getting ready is always a rush, and while there are plenty of nerves as I prepare to make the plunge I've been awaiting practically since being back in the States, there's a clear excitement to be moving on to the next step, to find similarities with blessings of communities and environments past and differences of new friends and places (physical, mental, spiritual).

My excitement for what lies ahead also gives me a sharp awareness of what I leave behind. For this reason, without beating myself up, but with hope for a better experience in the future, I must apologize to all involved in my Portland experience. Thank you for being here in a capacity of helping me to feel safe. Thank you for allowing me to pick up right where I left off, both in letting me know that some things never change and that changes in me necessitate a few changes in routine. Thank you, Portland, for greeting me in magnificent fashion each and every time I fly back into your arms, and for so graciously letting me experience the challenge of going forth from you into the rest of the world with no great measure of wist or envy. I pray you forgive me my obliviousness to the love shown me and unintended failure to reciprocate. May I someday come to treat you more as the true treasures you are, one and all, rather than merely (though blessedly and truly wonderfully) havens of safety.

Forgive me for continually using that safety as an excuse to express and admit my struggles, rather than having the decency and demonstrating my comfort with you by speaking. Most of it has less to do with lack of trust of you, and more to do with not wanting to deal with the stuff. It's funny how hard it's been to integrate the notion that I've that dimension of struggle that others do, and that it's okay. I promise that that's getting better. Bear with me.

Google visvamitrasana images. Challenge accepted. Might take me some years. Bear with me.

Been stretching and doing stuff pretty relentlessly today. Lots of anxiety, nerves, getting wrapped up in the details of packing and saying bye for now and what it'll be like getting one step closer to autonomy. Also, realizing that escaping to Neverland seems all too appealing in my weakest moments. Gotta stay grounded, and I thought that I was, but it turns out that I was just kinda in "blinders on" mode, and now that it's crunch time, the blinders are off, and I'm floating a bit more than I thought.

In any case, come Saturday, I'll be in the midwest, with new challenges and old ones, and thanks, everybody, for the love and support I so richly don't deserve. Love.

Mortality, Spring, and an Update

2011-04-28T15:49:00.004-05:00

Been a while. Some stuff has happened: went to Seattle, went to NY, have continued along the path of working part-time...but I think Holy Week has been one of the best moments for me, crazy as it was.

Holy Week was crazy because of several things: I was working full-time rather than part-time because staff was short-handed. I've done it before, but I remembered after this week that I had adopted a little less high-strung approach to the office cluttering up. Cleanliness in the areas nobody goes can wait; cleanliness where cluttering affects efficiency can't. Yeah, took me a week to remember that (much like last time, go figure), so before that realization I was on my feet from the moment I walked in the office til the moment I sat down in my car to go home (well, lunch excluded). That in and of itself is tiring, but hey, millions of people do it, and I've DONE it, so it's not like it's going to break me. What was slightly more taxing was the choir practices and Masses/Service throughout the week. We needed rehearsal, we did well, but going from work to those and standing the whole time...I'll just say my legs were exhausted.

Bright side of the week, though: lots of reflection that I didn't expect to get in the mayhem.

My first was on the nature of how I saw Good Friday. I've been spending a lot of time on really...I don't know, trying to go a little deeper. That's the beauty and the danger of the mysteries: There's always something more to discover, but staying on the same plane for too long leads to stagnation. As Fr. Regis would say, one has to "work the muscle." So after a long hiatus, it was time for a spiritual workout, and Triduum seems to be made for that. I've been having a hard time really processing or even beginning to process the Incarnation. I mean, the mere fact that it happened is mind-blowing, but the reasoning becomes even more difficult to swallow: "To be with you. Let me truly be among my people, let me be born as one of you, let me suffer hardships as one of you, let me grow, learn, and take on your being." Love. Imagine the devastation that Israel suffered in the loss of the Ark and the destruction of the first Temple. The place where God deigned His name might dwell destroyed, the vessel in that structure that held His commandments that was with Israel in its battles...the One God who chose to bring them close to Him, and the vessel where He was truly present in a special way...gone! Those who had hardened hearts perhaps decided when this horrible faith-shattering event occurred that something was bunk, or God was weak, or not really present, or perhaps just not faithful, and left it at that. Others began the profoundly more (initially) difficult process of dialoguing, reading, rediscovering the faith, lamenting their infidelity, calling to God with lamentations...a truly heart-breaking time. Then they were freed from captivity, they could go back to the Temple (which they could rebuild!). Then Alexander came, then the Romans, and jeez, it's easy to feel downtrodden and wondering where God is...and the Ark seemed to be lost forever.

For those who came to believe, I can't imagine how unbelievably beautiful and hard to believe it would be that God would stoop farther than have His Name dwell in a temple or an Ark...that His Word would become human?! To descend to such levels to embrace His people!

So yeah...first thought. Incarnation. This was in my mind as I entered Good Friday. And then in Good Friday's service, I started thinking about mortality. My grandparents certainly have limited years left on the globe. I envisioned my parents dying, which is scary, because I've always envisioned them as invisible. The notion my mom someday (perhaps soon) won't be able to accomplish everything or that my dad (ever young-appearing and relatively unaffected by his diabetes) might not be as able to contain his diabetes as he was really gave me pause. The idea of them not being present to call just to talk put a lump in my throat. Then I envisioned friends...those who are still very much here, those who have died...and the feeling of invincibility that I have, that arrogance of youth that it will last forever regardless of changing roles or years or responsibilities (there is the adage "youth is wasted on the young") vanished. It's mind-boggling, it's terrible, and it can be paralyzing.

The cruel and humiliating execution that was the Crucifixion took on a new dimension. I was able to FEEL a little more. I understood the suffering that was present throughout the day, from Gethsemane and beforehand on Holy Thursday (heck, going into Jerusalem, being baptized...but especially as it drew near) in Jesus' mind. The psychological pain makes me wince at least. Then I think of those who had the courage to stand and watch everything, and the feeling is all the more powerful. And man, someone who didn't have to even suffer chose to do that to BE WITH US THAT WE MIGHT BE WITH HIM?! Hmm...yeah, okay.

As much as I knew that Passion and Resurrection were connected, I viewed them as two discrete events rather than part of the same reality, i.e., God's love. The idea of Redemption becomes much more accessible from that perspective for me when I combine it with what I gather about the Incarnation. God is here. Undeniably. So rather than have what I believe to be misguided focus on the gore of the Crucifixion (though it's tricky, clearly, as the nature of the death emphasizes the extent of the love), I've tried to have more of a focus on the desire behind it. The desire wasn't to cheat the devil and laugh at him in a legalistic loophole, nor perhaps forgive something unforgivable, but to experience man's experience at its most visceral without sinning, able to touch every person and have that touch bring life and communion with God rather than perpetuate death, stagnation, isolation, hate.

It probably makes more sense in my mind's eye than in the blogger format.

Here's the other thought: Spring. It's here. I have been away from a legitimate spring for 5 years, catching the last whiffs of it in my first days back from DC, missing it entirely in Peru, and how I have missed it. Green grass, days of deluge with flowering trees and leafing trees, suns with the smell of freshness permeating everything, nights with moisture in the air and the perfume of flowers wafting down quiet streets. I understand a bit more that I'm not invincible nor immortal nor unchanging, but at the same time, it's amazing to have that surge of absolute joy that hangs in the air of spring and summer for those who deign to listen to it to breathe deep, almost drunk with it, and LIVE. Life is hanging here, tantalizing, pleading that we live it, more clearly than most places I've been, and yet...the number of people both young and old who choose to not grasp it pains me.

"I have come that they may have life and have it in abundance."

Eyes Opened Up

2011-03-06T04:05:00.002-05:00

I'll just go ahead and eat my words about the last post being my only update for a while.

It was helpful to have that welcome-back party, to have that brief time to talk about the struggle we have been facing and will continue to face as we return to a place that isn't quite the home we left. If nothing, it gave me the heads-up to what will come (that hadn't already), as I had arrived in the States two days prior to the talking. Through no fault of their own save not knowing any better, people can try to put the experience of Peru, of service, into a box, label it as a discrete experience that has been had, that is now over, and the box can go on a shelf like a trophy. I know that I'm prone to do it myself with any number of events that happen to ME, so yeah.

It's been a nice lesson realizing that...well, the experience isn't over. It's here, it's with me, in my memories of the jokes, in my blundering between Spanish and English and Spanglish, in things not feeling quite right when I come back to a place of less simplicity. At the moment, my heart is in Peru because that's where my love is, but in another equally important way, my heart always belonged in its mountains, in the Andean music, in my visions of flying above and in its canyons. My soul belongs amidst its language, in the warmth, its subtleties, and its simplicity. The being away, the rediscovery and reiteration of what's important to me, the chance to process in a different environment, gives me new perspective regarding everything from houses to the past. It is there, and it is a part of me, and I regret not telling anybody all of that when they ask me how Peru was. Though really, that's not what Peru was like; it's what the experience of doing service and living in Peru IS and still affects me even after I no longer physically live there nor do direct service.

Being here, a year and a half removed from people at college, at home, family and friends...Knowing what I know, seeing what I see...how is it that it changes the past? Clearly events still happened, but with new perspective, new insight, all of a sudden the context is more fully seen. Hindsight, I guess, is the common name for it. In this instance, I guess it makes my path ahead clearer.

I guess I have less to say than I thought. Regardless, there you have it.

Surrender

2011-02-28T03:16:00.003-05:00

And the minutes are ticking, hustled into life and its business when what would really be nice is for everything to just freeze. I could go and read, or sit, or walk, or pray, or any combination. I could hike, I could dance, I could feel the ease of being in a simpler way, unencumbered by challenges to find personal growth in a different context and a different rhythm of life. I could sit in the verdant pasture, rested, protected, and reality would be exactly the way I'd wish it were in these moments: far more tailored to the needs I think I have in the way I think is best. If the years wouldn't perform their terrible dance; if all our friends were together again; if new friends could come, too; if all of life were more like the summers of joy and bliss that I experienced in 05, 06, and 07...that feeling of life being right, wouldn't things be better off?

I only work five hours a day and I feel encumbered. I don't generally have to wake up early or challenge my body, yet I'm exhausted. Vitamin deficiency is probably a player in all of this.

I suppose that just as life before Peru offered me a host of lessons, and my time in Peru gave me the chance to essentially have a clean slate, a way to reinvent myself, or go deeper into discovering who I am, life after Peru offers a host of lessons.

One of those is about poverty. I went to Notre Dame for a couple days to interview for their Masters of Divinity program and had the chance to hear them talk about Metz's "Poverty of Spirit." Embracing poverty can take many forms, whether it be in embracing one's finite nature, or in embracing God's infinite love, or in embracing one's handicaps, or in embracing one's ability and necessity to overcome those handicaps. To embrace it is to welcome the true human interaction, to be poor is to...well, be the richest and fullest you'll ever be capable of being.

I guess that's my chief struggle at the moment: surrendering everything. Video games can be a vice for me, and I might start playing them obsessively when I feel out of control, dissatisfied, or experiencing desolation. I can tell when I'm playing the console for that tiny little bit of control, or when I'm eating because it elicits some rudimentary form of interaction that I, me, Miguel, have initiated. Stopping is the next hump, I suppose. And...offering it up. Stopping is well and fine, but I guess there's that mentality that needs to change, too. The bottom line is that I'm not in control of much, but the challenge doesn't lie in seeing that, but in accepting it and, most of all, trusting that it's okay and that there are larger forces at work than just what I can see. That's poverty as I need it: surrender of that concept unto which I can cling ever so fiercely and aggressively that I am independent, self-sufficient, ought to be, and that who I truly am is something that much change in order to earn love, be it God's, my girlfriend's, my friends', my own.

I doubt it will be easy, but I'm on my way. Learning patience was a key thing. I can tell other people to have it, and I will work harder to exercise it on myself.

There was a moment this past week in which I thought about all the things I saw and strive in which to believe. I was surprised to weave through trying to envision love, or poverty, or humility, or trust, and found that a person awaited me at the end of all of it. There wasn't some intangible idea or word phrase that stood as the end result or motivation or example of the Christian life. It was a strange moment of knowing beyond any Thomist or Aristotelian logic's grasps that there was a certain necessity for Christianity to be an encounter with a person. It's like B-XVI said: it's not the result of a lofty moral choice or an idea. I guess this is all kind of "Well, duh!" stuff, but to truly experience it, to KNOW it, is much different than to spout it out.

This is as close as I'll get to a "State-Side" update for the time being.

Tangential, Quixotic...Me

2010-12-28T21:26:00.003-05:00

Although one might consider the benefits of having a cast far outweighed by the drawbacks, and while I would generally agree with them, one benefit is that I have the ability to blog instead of going to sleep, because hey...what am I really going to do tomorrow? There is a bit of bitterness in my voice, but not too much. The cast will be off Thursday morning, and then I can return to regularly scheduled programming, as it were. Be warned...this post makes little sense and has even less continuity.

I am a cynical person. I have had some incredibly lofty and wonderful ideology, and my goal is that I can get back on that horse, as it were, in spite of being sadder and wiser. It's a fight, though, and right now I would have to say that I'm a recovering cynic. This experience of service has been difficult not only in discovering more about me, but in dealing with knowledge. I have talked about the beauty of individual people in several blogs, and no blog entry would capture the beauty and wonder (despite the flaws) of any person, least of all those who have been closer to me, and certainly not by any stretch of the imagination she who has been closest during this experience. However, I somehow find myself in a paradoxical situation: as my love for individuals grows, my view of humanity somehow diminishes. I think (but haven't gotten it into my heart) that this view comes from a misattribution.

You know, I also paradoxically think of myself as a great person and a really lousy person. I'm in the process of searching for equilibrium, and this journey was a blessing from God to show me how desperately I need it. In all my complaining about society, I fear that I've been hesitant to venture into it. Heck, I haven't even registered to vote! It's easy to be the unregistered naysayer withdrawn from the world, talking about being a responsible voter and the ridiculousness that is the contradictory stances either US political party holds as their own. And there's always a truth in what naysayers and even hypocrites have to say...but man alive, I have to wonder how I sleep at night, sometimes.

I went to the National Catholic Prayer breakfast in 2009. I was probably more arrogant and cynical then. I heard the introductory speaker speak on Christians as cretins or viewed as idiots, counterproductive, etc. for their views. It was smart, it was intelligent, and it informed the American citizen that being a Christian means opting for what people who take easier or more immediately pleasurable routes might consider incomprehensible. Then, the keynote speaker, a bishop emeritus spoke. I recognized his name as being one who was very much anti-abortion, so I prepared myself. Don't get me wrong, I am NOT a fan of abortion and have some very, VERY strong views, but I also take issue with the current conservative view that makes it a single-issue ticket. I won't get into them here, but let it suffice to say that if for no other reason, it makes politics very, very boring and predictable. I had this bias going into his speech. I was probably the only one in the auditorium with this sentiment. Had I heard this speech by myself, had His Excellency been addressing me alone, I might have had a very different reaction to his speech. Instead, I was immediately turned off by what I perceived as mindless yes-men applauding to every other sentence. I am impatient; I wanted him to get to the point. It's hard when people break out into applause every half-minute. His speech, predictably, though very fairly, talked about being responsible Christians and citizens, and how having the courage to speak to one's representatives in order to ensure that one is in fact being represented is important, especially regarding the values of life. He arrived to a point about politicians wanting to avoid getting implicated in something that might (heaven forbid) jeopardize their spot as a politician or make their voice unheard, how sometimes they'll talk about wanting to save that voice and that pull for another cause that is also important and in line with the Christian faith. Now, when a politician needs to be called out and, well, grow the courage to be a discordant voice of truth amidst a throng of common trend and self-deception, I support that. In fact, sometimes a person needs to really weigh how much the cause they want to support is the cause that they need to support. The bishop's words were not incorrect, uninspired, or anything of that nature. HOWEVER, somebody interpreted what he said in a very different way...or at least I thought so. A woman at the table next to me (I will avoid description because I do neither of us charity by judging her down to her jewelry) sneered, "Social Justice," as he arrived at this portion. I feel I'm justified in my interpreting her sneer to pertain to the subject at hand, citing a specific example of what other causes a representative might wish to support instead of the taboo "abortion" dilemma. This...sent me over the edge.

Thinking that one law or Supreme Court ruling will eliminate the problem or change the culture is simplistic. To me, it is the very idea of social justice that has the ability to change the culture and make legislation more feasible and more effective. If we look at low-income families and the poverty of finances and education (both in general and regarding sexual education...which is distinct from talking about different sexual positions and contraceptives), and look at how to remedy those problems, well, that's a bit more holistic. Much more difficult, granted, but addresses the root of the problem. In the end, though, what experience has shown to me as the "liberal" idea that legislation and more government initiative solving everything isn't the answer, either. As long as the man next door doesn't care for his neighbor, as long as a man lacks the conviction that he needs to give a crap about another, the letter of the law is ineffective. The spirit is what brings that perfection. That's my soapbox. The reason I bring it up is because I had little faith that humanity could really pull it off. With that woman's sneer, I wondered if the people proclaiming themselves as Christian from either side could ever bring themselves to see the sense in some portion of the other side, because neither side has got what it takes to bring about the kind of peace that Jesus preached if they go it alone. Of course, there's the fact that we'd still be Christians, and many people aren't and don't share those views, and...well, there you go.

I meet so many people. So many really, really, good people. Some of them take the time to think and be awake, some of them don't. Even with those who don't, I have a really hard time seeing how the cogs of society crunch and grind and go in so many directions I don't want to go down, that I know beyond any shadow of doubt are ways to certain...well...unconsciousness.

It's hard to fight that cynicism, that discouragement, that temptation to give up hope and give into impatience and despair, in the midst of a giant cloud of black. There's a certain guy who would always call me naïve for my views. A part of him was right, because eventually I let my own broken heart make me condemn and judge everybody in sight and see the world as a place incapable of goodness and change, or a place unlikely of it happening...and instead of fighting my best anyway, I let myself become bitter. Becoming bitter is easy. Being judgmental and arrogant and sanctimonious is very easy (Exhibit A: this post). The title has "quixotic" in it...but perhaps that's not quite right. "Quixotic" means overly idealistic and impractical. I think that this experience has helped me take what was originally me--idealistic, hopeful, uncompromising in stuff that counted--and took out the naiveté. I had had my heart broken...and it was rebuilt here, and I've been shown without minced words what the world is like, and what it's like to try to live seeing the world as it is while aiming to make it as close to "as it should be" as possible. I'm sure it will happen again, and harder, and I hope that I'll be ready for it. Only way to do that is to learn to trust. Here we go. Still.

Holy Family

2010-12-26T08:01:00.002-05:00

Many things have happened: Thanksgiving was a wonderful event even if the turkey didn't get cooked all the way, December and Advent have been nothing short of beautiful experiences (albeit very challenging at times), and all of a sudden, quick as the madness began, it stopped. Here I am, the day after Christmas, one of maybe 40 people in Ciudad...about 15% of the normal population. I won't see most of those kids ever again, and while I almost started crying when Hermano Hugo called us up at Mass on Saturday night to be given a farewell blessing, I was glad to see these boys go. I was glad to see them walk confidently and happily out of the pabellón into the promise of a summer that won't be as carefree as one might hope, but in any case is summer. The promise of summer is a privilege whose full benefits, I think, are reserved for those in the academic sphere. The passage of time has helped the boys be confident: having a few months just being in your own skin while the changes of puberty start really setting in help tremendously. Knowing the routine, going from a new kid to a veteran, having the swagger of being "not freshman" and/or "upperclassmen"...I know the self-assurance such happenings can give a teenager, and I had a bit of pride to see the boys I'd seen as short, awkward kids walk out as not-quite-as-short, almost-confident-in-social-situations teenagers.

It'd be arrogant to think "My work is done," because a lot of that work is the natural course of time unfolding; I was merely a witness and cheerleader, adding the occasional formational remark. It was sad for me, and will be sad still...it'll hit more when I'm on the plane heading to the States, and more so when I realize that I can't just strike up conversation with whatever gringo is around about the ridiculousness of these boys and have them truly understand from sharing that same root experience of being in this place. I know that even in the midst of coming home, even in the midst of being welcomed back, of coming back to people who've been missing me, I'll be struggling with feeling very alone. I'm coming back a different person with different experiences, a different diet and different preferences; people will rely on my description of Jhon to form an image of him, unable to just draw on their knowledge of his quick-as-a-whip friendly tongue-in-cheek from encountering him in the kiosco. This is very tangential. The point is that as I feel more alone, as I feel my time in a community in which I've become comfortable comes to a close, the realization that I might not ever see these boys again will become more acute. And that's the way of things, and I'll fight the negativity tooth and nail and work on being grateful and trusting God as the time comes.

Now to the point of my post: Today's the Feast of the Holy Family. I could go on at length, but I'll let this suffice: Like those of the Holy Family: In every one of our relationships, may we have the Father as our first father, the Son as the first child born of the relationship, and the Spirit as our first lover.

Recurrent themes

2010-11-12T00:35:00.000-05:00

This post originally was going to be about something completely different, but the title remains the same.

My junior year of college, I had what many would consider an awful 1st semester. A friend died, a family member died, a friendship went freefalling, I had a million responsibilities, a lot of academic work, and then, as icing on the cake, I sprained my ankle shortly before Halloween. I hated that time, I was mad at myself, I resented the situation, dwelled on the negative, and really let myself get to a bad place. I had found it hard to pray before that had started, but I certainly had no desire to pray after. God was unfair, He was my competition, and I could tell that He wanted me closer to Him, but man did He have another thing coming.

Of course, my desire is to say how foolish I was, how immature, how self-damaging and infantile in my tantrum, and...well, yeah, I was. I hurt myself, I closed up a lot, I hurt others, and everybody felt that energy coming from me. It was so easy to go to that place, and while the loudest voice in me told me to continue in that vein, there was a voice that told me that I had to try. That voice was muted at times, distant, or even without any passion: a monotone radio announcement, a bored mantra. All the easier to shut it out. And man, I shut it out. I didn't give up on school; I put more effort into school, as I was doing well with it and I derived my sense of well-being from it (I also liked my classes a lot...well, mostly. Some classes I was awful in. I'm sorry, Dr. Mc). I worked really hard at Esto Vir. Here's the thing, though: I didn't tell anyone what was bothering me. I didn't pray because it was just that much easier to ignore my need to do so, having had active reasons to rage against God (so I thought).

I am pretty sure that 3 years later, exactly to the day, I found myself once again without the mobility I'm so used to. Slightly different reason than before: This time I dropped a pot of boiling water onto my right heel and got a nice 2nd-degree burn. This is the same foot that got severely sprained 3 years prior. October 28th (day of said injuries) is a special day here in Perú. It commemorates the feast of El Señor de Los Milagros. Years ago, there was a huge earthquake in Lima. The whole city was decimated, save for one mural of Christ Crucified, which stood completely intact amidst the wreckage. It came to be known as El Señor de Los Milagros (Lord of Miracles). Of course, at first I thought it a very ironic occurrence to receive a burn and be confined to rest and a crutch on a day associated with Miracles. It's easy to make a joke about how God needs to resort to physical injury to send me messages or that He just enjoys watching me in pain.

This time, though, I really needed to fight the negativity. Somehow, I put on a fun face for everybody last time and let it eat my core. This time, maybe I won't tell people how hard it is to fight going stir-crazy or to fight my mind's crazy formulations or impulses due to boredom, but I feel more honest and less angry about life. I can't tell you what the differences are between this time and last, but I feel the message is the same: "Trust me, be with me, talk to me, follow me. And Hope!" Last time I was in such pits and so pissed and...wanting the world to give me some recognition and loads of sympathy. I found some. To everybody who interacted with me then: thank you, you have shaved several years off of purgatory, I'm fairly positive.

I've had my moments of frustration, despair, of being brought to tears, of doing stupid things like eating crap in huge amounts due to boredom even though I know it'll drive me crazy because of how unhealthy it is later on and the fact that I can't do exercise that I'd love and want to do. I've allowed myself to go paranoid partially out of boredom, partially out of being so alone and feeling so vulnerable. It's easy to think that people despise you or resent you when you're so worried about having to ask for help or admit you're weak that you inadvertently become self-involved. When forced to grapple with yourself, it's easy to avoid that battle and fall into a spiral of self-pity and frustration because you wish you weren't a burden. I've sat staring at the ceiling at night because I've rested all day and while my mind is exhausted, my body (having done little more that be vegetative and recuperate) is wide awake, ready and reporting for duty.

I've needed to deal with the same things, and I've been able to receive some of the same gifts: Wonderful, genuine people who have care and concern and show me love in a way that is very touching. It's amazing how those small acts, like people asking if they can get you something from the market or bringing you dinner when they come to visit or ask after you whenever they have the chance can be so very powerful in the experience of somebody who is needing to feel assured and embraced and loved.

Bright sides seem easier to find this time. Part of that is being willing to let my girlfriend in, and her willingness to keep me from dwelling (even when I really want to). Part of it is a desire to hope and a knowledge that I can't give in to all of that anger and resentment, all of which stems from...fear and from pride. It's a tough battle at 3 AM when you're wide awake and can't sleep no matter how much you'd like to do so, but it's nice to think that through the grace of God both in my all-too-imperfect openness and in others' love and presence, I'm at least willing to try to see what He might be saying to me. It's a tough thing to do because I hate not having all the answers, knowing what will happen, how it will happen, etc. I like being in control, I like being on top of everything, and to even admit that maybe God's trying to tell me something is to admit an imperfection which is a blow to my pride and sets my anxiety alarm off. I was lucky enough to have a bright side: now I have time to do what I complained I didn't have time to do. I can pray, I can write applications to grad school, and I can rest. And I can keep learning how to believe and have hope.

It's tough to have to admit that you have to learn something. I was too wrapped up in myself 3 years ago to see it. I'm still too wrapped up in myself in some ways to see lessons that I'm sure God's been trying to scream; I hope that continuing in the spirit of surrender I might unclog my ears a little bit and maybe take my fingers out of them, too.

At the end of it, though, this has been a miracle. And...how fitting for me that the only thing that stood in a city with all of its solutions for problems, all of the ways that people look to escape (granted it was the 18th century, so this is my own 21st century spin on things) that you can find in a city, the things that can absorb us entirely, the one thing that remains intact was a mural of the crucifixion. The message "The road of love leads to Calvary" has been on my mind, and the idea of surrendering to that is my (life's) task, but how fitting that the only thing that will stand strong and endure is that paradoxical image of selfless love and perseverance; that, with the eyes of faith and hope, speaks of the resurrection and immortality that lies after the death and the initial pain.

Intellectual processing of this: 78% complete (roughly)

Holistic processing and integration of this: 5% complete. Estimated time remaining: rest of natural life, and perhaps then some.

Have a great Thanksgiving!

"Rejoice in the Lord Always"

2010-10-23T20:55:00.004-05:00

"I say it again, rejoice!" I'm not a major Bible fiend in the sense that I can quote and then cite passages with perfect accuracy, but reading the Office of Readings sure gives me some awesome things to read each day, and I get a rush out of reflecting on the readings for each Sunday and finding some of the ways that they connect and send a message. Sometimes, context and full meaning aside, little passages and/or phrases just jump out to me...This portion of Philippians chapter 4 (verses 4-7, de hecho) always makes me think a little bit. I know this is a recurring theme I talk about, partially because my own journey right now and forever will always be about learning to trust and have faith, to hope, and to know the peace that comes from that, a mystery to those who experience it and confounding to those who see it from the outside.

One of the boys who was in the pabellón where I worked named Alfredo Navarro, 15 years old, has a benign brain tumor. Of course, when tumors decide to take up residence in the brain and are freaking large, it's hard to imagine a tumor being benign. He's had a biopsy and now has had a device put into his skull to help with fluid from accumulating and building up in the tumor's area. I need to visit him soon. A part of me is scared. Don't get me wrong, a part of me is selfish, but the selfishness and callous attitude I'm tempted to have comes from someplace completely unexpected: a fear. I know it's silly to post confessions on blogs, but hey, you all wanted to know me better, anyway. Lauren and I were the same year in the same school since age 5. We went K-8, Freshman to Senior year of high school at the same schools. Then we went to the same college. I remember when I first heard that she had cancer...I prayed for strength. I didn't pray for strength for me, or at least I didn't think so: I wanted strength to not doubt, to be there for others...and because I didn't want to acknowledge how awful a thing cancer is. She and I weren't best friends. We actually fought a bit back in 4th grade when I was acting up and stood behind her in line. Haha, I kissed the back of her head on accident in 3rd grade and was humiliated for the whole day. Everybody forgot within a day, at least as far as I know (though I was never one to be in the gossip circles, nor would said circles' opinions really influence me, so who knows?). In any case, we kinda went our separate ways in high school and college. But did we? There she was, a small reminder of home in a strange land in college, a reminder of what we both experienced at our parochial school in high school. And then we heard her cancer had come back, full force. And then she gave her final showcase the summer after freshman year of college in our high school's theater. One of the moments of my life I regret most, I think, happened that night. Instead of waiting to talk to her, instead of acknowledging how seeing her sing even though I knew that she was in pain and that she was tired made me feel both so sad and incredibly hopeful, instead of even just meeting her eyes and giving her a hug and saying hello...I bailed. I went with my friends who didn't go because they didn't feel they knew her (and a few who went but didn't know her well) and went in search of ice cream. I can't say I enjoyed my time with friends, I can't say I enjoyed the time I stole to avoid the discomfort of acknowledging that, unbeknownst to me before seeing the showcase, I was a little bit destroyed (a little, not totally) that she was not going to be a constant for the rest of college, that I'd only hear her astounding singing voice in youtube recordings made before I was 21...I was so terrified of facing that, and yet I was miserable not doing so.

I sometimes wonder, especially now that Alfredo reminds me of her situation, and even of her, with certain facial expressions he makes, how life would have been different if I had just stayed that night, if I had allowed myself to see her, if I had allowed myself to cry, if I had allowed myself to admit where I truly was in that moment. I doubt that life would be incredibly different, and yet the significance of that one small act/omission is vast. My mind has so many places to go with this thought.

The first thought is nothing new: a life lived in fear is hardly a life. It's the difference between surviving and thriving: it's a huge difference. You can read old blog posts to read about that.

The second thought relies on a quote from our pal St. Paul: "If God is for us, who can be against us?" (Romans 8:28). Well, people can be against you, cooperate against the grace that's trying to be there, but the lovely thing about God is that...well, He Is Who Is. In the end, if we're receptive to Him, His grace is enough to bring us to what we all want. I look at the moments wherein I've let fear I've misattributed to strength or sensibility and my answer to Paul's question is, quite simply: We can be against us. We are our greatest and truest obstacle, and when we let fear or pride (the two actually go hand in hand, at least in my experience) call the shots, we don't give grace much opportunity to act. I mean, it's still God, so He doesn't ever give up, but yeah. I want to be strong, which I often take to mean hiding my weaknesses, not showing them, not even taking time to realize I need to confess them or justifying myself IN Confession. But...it's precisely in that brokenness that we can find grace waiting to wash us over, peace, love, and we can tune our strings to the true tone.

Third thought: People think of hospitals as depressing, and I can understand. There's so much illness, sickness, bureaucracy, dehumanization, mortality, etc. Somehow I see myself there for another reason, and perhaps not as a doctor or nurse. Perhaps due to experiences in the past, or my experience now with Alfredo, I feel like it's a place that offers so many profound invitations for us to recognize where we are, both in how we feel and that we are not perfect and that we need other people. I know that the feeling of there being people there to grasp your hands when you reach them out is incredible, affirming, strengthening, and ennobling. When that happens, there's a light that one can't help but ignore. In a way, it highlights some of the key points of the human experience: birth and death (clearly), but also how to deal with suffering, what it means to be social beings...I have begun to ramble.

I had a fourth thought, but sleep deprivation has killed it. Perhaps in a later post.

In the end, it boils down to more how one is rather than how one does. The latter will have significance only if the former is there. And I'd like to be in a place of trust, of rejoicing in the Lord at all times, in all things, always. I'd like to be in a place of faith.

God willing, I'll see him this week. Send prayers, any of you folks who still read...and feel free to send me your intentions, too!

Post-Retreat (s)

2010-09-11T16:26:00.007-05:00

Halfway through my stay in Panama I almost found myself troubled over the state of peace which had been granted to me. There amidst the lush green, the fecundity wafting in the air rife with stifling humidity that makes the ceiling tiles droop and fall into convex bumps on the ceiling grid, there was a sense of tranquility that I didn't expect. As I sat in a chapel revealing my humanity and discovering that of others, rain cascading like waterfalls onto the tin roof, I was home in the unknown.

My gecko roommates (as opposed to the human and infinitely cooler roommate sleeping on the bed that was NOT atop a desk) scurried along the walls and squeaking blithely into the wee hours of the morning served more as a source of wonder than a source of annoyance. Not even the roosters who were so dedicated to waking the dawn as to begin crowing mere hours after the sun disappeared from the sky could shake my appreciation and joy at seeing skies and sunsets that God had apparently decided to take out of his private collection of art straight from his own palette.

In the midst of the sun and humidity that left me drenched, a huge wave of contentment rolled over me. Going from the retreat I had with the Ciudad personnel immediately before hopping my plane to Panama to the CapCorps International Retreat put me into official "Retreat High," I think. The mere fact that I felt much more connected to Ciudad's community after that retreat was terrific, and then we were in PANAMA, moreover with very cool people we hadn't seen in over a year! I was so excited to go to Ciudad back in August 2009, but it was crushing to bid farewell to the two Nicaragua communities as they passed through the security gates in the Milwaukee Airport. Alyssa, Tania, and I were a community, but we were gifted as an international group with a sense of overall community, too, and to feel a distinct connection and kinship, to simply be able to bask in the wonderfulness that is these 8 other incredible people, makes parting a bittersweet act of faith. So yeah, that was definitely present as the 6 lovely people living and learning in Nicaragua headed out into their own unknown. I savored the existence of this imminent retreat with all of us together from the moment I heard it was happening, so it's safe to say that the excitement of being with them helped give me such a feeling of ease.

To get the less important part of this post out of the way, I'll start with my reactions to just being in Panama that were entirely individualistic: I felt an awakening of the sense of adventure that allowed me to come to Peru in the first place, that same feeling that, though sleepily, has sustained me and helped me to fight off fear in any number of circumstances. A breath of the air on that first morning in Central America vividly told me that my days of travel are not over, made my excitement for the future and its possibilities and uncertainties truly present and alert. A breath of that air gave me the feeling that anything and everything was and is possible, similar to what happened when I was in Honduras. A part of my heart most definitely belongs there, and God willing I'll be able to travel there again and spend more time than a week or two. I felt...alive.

The most immediately moving thing for me during and after these retreats, clearly, was the sense of community, the rejoicing in being very much in an element that allowed me to grow, be challenged, and to laugh and have an incredible time all the while. After a year of growth and challenge as an individual, with retreats in Ciudad first focused on the individual, the change to focusing on the essential nature of living as a community as Christians was welcome and a necessary step. Of course, it felt a little bit sad to have a feeling of, "Oh...duh," as I was there with the Ciudad community, being reminded of all the things that are poisonous to this essential component of Christian living and how many of them we'd allowed to permeate our daily interactions, as the immediate inclination for me was to think, "So glad we've got this piece of the puzzle here as time winds down," in a sarcastic or bitter way. But, as several folks mentioned in Panama, one of the keys to these next four months is to think of them more as beginning, or of their own time, rather than just the winding down of an 18-month experience. In Panama, we focused on Eucharist and what and how we are supposed to do in memory of Him. We had the opportunity to re-realize that we weren't perfect as humans nor community, to offer nothing more nor less than ourselves to God, each other as a big community on retreat, our respective communities in the rest of our time together, to the new community members, and to those with whom we work. The fact that we who all enjoy each other's company were able to go a little bit deeper, reveal some of our own struggles, receive others', and find a connection in our humanity (i.e., both our faults and the desire to do better and to overcome the obstacles that arise due to those faults), perhaps gain insight into our own situation from others' brokenness....what a wonderful gift CapCorps, our coordinators, the prayers that everybody back home offers for us, and the financial backing that people are generous enough to impart have given to us!

How wonderful it has been to have an experience that makes me realize that everything I learned about Church, about its necessity, its universality, get a little more integrated into my heart! And how wonderful it is to welcome Mike and Jeanette into the community! How genuinely blessed it was to see my parents for an incredible 10 days this month when they came to visit! How amazing to have even more excitement for seeing my brother again in less than a year! How exciting it is to be careening into October, a month of insanity, and rush toward another transition, but to know that a beginning started when I walked off the plane in Panama City!

More than ever, the idea of The Communion of the Saints has become something that gives me strength, sustains me, and moves something in me. The thought of perhaps not being able to ever be with them in that community setting that we were lucky enough to experience this September and in July and August of last year is saddening, but the gift of knowing that we enjoy each other's company is so wonderful. And when I miss them, it actually now offers me a great deal of comfort and joy to think that I'll see them in the Eucharist. And my family. And those others whom I miss. And those with whom I clash.

What a blessing, this life. I think I need my resolution from those retreats to be that: The constant realization of that blessing. From realizing that blessedness, that love, from incorporating that into my core (with God's grace), God only knows what will follow...and at the moment, I'm perfectly content with that.

Cusco, Las Alturas, Y Más

2010-08-15T20:15:00.004-05:00

I do realize it has been a long time since my last post, so there is a lot of ground to cover.

I have a new stamp in my passport. It's a ridiculous ink imprinting of Machu Picchu. I mean, I am thrilled to have a stamp saying that I've visited what people consider a marvel. I feel that the stamp's over-the-top nature kind of demeans the purpose of having it being taken seriously. I guess that's what I get for being a tourist.

The trip to Cusco was amazing, in all honesty. My stomach, as it has vowed to never let me be at peace for more than a moon cycle, piped up now and then, and I had some emotional outbursts due to stress and having to be with people during what I dub "me time," but it was a nice learning experience. The latter part. My digestive system doesn't like anything I give it. Meh, what can you do?

We went to Cusco while the kids had winter break. From Lima, that's a good 22 hours (the books say 20, but don't believe their lies) by bus. We would have gone by plane, but it only would have been cheaper if we were (all) Peruvian; the cheapest fare is reserved for Peruvians. If foreigners try to buy tickets with that tariff, they get charged a good $175 more, at minimum. While sitting on a bus isn't the most fun experience, it can have its advantages: beautiful scenery, some time to unwind. When we arrived, we realized we were much higher up in Cusco than Lima (duh). Lots of climbing! Our hostal wasn't just at the top of a hill leading to the central plaza, nor was there more climbing upon reaching that hill; the hostal itself had three distinct areas, and ours was the topmost, meaning two more floors' climbing. The hostal was really cool, in a cool place, and I'd like to think that needing to do that prepped me for the days ahead, so I really don't complain!

As is standard, I believe, the weather was much better than Lima. In winter, except for the rare day of glorious, glorious sun, we are enshrouded in gray and cold. While the nights in Cusco are definitely cold, the days were brilliantly sunny and warm. I LOVED this. So we stayed in Cusco for 2 days, being awesome and exploring places that didn't cost us money and enjoying the atmosphere. The air was crisp and clean, the people incredibly friendly and respectful, and there's a connectedness with nature in that kind of city that one just doesn't get in...well, Lima is my obvious comparison. Friday morning, we embarked on a Jungle Trekking excursion that was truly epic. Day 1: riding in a car up a mountain, then biking down, the valley, the jungled hills, the river, etc., as our backdrop. I might have screwed my bike up once...I like biking fast, and in order to avoid somebody who braked suddenly, I was sent into a ditch. I was lucky enough to jump clear, but the bike...not so much. It still functioned, so I was fine. The afternoon was spent in Santa María, a little pueblo in the valley. We hung out, and it was lovely. I have to say, I have gotten accustomed to it being cold in July (which goes against everything my body and mind has been taught for 22.5 years). To go to this valley and be very warm and sweaty due to heat and humidity was...well, odd, in what I've come to accept as winter. To still be this way a few hours after the sun went down was mind-boggling. I do not complain, though!

The next day was hiking. All day. 9 hours, more or less. It. Was. Awesome. LOVE hiking, and with the sights and the challenge, I had the time of my life. I would say more, but...well, it was just really cool. All kinds of scenery, annoying mosquitos, walked along the Inca Trail for a bit, ridiculous uphill, painful downhill, riverbeds, waterfalls, roads, jungle canopy paths...we covered everything. I then enjoyed an ice-cold shower at our hostel in Santa Teresa, another pueblo (a bit bigger) along the way. The dinner was lovely. Oh, that day at lunch we had the most amazing guacamole ever. Ever. No contest. Delicious. After a good night's sleep, we began a long walk on Day 3 to Aguas Calientes, the base for everybody who heads up to Machu Picchu. This walk was a lot less strenuous, but definitely full of beauty. Got to see banana trees, eat a banana from said trees, see the ruins of Machu Picchu perched atop their hill. Then we got to explore Aguas Calientes in the afternoon, which is a cool town, albeit completely touristy. At dinner that night, we discussed our plans for the next day: Machu Picchu. There are two options to head up to the site: foot or bus. The bridge that leads up to the city opens a little before 5 AM. Now, our tour began at 7 AM. Everybody wanted to get up there early for this reason: Wayna Picchu. 400 people are allowed to climb the mountain per day, and there are 3 time slots you can enter. We wanted the 10 AM slot, so that we could have our tour without worry (the other two are like 8 AM and noon, one being kinda late and the other in the middle of the tour). Thus we wanted to get there fairly early to a) be allowed onto the young mountain, and b) get the time slot we wanted. Taking the bus is a nice idea, because it takes just 30 minutes to ascend. However, to get on the first bus, one has to be in line at the bus station at about 3 AM. The buses don't leave til 5:15 or something. Yeah. The other option was walking, but the guide said that he took 2 hours to climb that. Edinson and I wanted to walk. We wanted to get there early. This meant waking at 4 AM to get to the bridge before other people.

The girls decided to ride the bus; it had been a grueling few days. Edinson and I, sadly, discovered that no matter how early you arrive for something, somebody will always be there before you. Or, you know, 100ish people. Yeah. When that bridge opened, and after we had shown our admission tickets, it was pretty much a mad dash to...get in line behind everybody else as they climbed up some 1200 stairs along a dirt winding path up to the summit. Of course, people will weave between each other, and there's a bit of separation that occurs maybe 2 minutes after the initial block. I was very courteous and didn't touch anybody, but people still said many nasty things. Then, without reason, some gigantic German man stopped and I crashed into him. He turned around and said, "If you push me, I will push you." SHOOT. "Okay, that's fair." "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" "I SAID THAT THAT'S FAIR. WITH HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE BEHIND YOU, DON'T STOP FOR NO REASON WITHOUT WARNING!" I didn't actually say that. I just walked ahead of him. I ended up making it to the summit in 40 minutes or so. It was glorious.

In all honesty, the nature surrounding that little city is far more impressive to me than the city itself. I am fascinated by the masonry, the technology that this culture had, but being there really didn't augment my awe for Machu Picchu. I was more amazed by the views we had, the sheer magnitude of it all, the verdant peaks in all directions, a valley and river below. The fact that breathing came easily and in the heights I was connected more to everything that surrounded me than I am in hard concrete clanking honking clamoring metropolis awed me more than the ruins we saw. Still worth every minute? Of course.

Then we went back. Now I'm here, busier than ever. The new volunteers are here in Lima! Still in their host family stay as they study the language and get to know Peru a little bit more. They'll be here in Ciudad on the 12th, so we're getting geared up for that! It's crazy to think about how time flies. Back when CapCorps told us when the volunteers would be coming, how they'd be coming to Ciudad the same weekend we returned from the International retreat, I thought of how long it would be til then. Lo and behold, it's upon us, and the rest of the year will snowball to a close, I'm sure. I remember thinking that the days kind of acted weird when I was here this time last year. Now they're just going by in the blink of an eye and I don't know what to do! Savor it, I guess, be in the moment and don't stress out...let go and let God, as they say.

At this point, my brain has failed, and I've been working on this for a month. It's high time to publish. I'm sorry for the brain fart, I'm sure that next blog post will be far stranger and at least superficially thoughtful. Cheers, all!

A Variety Post

2010-07-22T20:25:00.002-05:00

These are invariably longer than usual.

Things here are winding down a bit. Vacations are literally in two days, I'll be going on adventures of the crazy (but clean) variety the week after, and then...who knows? Time goes more quickly with every passing day.

I went a little ballistic at the beginning of July. We had a very frustrating meeting, and I saw so many things that I had seen in October happening again, and I didn't want to have a part of it. Rather, I did, but I wanted to be somebody with a voice. So I went and I talked with the director, and it was very favorable...to an extent. I was given the gift of knowing I'm not alone in my observation. This is wonderful beyond words. As a foreigner, I can't tell how much of my reaction is just me being financially well-off, white, and Estadounidense (i.e., from the United States). Some things appall me, like the noisiness and lack of respect in meetings (though you'll find that in teenagers across the board. They will look at you like you are from another planet if you get mad at them for punching each other even though you have said three times beforehand that there is absolutely none of that permitted). It's hard to cross so many boundaries and make accurate or useful observations and/or criticism. A lot of the time, I think that's cowed me into not saying anything and chalking it up to an internal battle of patience with myself and the new sphere in which I find myself. Maybe that's a final thing to do, but I've missed a step, and that's in actually daring to see how right or wrong I am in my observations. This time, it would seem I'm right. Of course, my observations fit for children of any lower class background, essentially, but being in a less affluent and developed country sure affords more obvious (and very often, more extreme) cases. It felt good to get angry and impassioned about it. My challenge, of course, is to keep that passion, do what I can to better things, and not lose hope of doing any good. It's easy to do that when there's no hope of finding people equipped to work with teenagers who would give up their lives as they know it to help problem kids. I'll do my best.

I have started writing reflections on Sunday readings again. It helps me tremendously. Thank you, Fr. Regis Armstrong, for giving me that tool. At this moment, I've been given the opportunity to look at myself through the readings and through my frustrations with others, and it's been a tough but awesome introspection. I still need to work on being motivated to change what I need to change, of course, because inertia and homeostasis are always the easier things to do. But whatever, I'm staying positive.

I rediscovered an online journal I kept in high school and sparsely updated in college. I fought internal change and challenge tooth and nail. Admitting that maybe I haven't gotten everything figured out for myself, really admitting it, and starting the work to become a better person, was something my pride hated, hated, hated doing. In fact, I know that this difficulty hasn't gone away. I think it's hanging around now. Yuck.

One of those journal entries read pretty much as follows: "The world is in need of some real, genuine, good men. Because I'm tired of hearing how much men suck." I've heard about a lot of men sucking in this world. Random passerby, exes, friends, fathers, brothers...you name it. I've had the opportunity to hear people share their struggles recently, but it's by no means a new thing for me. My reaction was the same in the past, too. My immediate reaction is generally pain. To see the hurt hurts me in turn. If I let it, the hurt becomes overwhelming.
Perhaps to counter that, or perhaps because it's the right and natural next step, I feel anger. Rage, even. My heart accelerates an incredible amount, my temperature rises, and you might think that my hair actually became fire. I want something to be done. I want there to be accounting for what has happened. "Father, forgive them: they know not what they do," actually fuels my rage, because instead of their ignorance serving as a grounds for sympathy, empathy, or mercy, it makes me think that they are stupid or willfully ignorant. After all, I happen to know (or at least to some extent, maybe) that what they've done is wrong, inconsiderate, hurtful, etc. I can get stuck in this stage for an indefinite period of time. It's easy, and it's certainly easier than struggling with what comes next.
That said, the next stage is me wondering how much I really want to beat these folks to smithereens or somehow give a devastating blow to their ego. That kind of anger is parasitic. That kind of anger is hate. That kind of anger doesn't make me feel better, because it's not exactly just retribution, is it? My anger in part starts in a just fashion, because that is the reaction that injustice, hurt, and sin need to have. This discontent is enough to send me back to just being fuming, or denying it all until the issued gets brought up in conversation, which will then trigger Michael on Fire again.
I then realize that, more than some physical punishment, more than some nauseating voice in my head desires vengeance for a perceived wrong, I want the person to KNOW. I want them to understand, to see in some measure how their actions affected another person's life, what pain they have caused. That's more painful and possibly better than anything I could ever hope to afflict. "Better" meaning "edifying," not "more damaging". It's powerful. Knowledge is power, but it's also, on occasion, immobilizing if there's not hope of mercy.

I started thinking about this, actually, two Sundays ago, with the parable of the Good Samaritan. It's well and good for me to want to be like the good Samaritan and help somebody whom I hate or who hates me if I see them half-dead on the side of the road. How many times does that literally happen? Hopefully not too often. However, it happens all the time on another plane. It's mind-blowing to realize how much hurt there is in this world, to see how much we suffer at the hands of ourselves and other people. How often we are the ones dealing damage! I know that I have been a man who has left at least one girl in a position where she could complain about how I've hurt her. In any case, I figure responding mentally and spiritually with mercy to those who are hurting and who hurt us is a way to be neighbor to another. Those are always necessary. Sometimes physical response is also necessary. I desperately want mercy, so I guess I should start practicing it in any way that is available to me, even if it's in asking for the ability to be merciful, because sometimes it feels so beyond me.

So where does it lead me? Do I know if they'll ever know what they've done? Nope! Do I get justice for their actions? Well, was it ever mine to ask for, anyway? Even if it was, I'm supposedly drinking from a cup full of the blood that's more gracious than that of Abel every Sunday (...well, not really, they don't really offer that species of the Eucharist in Peru these days). Does it leave me in a better place? Yes. And them? Well..it can't hurt to have somebody opening themselves to them and hoping for them.

In the end, I still find that humanity, in some huge ways, is in a deplorable and miserable state. It can make my disposition less sunny than Lima in winter (this place is seriously set in a semi-permanent cast of gray misery). I still sometimes wrestle with hating men in particular. There's such a lack of good manhood in the world. However, I feel that being willing to accept where I am and go from there allows me to find a way to channel the anger in a threefold way: 1) look to myself to remove the beam in my eyes before going to remove the splinter in that of my brothers'; 2) fervor in following Jesus to the cross and praying for mercy for the persecutors; 3) passion in helping those who are becoming men become men of the right quality to the best of my ability.

...Though that third part requires that I go to sleep right about now. It's okay, it was about time for me to get off the soap box, in any case.

Breaking and Making Up

2010-07-02T21:39:00.002-05:00

This story begins with a confession. That confession is that in my life I have been a videogamer. Not just like, a guy who likes video games. My brother and I played so frequently and obsessively that my parents came to call the TV room in which we played "The Hole," or "The Pit." I would secretly give thanks in college for being freed from the obsession. And then I would come back home and some shiny new game would be there, and gee, well, I'd just HAVE to try it. Occasionally I tried using the nicotine patch equivalent and would look at youtube videos in order to both feel satisfied but not consume all of my life. This was a failure. Most recent failure: viewing Final Fantasy XIII's storyline in its entirety via YouTube. I wasted so much of my life, so many waking hours. Sure, I did other stuff at the same time, but that's a lot of time spent sitting in a bad posture in front of my laptop. Yuck. If that weren't recompense enough, there's a terrible repercussion: The theme of the video game is "My Hands" by Leona Lewis, and it is irrevocably stuck in my head. I have played it on repeat. I think this is tantamount to handing over one of my "man cards", if we were to speak in Scrubs lingo.

As a small tangent, TVShack.net was seized by the federal government. This is very good news. Now I can't watch movies or tv shows with the same frequency. God's got my back. Or at least the very protective Federal Government of the USA. Thank you for saving me from myself. Ish.

Okay, point being, that song. Yes, I am going to discuss this song, at least in brief at the beginning. It's about recovering from a breakup or parting of some sort, essentially, and how everything's gonna work out, and then just having a day when that all falls apart, how there's just some part that can't let go, that keeps you stuck. I think that might be why the song stuck in my head.

There was a point between sophomore and junior year of college (so yeah, summer) when I was lying in bed, that a whole bunch of questions flooded into my head. I kept on asking, "Well, why this?" and an answer surged from within, "So that this might happen." "Yes, well, why that?" "For the sake of this." "And why is that important?" I felt like it was God actually telling me why He had said "no" explicitly to a question I had asked while in the Adoration Chapel earlier that year. And at that point, I finally just felt fed up, and said, "Dude, God, this is too much. What point and purpose? Be clear and precise with me. I want to know your intentions. You know what? No, no I don't. It comes down to trusting, and I don't trust you, Lord." And it was like I broke up with Him.

That moment right there. I mean, maybe it had been coming for a while. I would have small temper tantrums in the intimacy and privacy of that chapel, saying, "Okay," and "Thy will be done," and biting my lip and feeling miserable. I finally snapped. I aid what I felt. And then I felt disconnected. It was like the phone receiver had been pushed down, or that in the middle of a very important discussion via skype, the connection died. It was that instantaneous. I wish that it had been just as ephemeral. I needed to say it. I needed to come to the point where I knew where I was instead of lying to myself. But after discovering where one truly is, there are a few options: do you stay and work on it or do you cut it and go a new direction? I opted for the latter. I decided to do what I wanted and God could help out if He wanted to, but I wanted Him to be helping ME out in the way I wanted Him to. I don't even think I know that I opted for that path, but it was nevertheless the path I chose. Whatever noble reasons I gave for finally grunting the words "Romantic relationship...I'm interested," that one day at the beginning of October 2007 (my eloquence in and of itself an indication that I was not moving in the Spirit), they were rationalizations. It was what I wanted to do. Was it was I should've done? I knew, I KNEW, deep down, that it wasn't. But something urged me to do it, and I gave in, and I wanted to blame the disconnected, treacherous God that I had painted in my mind as the guy responsible. He made me ask, He made her love Him in such a way as to prevent the relationship I thought I wanted. He was the guy that was responsible for the next semester or so being so painful as a result. And He stood there and suffered the abuse, stood there with arms wide open, waiting and hoping that maybe I'd let myself fall into His arms, let His blood and His suffering wash over me and assure me that He loved and loves me, and I...I wounded Him more. I broke His heart and hardened my own. And you know why? Because deep down, I knew He was right and I was wrong, and I didn't like that.

I would joke about it, I would laugh and say how I was over it, and God became a distant entity in my life. I knew that prayer was important, that I needed time to reflect, but it always was so hollow, because...well, because of the post break-up tension, I guess. There have been moments of incredible beauty regardless, I have been allowed insight, and like the genuine good guy, He's always willing to lend a hand when I need it. Regardless, I've been trying to be a Christian and be a functional athiest at the same time. Or profess my belief in a God, Father Almighty and then go contrary to that, placing limits on what God could do in my life.

And it's in the moments that I thought that I was getting away with it, that things were really looking up, that I would get involved in my life as I knew it, that I would be gripped deep, deep, deep in my being. Every time I try to deny how much I care, how much I need, how central He is to me, it leaves me broken-hearted, hearing the Psalms of Individual Lament and letting out a silent sob. I am afraid to trust God. I am afraid to put everything, everything, EVERYTHING in His hands, to say, about the things that are the most important, the things that stand to hurt the most, the things I invest the most in, and place them with full confidence in His hands. When I know that I have personal motives at times, when the people that unto whom I give entirely too much of my trust break my trust, it's hard to belief it when I hear and feel that all that He's ever wanted is that I have life and have it in abundance. It makes more sense, from my defensive point of view, to err on the side of caution and try to go it alone.

But...well, my heart keeps getting in the way. I cannot dare to not dare. Or die trying. I'm delusional to think that I don't need that love. I'm crazy to think I can find happiness outside of what is true and enduring beyond my limited and insignificant being. To try and put something else as my first love could never, ever make me happy or content. But just to think of Him as my first love, the truest one, the one who is the reason for the others' existence, and the one to whom the others point me (and thusly give me cause to love them), the reference for it all...that's one thing that washes me with bliss. And gives me peace. And gives me resolve.

Oh, yeah, the breakup reference was to God, nobody else.

In the House of Tom Bombadil

2010-06-27T21:05:00.002-05:00

Well, this post will have relatively little to do with my work. I will say that a group of students was here. Very good people, and it was cool to see them. It was funny when their leader accidentally (this was after owning up to speaking very bad Spanish) told all 300 of the boys in Ciudad that they were very tasty.

As the sky becomes grayer and grayer here, the rare day of sunshine becomes all the more meaningful. The drudgery breaks when the sun cracks through the clouds blanketing the troposphere and said gray slinks to the confines of the horizon while the sun enjoys its brief victory over the smog and we poor citizens rejoice in its rays. Slight exaggeration. Regardless, it's an exponentially more joyous day when the sun can break through and reveal the green hills beyond the hills turned brown from natural sand and the overabundance of houses, huts, and cardboard boxes lining it, when the green becomes more green in the golden contrast, when the beach is clear and the rocks become something less gloomy, when birds' songs sound joyful instead of the routine, "I'm a bird, so I need to chirp" warbling.

On days like these, and on those rare, rare occasions I've been given to venture outside Lima (though less rare than what the majority of Limeñans gets), I've taken a breath and felt euphoria fill my lungs. In the instances outside of Lima, I can't attribute that to carbon monoxide poisoning. Within the city confines, it's a possibility. Regardless, a wild, fierce joy grips me when the sun comes out, when nature is present. It's the joy that makes you sing any song that comes to your mind, that permits your mind to be soaring with the condor though your feet clumsily trudge up the mountain, that makes you tear up the canyon even if false prudence urgently shrieks that your quadriceps will be unhappy in the morning. It's the joy that gives way to peace, to a sublime kind of appreciation and quiet smile in the midst of greenery and majesty, to joyfully opening your arms to embrace the sky and falling into a patch of green grass, to watch the sun set the sky on fire as it sets with a warmth within you though the temperature is urging you to shiver.

I have walked in the forests to reflect in the beauty that the shade of the green canopy can offer, I have touched the tree trunks just to remember the feeling of bark on my skin, have jumped into cold springs to get the shock of the freeze over with, and it's not my song that fills my lungs and my heart and spirit, but that of Tom Bombadil, or the natural force that he personified, and I have heard him singing and striding in the forest with the rustling of the underbrush keeping time and the whole of creation singing along. Perhaps his house is not the highest good in the world, but to let it be destroyed or to destroy it is to kill the song that's waiting to burst forth from without and within us, is to destroy the harmony to give more meaning and beauty and sense to our own songs.

Pondering the Precipice

2010-05-13T20:19:00.002-05:00

I can't remember the exact day I decided to take the position with CapCorps Midwest in Ciudad de los Niños. It was a May day. I've written about my thought process before, so I won't bore you with the details of one instance of bravery or clarity in a moment of haze and fear, i.e., the rest of my life.

It is amazing, though, to ponder what I was thinking while I was writing my applications. I had at that point worked with the Center for FaithJustice as a member of the LeaderWorX program, worked for two summers in medical records with my dad's practice, was a member of President's society, had been a few positions in Esto Vir, did some stuff in high school, helped with various Campus Ministry activities at CU, officer of Chastity Outreach, but...I realized how little of it converted into something that really translated into "youth ministry" or, in my pessimism, anything that a volunteer organization could look at and say, "That's useful!" And in that moment, it was like my life opened up before me, and I saw that I was standing on the cliff of everything that was familiar, concrete, that I had known and knew, and what lay before me was a vast expanse of the unknown, profound and ultimately unknowable, and THAT was what I had to jump into in order to move on. Well, in that instance, I didn't see what other option there was: I considered the abyss, shrugged, and forged ahead in trying to figure out what I could possibly offer to an organization.

And I think of all of you who are on the brink or have surpassed the brink of graduation, be it high school or college or whatever. It's an interesting time of year, and invites everybody to experience a little bit of change, whether it's moving up the ranks, experiencing the world of unemployment (or summer employment, equally exciting!), a world of uncertainty now that the last 4-year period of their life (unless they go for PhDs or something) has come to an end and trying to figure out the next step isn't just written in stone. Sometimes the change is watching people undergo change and facing the consequences of what that does to one's own life. Maybe it's the mere memory of what happened last year and realizing what has changed and what hasn't that places the idea of change and the abyss back into my mind. Maybe it's just realizing how small that little piece of land of what I've known and experienced is in comparison to what's out there, and that being here in Peru has made me even more aware of that.

What an experience it is, to realize over and over again that that footing to which I so constantly return and wish to return is not nearly as big as I thought it was. In the end, perhaps my footing isn't as sure as I thought. That maybe things that I considered fact are other facts. That maybe the way that I've painted the picture of my life isn't quite accurate with all its embellishments and artistic twists and tendencies to make me look like the good guy. I won't beat myself up over it, but I'd rather see a portion of the real picture so that I can be a little more honest in the brushstrokes I use in the present moment and for the future. Is Michael capable of writing without metaphor? Not really.

When the unknown tries to teach us something about ourselves that we thought was so solid, or that makes up some component of us (in my case, thinking that I'm very mature...I'm not sure who I thought I was kidding) gets challenged, the easy thing to do is to run away from it, assume that it's wrong, ignore it, shut it out, and clamp your eyes and ears shut. But it might be life, the Holy Spirit, trying to knock on the door. Maybe it's something more insidious. The question is: Will one discern the spirits or will one let one's need to maintain their own painfully limited concept of oneself make the call? I've done the latter all too often. I'm a stubborn one. Sometimes all that one needs is to come to terms with the love that's present in their lives to make the more comfortable to venture into the beyond. Sometimes that is made manifest in prayer, in being able to be grateful for every thing that happens. Sometimes it's in the actions others show us. Sometimes it's just spontaneous. Sometimes it's when somebody is willing to stay on the line.

"Good luck exploring the infinite abyss!"

Congratulations, class of 2010. May your lights shine unto others and may you never tire of going deeper. Godspeed.

Saying Yes

2010-04-20T17:25:00.011-05:00

Well, the weather is bipolar. As soon as I griped about how sweaty I was, the temperature lowered several degrees (though not without a final shout of rebellion on Saturday and Sunday that burned my cheeks and lips and probably scalp, which means really awesome dandruff is on the way)*. Now it is pleasantly cool to chilly here in San Juan, and Laura informs me that it is foggy and cold (por lo general) in Miraflores. Hrm.

I learned last Thursday that our family's golden retriever, Reilly, has a very short time to live due to a tumor. He's been in our family for a good 9 or 10 years. I can't express how grateful I am to my very own fuzz therapist for all that he's given me in that department. It makes me sad (like, tearing up now) to think that I when I return to the States, there won't be an 80-pound dog convinced he's a lap dog forcing his muzzle between my hand and my leg in order that I pay attention to him. It's sad to think that I won't have the excuse of walking him to go on hour-long jaunts through Portland and Beaverton Suburbia. It'll be bittersweet to see apples actually growing on our apple tree because Reilly hasn't jumped up and eaten them as soon as they started growing. Who will clean our plates before we put them through the dishwasher? It is sad to think that that individual who is so obviously welcoming, friendly, eager, and enthusiastic will be gone. I won't need to jealously guard my ranch dressing, we won't need to worry about leaving pans of brownies out anymore for fear of him eating them, and it will be peaceful when people walk by the house. It's a rough thing to think about.

I'm not sure if it's more difficult to be completely unable to come home to see him through to the end or if it would be worse to be there and watch and feel powerless regardless. I've stopped thinking about that particular "Would I Rather" because the decision is made and there's not much I can do. Regardless, I'm still very sad sometimes thinking that the walks will get shorter and shorter until he can't even play in the yard.

The timing in learning this was rather uncanny. I had been thinking about the future and how it's truly a roller coaster, and I decided to get a bit of my "Screw you, fear," attitude and say, "I'm ready for the future...I'm ready for change." I have learned from the past to not say, "Bring it on!" because Fate laughs mirthlessly and says, "Ok," and then gives me a huge dosage of unfortunate events. But, in reflection, how beyond-coincidental that the dog that has been in my life since my adolescence, now is quickly waning away as I approach 23 and the advent of adulthood in the tangibles of higher education, employment, total financial independence and responsibility, life vocation, etc.

That and a billion things have induced, much to the disadvantage of the blog-reading community at large, a thoughtful mood. The day I found out about Reilly, I had a good cry and spent some time in the chapel. I like going into the chapel at night, when it's dark and the pigeons' wing-fluttering seems to echo more dramatically and the electric light next to the Tabernacle fake-sputters and it's really the only source of light that's there.

The invitation I've been getting every day--what my talk about Confession and "Stay With Me" and a life without fear holding the helm have really all been about--is one to trust. I remember thinking years ago how being ready for things like the future, for being a priest, for being married, for being a parent, stepping out into the unknown, isn't so much measured by how much preparation one has had (though certainly that is a part of it), but also by the amount of trust one has that things will be all right. The Christian can't live without hope: it would make them a functional athiest, bandying about theological platitudes and living a rough and jagged life that is impressive, perhaps, but punctuated by bitterness.

I can't figure it all out, but...well, hope springs from a faith in something. The Christian hope ultimately springs from a faith in God's undying and unflinching and immeasurable love. On occasion, it's been hard for me to believe in that. When things seem so hugely unfair, confusing, painful, or otherwise counter-intuitive, how tough it is to trust that it'll be okay! When wounds from the past still sting or shame still haunts us, letting go, opening our hands, and letting someone gently grab them and lead them onward toward what will ultimately be the greatest joy seems the most difficult thing of all. But...how much more difficult it is to NOT trust, to say that there isn't that love out there, that wisdom, that hand that's willing and WILL grab ours, provided we attempt to meet it halfway and attempt to unclench our fists! I've been tempted to do that in the past, but something inside just won't let me ignore the feeling that I'm covering up the truth, silent and persistent, with a bunch of flimsy noise that melts away if I would just be still for a moment. And in the end, the acts of faith are acts of trust.

After sitting in the chapel, looking at that little light bulb that barely illuminates the Tabernacle, I left feeling a bit more at peace. Being able to see that Sacrament amidst the darkness, being able to see the Tau, a symbol one can take as a cross or as the sign of renewal to God's people or both (or the Greek letter, but shut up), strongly outlined in the wood and made bolder with the contrast that shadows provide...that's what one needs, isn't it? That is the stable future to help me through a tumultuous present. Love. And while I know that I'll be foolish enough to not trust on occasion, I think I'm still able to say, "Yes, I am ready. Or, I mean, I will be, when it (the future) comes. So...yes. I'll trust."

*I am aware that that was too much information

April Sans Showers

2010-04-14T11:02:00.002-05:00

I think I have gotten even more sweaty during this month than I was during the peak of the summer. Maybe I should consume more electrolytes. Anyway, Easter was a lovely affair, but I can't really go into too much detail, because my arms are fairly sore at the moment. This is SUCH a welcome change. The last time my arms were this sore was when I decided it would be a good idea to see how many crates I could fill with eggs before muscle failure. Okay, that never actually happened, but I did look at egg-collecting as a great exercise. Sadly, I see no promise of the hens coming back to the Ciudad. There's still time in the year, I suppose, but I'm still...well, you know, sometimes I hated that job. I guess I just miss the consistency of it, and I do miss feeling tired at the end of most days. Except the days when they made me clean up the sick chickens' quarters. Those days I just was bitter.

Enough about chickens! I have sore arms because I have been moving boxes upon boxes of books. When we first arrived here, our apartments already were occupied...by libraries. Shelf upon shelf of random book. It had its charm, don't get me wrong, but it can get mighty claustrophobic, and I don't know the next time I'll need to know how to perform Thorax surgery with the help of an outdated Spanish text. I refer to that particular book a lot. There's also about 10 million copies of Princess Di books. We might burn those, not out of spite for the late celebrity, but out of spite for the books themselves. Whatever. Anyway, we packed up the books in Alyssa's and Tania's apartment and moved them over to the computer room. It truly was a joyous day. Of course, it leaves the question of what we'll do with MY books...because I am farily sure that there are more books and shelves in my room than in theirs. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it!

Anyway, life here is very good. I've had some struggles in maintaining my spiritual life, but I'm getting back into that. I'm able to understand people who used to fall into the category of, "I'll listen to what you say and make noncommittal noises to show you that I'm listening, but in reality I have no idea what you're saying and therefore cannot contribute meaningfully. Or at all." This is nice, because it makes me feel like I have managed some amount of progress. Though I can't really pat myself on the back for that, as I have no control over what, how, and when my brain decides to absorb information. I'm just...here. Thankful. More comfortable with myself than I have been for a while, but also getting more driven to be better than I have been in the past.

Okay, before total muscle failure, I would like to talk about Hermano Polo, supervisor of the pabellón San Juan. He was in the military, is naturally gifted with music, is short, has gigantic hands, and used to really intimidate me. I'll still use the formal "usted" as opposed to "tú" with him, because I think that he functions better in that capacity within San Juan, but I can just get along a lot better with him as an almost-peer these days. Part of this has to do with his Harry Potter glasses that make it almost impossible for me to be scared of him. He is one of very few people who can really pull the look off, but I'm glad he can. Anyway, he's a bit of a joker. On Tuesday of Semana Santa (Holy Week), he told me as I was walking to the meeting room before being sent off to do work in the afternoon: (Though he said it in Spanish) "Michael, the Sisters called and wanted some help taking measurements for the Altar of Repose they're going to make and put in the chapel for Holy Thursday. They were looking for somebody tall, preferably lighter-skinned, and handsome. I told them I didn't have anybody like that, but I had you, so I'd send you over." He was very proud of this joke, and rightly so.

Then, last week, he was teaching kids some new praise and worship songs, and one of them begins: "Jesús, el más hermoso de los hombres," or "Jesus, the most beautiful of all men." Hno. Polo took a moment to have us reflect on this line. "Yup, most beautiful guy. Nobody's prettier. Not one of you in the Ciudad can beat him. Not even Michael." And then as the entirety of the population of the Ciudad broke into laughter, he stood there grinning, evidently very pleased with himself. Now the ladies on staff call me "Pretty Boy."

Life in Ciudad has been tumultuous, trying, lovely, and fun. This is a lame update, but I figured I should write something so that people don't think I'm dead. Though speaking of death, my left arm has given out, so it's high time to publish this post. Chau for now, folks!

Stay With Me

2010-03-29T07:43:00.004-05:00

(In which Michael goes on a theological wandering which may or may not be accurate in the eyes of those who are far wiser than he happens to be. Thus take it with a grain of salt.)

I now have two songs with that particular title in my ITunes Library. One is by Clint Mansell and appears in Darren Aronofsky's film "The Fountain" and is heartbreaking to hear. The other is a Taizé chant that I first heard at Catholic U on Holy Thursday when we moved the Blessed Sacrament from the Tabernacle in St. Vincent's over to the Altar of Repose in St. Paul's Chapel in Caldwell Hall. If the first song, without words, accurately captures a feeling of desperation an individual feels as the already almost impossible chance of saving his or her loved one becomes more and more eclipsed by the hard and terrifying reality of the situation at hand, the second one in 10 words nearly perfectly depicts what I can imagine Jesus feeling during the Agony in the Garden. This simple chant has been and remains part of what I associate with a fruitful Holy Week and Triduum.

Stay with me, remain here with me...watch and pray. It seems a very simple request. The Apostles come across as being pretty stupid, insensitive, and unobservant a whole lot of the time. And, you know, perhaps rightly so. It's hard to be attentive to the needs of somebody, even a loved one, when you don't understand what they are experiencing or why. Of course, in this case, the what is taken care of because Jesus reveals at least thrice that He's gonna be turned over and killed. Oh, silly Apostles.

I have at least three tangents here. The first is probably the one that I've thought about the most. There's a phrase we use in Catholicism: "Mystical Body of Christ." That'd be the Church (well, Augustine would call it the actual Body, actually, and Berengar changed everything, but let's ignore this history of the terminology for now). Paul talks about the Church being a body. Even in secular areas, we have Volunteer Corps, the Corps of Discover (that was a while ago, granted), corporations, and all of these have "Corp" as their root. "Body." There's a connectedness that goes beyond just amity, enmity, or general knowledge. Each component is a part of the whole, not quite a full thing on its own, though it has its own name. In the case of the Church, we have Christ as the head and we are a body IN Him. Pope Benedict made the assertion that Christ not only broke through the confines of death in His Resurrection, but He broke the barrier of "Other". Thus it was that the Holy Spirit came after He ascended and the Apostles shared in One Spirit. Thus it was that when the devout and fervent Jew Saul was knocked off his horse, the voice in the blinding light asked not, "Why do you persecute my followers?" but "Why do you persecute ME?" Thus it was that Jesus said in Matthew 25 "Whatever you do to the least of these you do unto me." Thus Blessed Theresa of Calcutta talks about seeing Christ's face in the poorest of the poor, Bonaventure blurs the distinction between Francis, Jesus, and each of us. It's thusly that in the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick we look at those with injury and illness as sharing and being with Christ in His own suffering and that we, the rest of the Church, strive to be Christ the healer and supporter. It's because of this that taking Communion is both accepting Christ's sacrifice and agreeing, "Yes, I am a part of the Body of Christ." It's a cornerstone (at least in my mind) of sacramental theology, and beyond that, of what it means to be a Christian.

In that mindset, I have joked about how here in the Ciudad I have the opportunity to see the face of Christ every day in at least 35 different people. And every day I have the opportunity to tell Jesus that if he doesn't stop trying to pull my arm hair that for some reason fascinates him more than pretty much anything and do his homework, bad, bad things will happen to him. Joking aside, the opportunity is there for each of us in every day to be with somebody in their dark hours. People don't always let on, and you might not ever know that you've been there for somebody, but you'd be amazed what taking the split-second longer and mustering the emotional effort required to give somebody an authentic smile and greeting as you pass by can do. In my mind, the reality of life is that we are IN Gethsemane daily, both trying to cope with our own burdens and trying to remain with Him in remaining with others, even if it's just staying awake, or watching, or praying. Would that we had the awareness and the disposition to remain awake and to see who remains awake with us! Because in both ways, Jesus is there. Daily, though especially in the threshold of the holiest hours in the Liturgical Year, one can hear the heart-shattering plea of Christ in both His human self and in the members of His Mystical Body (everybody): "Stay with me, Remain here with me. Watch and pray."

The second tangent has a bridge in the first. Time is a funny thing. I find it interesting that people use the threat of Hell or a Final Judgment to get people to act in a better manner, that at the end of all things, some jacked Arian Jesus (to see the Upper Church of the National Shrine of the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception tell it, that is) with an angry face will judge us. I mean, I am of the conviction that there will be end-times, that He will come and be Judge. But as incentive, I am not sure how I feel. The more I experience of time, the more I feel that time itself is incentive. The more it slips through my fingers, the more I see that the life of man on earth is no more than a passing breath, how it never goes as quickly or as slowly as I want it to, how 7.5 months have already passed here, how even though I want time to move quickly so that the weekend comes I don't want my time here to come to such a quick end, etc., the more I realize that the only passivity I can afford is that of making myself disposed to listen to the Spirit that speaks insistently to my even-more stubborn and insistent and willfully deaf soul. Of course, that makes me question why I'm sitting on my butt for such a long time writing a blog post, but I'll ignore that for the moment and you can call me out on hypocrisy later, dear reader.

Regardless, I feel like what Jesus says about the Kingdom of God is right on (I mean, I guess it would be, believing that Jesus is, you know, the 2nd person in the Trinity): The Kindgom of God is AT HAND. The question is taking the time to live in the now, realize that the present is the canvas for painting the future, refining the past, and a picture in and of itself, and whether we choose to listen to the Spirit (this also involves learning how to listen) and the voice crying out "Stay with me!" It is now, and whether we take the time to have our eyes open to what the now entails (as far as we are able) in large part determines whether we live in joy and hope or despair.

The third tangent...deserves its own post, perhaps to be posted during Triduum. It's to much its own thing and this post is far longer than I intended, anyway. Happy Semana Santa, I hope it is a fruitful time for all of you.

Intimacy of the Spiritual Variety

2010-03-09T16:38:00.003-05:00

Please note that the following is not directed at any individual, nor is it the aim to condemn those who think differently or disagree with opinions expressed during this musing, nor am I seeking to be an apologist. It is honestly just the result of reflecting these last couple of days.

So in community the other night, we started talking about reconciliation, which, being Lent, is appropriate to discuss. Canon Law says that the Catholic individual is obligated to confess serious/mortal sins once a year, preferably during Lent, due to the appropriateness of confessing sins during the season of pruning. It recommends that the faithful also confess venial sins once a year at least, but it's not a requirement.

I remember in high school how I was scared to death of going to confession, and it didn't matter which priest was hearing it. My parents had me go, and I'm thankful for that now, but I remember that at the time I really didn't like it. If it was a priest from Jesuit (my high school) hearing my confession, he knew me and I didn't want to be spilling my guts in front of somebody who, though they're supposed to have everything under the seal of confession and not talk about it, I couldn't help but think would think of me differently and let what I let slip affect the way that they treat me. If they were a stranger, I was awkward and self-conscious and didn't want to be confessing to a total stranger. Why should I tell them stuff, from my actions to my failings to my thought processes, let alone become vulnerable to them? Thus it was a very guarded individual who entered the confessional once a year to talk about some things that bothered him but couldn't bear to actually share what was such a burden to his soul, who dared not daring to ask the questions about the faith and about life that were plaguing his insecure teenage mind.

When I got to college, I went on the Freshman Retreat. There was somebody there who said that they really, really, really didn't like confession and didn't feel guilty for what others considered sins. This didn't make me judge them, but it did make me do some self-reflection. The retreat was beautifully done, the leaders so earnest in their belief and their praise. A whole score of priests had come from over an hour away for a paltry 3 hours to hear the confessions of the mass of freshman that had assembled. In a rare moment of clarity, I decided that I didn't want the secrets I had kept for years weighing on me for any longer. I didn't want to consider past actions or thoughts wrong, because that would be so much easier, but the fact of the matter was that my conscience wasn't willing for me to ignore it without torturing me. As much as I was loathe to talk to another person about my sins, I was more loathe to feel like I was living a life that wasn't mine (I didn't kill anybody or anything dramatic like that). So I stood up from my kneeling and marched over to confession. And I confessed to Fr. Bob, the university chaplain, whom I'd certainly see again and with whom I'd definitely interact in the future, but he was the one to talk to, I knew without question. I'm glad I did. He assured me that if not for the grace of a priest hearing confession, he was bound to forget my confession due to the large number of people who were confessing. My fears were allayed....for a while.

I started going to confession more regularly. I started being more open. I would consider this my period of coming to take the faith as my own, I suppose, so it was new to me. After a while, when I kept on confessing the same things over and over again, I began to become worried about having the same priest. I usually confessed behind the curtain, and there wasn't really any chance of them recognizing my voice, but even so.

There's another struggle I have, which comes from confessing face-to-face, and that comes from the fear I mentioned earlier: I don't want somebody with whom I have a relationship of some sort hearing my greatest shortcomings. Sometimes the fear is that this person will put two and two together and ask me to change something in my life, because I'm stubborn, proud, and cowardly, which means that I'm okay confessing my sins as long as I'm not inconvenienced or needing to grow. Sometimes it's just shame at being so gosh-darn human and having to admit it, really admit it. As such, I'll sometimes opt to go to a priest I don't know and I probably won't ever see again.

But I guess that this is where intimacy comes in. I won't pretend to be an expert on the sacrament, but I do know that Christ is present in a special way in the priest hearing the confession. I think that this discomfort I have of sharing my secrets, my incredible weakness, and just how human I am...well, that's natural. Trust is scary. Trust is tough. Trust sometimes leaves a bitter taste in our mouths, and that's in mild cases of trust being broken or manipulated or ridiculed; it can be destroying when people let us down and hurt us. It's a special thing when one can find somebody whom they totally trust. Sharing the good things is easy (not to say it's not beautiful), but sharing what is bad in our lives, whether it be what we've suffered at the hands of somebody else or what we've done to ourselves or to other people...it's so incredibly frightening but so incredibly beautiful to take that which we find almost more essential to our self-ness or who we are (I feel there's a reason we use "personal" to describe these experiences) and place it in the hands of another, and for the other to take it and accept the sharer. It's transforming. It can help the sharer see that there's something else to their person (if they had that problem).

Like I've said, I'm not a Reconciliation buff, so I should add in my disclaimer that this might not be in line with the Church (though hopefully not heretical). But when I pray, even if I'm telling God some personal stuff, I make God abstract on purpose. It's easier to talk with a source of and sustainer of all life or a bodiless being or something that's so far beyond my understanding that I can't hope to comprehend the smallest portion of its infinitude than it is to converse with a living, breathing, tangible human being. It's a lot less...personal. It's not intimate. But then I have to remember the lovely event known as the Incarnation. And then I have to say, "Aw, shoot, God's been wanting that personal relationship." I can't really think of any other reason for it, you know? Well, I can, but it's one of the huge reasons, I think. So I've been running away from God's call for a personal relationship.

Should I confess to the same priest every time? Not saying I should, but I need to look into my reasons for choosing the same priest or not. Because Christ is present in all of them, but I can choose to acknowledge Him there or not.

I guess, in a nutshell, intimacy is tough for me, but worth it, both on the social and the spiritual planes.

La Vida Sin La Esclavitud de Preocupación

2010-02-28T14:07:00.004-05:00

My second year of college, during Lent, a very awesome priest and Capuchin friar made an audacious resolution: his fasting in Lent would be a fast from fear. This decision made me raise my eyes in wonder and surprise. First, it's unusual. Chocolate is far more common (not knocking people who give up food items, it can really be a spiritually enriching endeavor if done with the right disposition). Secondly, give up fear? Really? Is that even possible?

Maybe just saying that he gave up fear isn't the right way of putting it. Giving up the involuntary response of fear is like saying that one is going to give up being sexual: it doesn't work that way. He sacrificed giving into the fear that he felt in those moments where the unknown and the unwanted raised their heads, when the uncontrollable and the unpredictable surfaced, and when the sense one gets one one weighs the powers at work in the world against one's own painfully obvious limitedness creeps to mind.

I've been thinking about that a lot here. I think about it when it comes to having responsibilities with the kids, when I have no idea what to do, when I'm the voice of authority, when maybe I don't want to share what I've been doing with the community, when I'm ashamed in Confession, when the future looks grim and undetermined and insurmountable...in a phrase, when I feel tempted to give into fear and to worry.

It's made me question how often I let fear meddle with my decisions. It's forced me to ask, "Well, what's the worst that could happen?" and the subsequent question, "And is that really so bad?" Especially when it's at the price of integrity or being as good of a person as I imagine I am capable of being.

I'd like to say, "That's it! I'm tired of it! Never again!" but I'm human, so I know I'll succumb every now and then. But the other day, I just had a crystalline moment of what life would look like without fear or the forgone conclusions that fear can etch into my mind under the pseudonyms of "Realism" or "Practical" or "Reasonable" or "Honest" or "Ease". It's a much more open life, where love as any Christian worth their salt would want to participate in is possible. Possibilities abound.

My final decision to come to Peru really had to do with realizing that I was afraid of the prospect of everything from the language to the food to the workload being different, and saying, "I'm not going to let that be my determining factor!" When I decided to put fear in its place, many of my reasons for staying seemed weak and all of my reasons for not going melted away.

The trick for me is acknowledging when fear's playing the puppeteer in my mind, because once I see it for what it is, once I name the infernal thing, I have an internal "Oh, no you don't" moment.

Is this my Lenten practice? In part, perhaps, but not officially. It certainly has been on my mind, though, as you can tell. How often do we take the time to let us see what factors are really behind our decisions? But imagine life without fear behind the wheel. It's a much brighter world.

January's End

2010-01-31T13:54:00.002-05:00

We're now a little over the 1/3 mark of our stay in Peru. I'll not evaluate my 1/3 of the year here (though this reminds me that I need to evaluate both the CapCorps retreat and the experience thus far for my lovely organization), but I do feel the need to put out a few thoughts.

We're planning on revamping the way we work here, so that we'll be able to be fully engaged, but also have more than just the one day every other week off. It's nice to be able to re-evaluate, and I'm looking forward to the future year with a different context. That'll be nice.

There will be a Norwegian guy coming here in the middle of February and staying until Mayish, I think. I believe that he'll be moving into my room, which will be cool. Though very, very crowded: my bedroom is the smallest of the 3 apartments here, and definitely the least outfitted for having 2 people using it simultaneously. Maybe I'll move into the small nook in the library: That way, he can have the mattress that has more firmness than a marshmallow, I can continue to sleep on the floor (don't ask), and we'll both have room to put our clothing. Yeah, sounds good to me. We'll see how this all goes.

Being a theology nerd, I'm thinking about Lent. They don't call it Lent here (big surprise, seeing as that's an Anglo-Saxon word and all): they call it Cuaresma (40 days, roughly, from Italian). It's fitting that they don't call it Lent, because Lent means "spring," and from the natural perspective, we are definitely approaching the beginning of fall and entering into winter as this liturgical season approaches here in the southern hemisphere. It's so weird, because the nature worked so well for my spiritual life during liturgical seasons in the states. Cold just seems so perfect for imagining Advent and Christmastime, i.e., the Light coming into the world that lay "in sin and error pining", and I love how Lent begins in winter, when everything's been stripped of its ornamentation, and the idea that we're like the trees budding as we progress in our practices of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving in preparation for the great mystery of faith that is "Dying you destroyed our death, rising you restored our life; Lord Jesus, come in glory," and what it meant to be a part of that. I love that while Pentecost doesn't occur at the harvest time (as it originally did pre-Christianity), it occurs as everything is at the peak of flowering and about to go into bearing fruit. The naturalness in which nature provided insights into the general milieu of each liturgical season was great.
So I'm anxious and excited about the atmosphere that I'll encounter here during that time. Without such a great exemplar as nature here as a guide in the way I'm accustomed, there's a world of opportunity for new ways of looking at things, having internal motivations, etc. Though of course I still miss that unto which I'm accustomed.

On sunny days when my family and/or friends would go on hikes up in the mountains, the air was so clean, the sunlight so brilliant (yet without humidity), and there was a smell of sweetness...the sweetness almost like ripe blackberries that had gotten enough sun, but I swear it was coming from the trees, nature's assurance that yes, today IS a perfect day. I love that smell.

I saw the Nutcracker back in December. It certainly was no performance like I saw back in the States way-back-when, but the kids had an earnestness, and such care was put into the choreography, and I could feel the family and friends in the audience and their joy and pride in their friends; and family members' performance, it was lovely. The music wasn't live, but the venue was too small for that, anyway. Even so, hearing that music was like meeting with an old friend. Seriously. I've been seeking out classical/romantic/orchestral music ever since.

Well, until our next meeting, January, and the embarking of a whole new adventure as this one ends. After many joys, new experiences, old struggles, homesickness, newfound friends, frustrations, and insanity, and after 12 months, we'll chat again. Until that time, be well.

Things To Do When I Should Be Going To Bed

2010-01-27T22:44:00.002-05:00

1) Blog About Colca Canyon.

It's like the second biggest canyon in the world, twice as big as Grand Canyon, there are condors there, and we went to the bottom and climbed back up (though not at the really steep parts). It's gorgeous and there are photos on Facebook but I don't have the photographic knowhow to capture the beauty of what I'm seeing: the camera doesn't catch what my eyes do. Whether it was the shade of blue of the sky, the features of the rock, the cotton-ball clouds, or the oasis below, I couldn't capture good photos at all.

That being said, here's what happened. We got up at like 1:30 AM to catch a bus that'd take us to Colca by around 7:00ish. The ride there was uneventful, though the chairs were very uncomfortable. I hate uncomfortable chairs. We got to Mirador de los Cóndores, which is where condors circle around to gain altitude before heading down into the valley to find meat.

2) Have a tangential reflection on condors.

Look up "El Condor Pasa" on Youtube. Make sure it's not Simon and Garfunkel or that version, because that has nothing to do with Condors and takes away (for me) from some of the majesty of the song. When imagining that 10-foot wingspan, catching thermals and soaring above Andean greenery, the panpipes and flutes really make for an awe-inspiring effect, and the condor has some elegance. Then I remember that they eat dead things and their nobility diminishes. I'm sorry, I have prejudices against scavenging birds: they just don't have the majesty.

3) Resume discussion of Colca

We had breakfast at this viewpoint. Unfortunately, we saw no condors, being out of season and all (I guess they just don't like to eat during some seasons? I didn't really ask, but it's funny to imagine that condors just don't eat for the rainy season. Perhaps that's why they're so rare). We then moved on to the beginning of our 2-day trek. The beginning was a fairly painless downhill venture, but possibly a knee-killer for those not prepared. Lots of loose rock, too, so it wasn't just a "Let's run to the bottom!" excursion. Our team: Me, Alyssa, Tania (CapCorps folks), Kelly and Jessika (from California), and Paul (token Welshman), with Marcos, born in Colca, as our guide. It was a nice blend of people, and when we stopped for small breathers it was cool to get to know them. Because I'm me, and sometimes not all that distinguishable from a dog that continually runs ahead, pauses for everybody to catch up, then runs ahead again, I didn't do much conversation otherwise. I was okay with that, but I did love hearing Paul's story. He dropped out of high school, became a janitor, but was given a chance to get back into school and become a teacher in Cambodia through an organization with the help of a good-hearted person who saw potential in him and gave him a chance. He now works in Colombia as a teacher. Cracked us up for a good portion of the second part of the day.

So we reached the bottom of the canyon and crossed over to the other side of the river that runs through it, where we encountered slightly more difficult terrain (read: uphill). We were carrying our backpacks, and after a nice lunch in a small village about 10 minutes away from the river, we began phase 2, though I was now carrying 2 backpacks. I was later affectionately nicknamed the pack mule.

4) Tangent about getting anywhere in South America
I warn you that this may be a gross and unfair generalization. It seems to me that a communal societal mindframe is at the heart of South America, and as such there's an importance in keeping balance and harmony and tranquility. As such, people are willing to give directions even if they don't know where a location is, will try to encourage you and boost your spirits by telling you that your destination isn't far off even if you need to walk 20 more miles, and other such things. I can appreciate the kindness that is at the heart of these gestures, but as somebody hailing from a more individualistic culture that cares about a different kind of harmony, these are somewhat off-putting. With that in mind:

5) Phase 2 of Day 1

Paul wasn't too thrilled about the amount of uphill terrain we were encountering during Phase 2. He asked Marcos how much of the rest of the hike consisted of uphill, to which Marcos replied that we'd go for another 10-15 minutes and then be done with hills. Sure enough, 15 minutes later, we were on flat land and trekking on fairly even terrain. Marcos pointed out a sour fruit that is used in the cocktail "Colca Sour" (a variation of Pisco Sour, which is lime juice, egg white, ice, and pisco) and a plant whose leaves are very acidic and whose sap is strong enough to kill a pig in less than a day with a few drops. He said it'd be an interesting alternative to asking for a divorce from one's spouse. In honor of that, and the fact that none of us spoke Quechua and its name was in said language, we were on the lookout and avoiding "The Divorce Plant" for the rest of the first day.

About half an hour later we started climbing uphill again, which prompted some frustrated comments from Paul. Marcos said, "Yeah, we finished THAT uphill section in 15 minutes. Now we're on another one." This did little to assuage said frustration. As we finished climbing uphill, it began to rain (we were surprised it hadn't started earlier, although grateful) and we donned our ponchos. Wearing 2 backpacks under my poncho caused several people to ask when I was due. Despite lame pregnancy jokes, we arrived at our destination shortly thereafter.

6) The Oasis

The Oasis is a nice little place with zero cell phone reception, little lighting, lots of green, a nice pool, bungalows, a mess hall, a volleyball field, bathrooms, and not-so-nice biting insects. We got there, used the facilities, bought some water for the night and the following day, and relaxed. There was a raucous group of fellow expatriates who were doing a 3-day-trek: they were all very friendly, and the blend of accents was pretty cool. We broke up into our trek groups for dinner, which was a nice spaghetti. We discussed how smoking was a bad idea on this trip, the excellence of Peruvian desserts (though the lack of real cheesecake, the substitution of real cheesecake for a gelatin-mousse-THING, and a severe privation of pies are disturbing), Paul's love of Peruvian cake, the possibility of hiring a mule for the following day, and other things. Afterward, we chilled a bit and headed to bed. The sky was AMAZING. There was so little natural light, and though the cliffs and some cloud obscured a bit of the starry splendor, the effect was not lost on me. So many stars in such a different array than I'd ever seen (we don't see stars in Lima, generally, and so this was my first view of the Southern Sky)...you know, I can understand where a lot of MesoAmerican and South American Indigenous artwork comes from, how they depict their gods, etc...I could almost see it all painted in the sky. How truly awesome. I then went to sleep in my slightly soggy bungalow with bedbugs for company and a rock-hard pillow, but it beat sleeping outside with no sleeping bag and minimal dry clothes.

7) Day 2

Day 2 was a 3-hour trek, but this trek was entirely uphill. The monster that we had descended became the monster we had to ascend. The plan was for people who wanted to walk leisurely to leave at 4:30 and for people who walked more quickly to depart at 5. Those riding on mules (Paul decided to do this so he could say that he'd ridden a mule in the Andes) could sleep in a little bit, because mules are beasts (I'm a bad writer). Our guide, however, had a bit of a beer-induced oversleeping problem, so we all started at about 5:45 with the other groups. I was carrying 2 backpacks again. I stayed with Marcos for a while, but got antsy, so I moved ahead.

Kyle Bakas has said that when he encounters hills during his runs, he gets a very joyful feeling and feels compelled to zip up them. I still consider this grounds for having his head examined, but I suppose I gained some understanding of what he means through this trek. I wanted to CLIMB, I did not want to slow down, I did not want to take breaks, and I lived for the climb.

8) Warning
If anybody is even THINKING about Miley Cyrus right now, I will frown upon you singing "The Climb" and connecting it in any way, shape, or form with me.

9) Day 2 continued

So there was a guy from Scotland, a guy from Australia, a guy from Ireland, and a guy from London, and they practically took off running. They reached the top in 90 minutes. I continued climbing upward, feeling a competitive part of me refusing to let anybody I passed while climbing catch up with me. As a result, I reached the summit in just under 2 hours. I've been told the locals can do this climb in 45 minutes. We hadn't yet eaten breakfast, as 3 hours of solid uphill exercise doesn't bode well for a full stomach, but I was hungry. The Australian joked that I was a beast for carrying two backpacks and my beard up the canyon.

We had breakfast, made our way to Chivay, enjoyed the natural thermal baths there, and had some lunch. We then headed back to Arequipa. As we drove through the canyon, I noticed something black in the opposite window. Sure enough, upon closer inspection, I realized I was in fact seeing a condor. This first sighting was followed by two more, so the experience was very complete. The road we had to take to get back to Arequipa, however, was NOT complete, making for a very bumpy and slow ride in uncomfortable chairs. I HATE uncomfortable chairs.

Upon our return, we had some dinner and cleaned up, then headed to the central plaza to meet up with Kelly, Jessika, and some of the folks from the raucous gang. We had a good time watching them eat Cuy for the first time (and probably the last. Note that cuy is guinea pig), not to mention watch Ben, the American in their group, waltz by himself to the garbage truck's tune as it passed by, as mentioned in the previous post on Arequipa. We then went to check out the bar scene. The first bar had some decent deals, so we stayed for a while, and listened to Robbie (from London) name 49 of the 50 states. We then all admitted that none of us knew how many counties were in England, not even Robbie. People then moved to another bar, and that's where I began to realize that I really don't like bar/club scenes much. As such, I left early.

Before going to the second bar, Ryan told me that he wanted to rub his face in my beard. While I was already thinking that I needed to do some trimming for hygiene's sake, this was definitely the clincher. I think beards are cool, but sometimes I get scared when I see that more men are attracted to men with beards than women. Regardless of which gender is more attracted to me, I'd hate to think that they were using me just to cuddle with my facial hair.

10) Becoming self-aware

Sometimes I say really weird things.

11) Random memory

My junior year of high school in Spanish IV was an interesting one. There was this guy Slade Norris who now plays on the Oakland Raiders in my class. One day, out of the blue, he came over and started stroking my chin. I'm not sure what prompted this. The next day, he did the same thing. Sometimes it would happen in class, sometimes not, but he made it a ritual. It's just strange to think that I'll remember somebody as the professional football player who used to stroke my chin during the 2003/2004 school year.

12) In conclusion

I'm very tired, and have sacrificed sleep to make this post, so I apologize for adverse effects that has made on this post. But then again, my posts are all weird, so I'm not sure that I can blame any of it on sleep deprivation. I'm (kind of but not really) sorry for my personality, in that case.

What? Another One?

2010-01-17T20:01:00.002-05:00

Contrary to what I had said in the end of my last post, this will contain neither Colca descriptions nor photographs. This will touch on my retreat, and as the retreat mostly has to do with my mental goings-on, I'm not sure there will be another full post about it. Colca definitely needs its own, though, I think.

While I was on retreat with Brother Larry, Tania, and Alyssa, I had ample time to think. The tranquility that Pueblo Libre, a small village in the province of Ancash (just north of Lima) afforded us was truly premium stuff. Maybe 12 cars passed through the village a day, so we rarely heard car noise, never heard city noise, and the constant loudspeaker of fruit venders did not sound once. I've heard fruit venders shouting about Platanos (bananas and plantains) with their megaphones to make me want to give them a very concrete suggestion as to where they ought to put their platanos.

So there weren't noises to distract nor megaphones to test my fragile charity. Additionally, the scenery is unreal. Just google Caraz if you want a small taste of what I mean. The snow-topped mountains almost looked fake because the snow was just so perfectly shimmering in the sunlight. When there weren't clouds, the sky was a brilliant shade of blue that's deeper than you can get in a more connected setting: there's too much smog and the elevation isn't high enough. Here, the air is crystal clear, the humidity does not irritate, and the sky gets to such a deep cerulean hue that you may think you're approaching the outer layers of the atmosphere. The flowers are lovely, the smell is refreshing, the people are beyond incredible, and while we had our doubts about the house when we first arrived, we concluded that Hermano Hugo knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what he was doing when he recommended that we went there.

So what did I do with this time? I reflected on the questions posed, obviously, but I also had ample time to go on my own reflective adventures.

The craziest one: contemplating silence. What is silence? Is it the absence of noise? We use it that way, but what other connotation is there? One definition involves stillness. When I think of stillness, I don't think of just things being immobile or in suspended animation or paused. There is a peace and a tranquility that I associate with the word that I lose when I make it synonymous with "muteness."

As I wondered about this, I realized what a lack of silence there is in my life. I fill it with music, I fill it with thought, I fll it with conversations and seeking others, and none of these things are bad in and of themselves, but one can add too much to the pot. I used to get mad when priests would talk about Ipods and cell phones and email and facebook and goodness knows what other newfangled things young people (22 and already feeling old) use. There was a part of me that thought, "Gosh, stop harping on it!" I don't think that the priests actually talked about them all that much, but the fact that the theme was always the same probably irked me, because one of my flaws is that if I feel that I sufficiently know something, I don't want to be retold or treated as if I knew nothing on the subject. I'm quiet about it (usually), but I'm fairly arrogant and hate having what I think I know to be true challenged.

Anyway, silence. Really, back in the states, could I have gone a week without texting somebody? Calling people? Checking my messages? Doing compulsive email checks? I know I certainly did not immediately equate being alone as a desirable thing; perhaps others considered the situation in a similar way. Is it that I don't like to be alone? Is it that I feel like I'm somehow less of a person if I'm not intentionally doing something more active? Am I afraid of silence?

Why would I be afraid of silence? Possibly because when silence arrives, it grows. It can be peaceful, but when people go and go and go and go and suddenly come to a halt, and every excuse they have given for every little thing falls silent, when a million protests and rationalizations and qualms and explanations and justifications lose their voice, silence plays tyrant. People talk about justice being blind. I think that truth might be silent. Enough time in silence, the truth wells up and becomes indomitable, unignorable, insistent. It's amazing and humbling to all of a sudden realize, "Oh. Duh." It's painful to face a next step that involves sacrifice or putting oneself on the line or taking control of one's fears. It's disconcerting to see how every defense one might make crumbles like sand castles when the truth stares one in the face.

With silence, with ears to listen and eyes to see, a heart open to being filled, many of the modern-day complications we make for ourselves can dissolve. Of course, that requires silence. I had a taste of it. And I want more.

So my resolutions this New Year: Cultivate silence and work on praying rather than just thinking. I'd also like a 6-pack, but that falls a little bit more under the "vanity" category.

Of course, after saying I want to pray more than think, I spent a good 30 minutes today figuring out a syllogistic apology to "It is in giving that we receive" and its connection to the Communion of Saints and "Whosoever seeks to save his life shall lose it, and he who loses his life for my sake shall save it," and "I live no longer I, but Christ in me." Me? Cerebral? What?

Oh, and the apology makes no sense. Not that any of us were surprised. I think that is all that I've got. I'm going to go for a run and work on repairing the elevator that runs between my head and my heart. Pax, all.

Arequipa: Adventures in the White City

2010-01-15T15:55:00.002-05:00

Lord of the Rings fans might be slightly upset that I am not referring to Gondor when I talk about the White City, but it's what they call Arequipa: the older buildings in the center of the city are made of sillar, a volcanic rock (made possible by a generous donation from the three active volcanoes nearby), and the result is that the central plaza's buildings are pleasantly whitish, but bearing the marks of age in such a way that I genuinely felt that I was in a city that had been around for quite some time.

It's a beautiful place. There's always sun during the day, it's always a bit chilly at night, it has sunsets to rival the Bahamas, has amazing vistas, and the downtown area is completely accessible to pedestrians. We took a taxi once, not including the trips to and from the bus terminal.

But let me begin with the bus ride: it was very long.

I think that's all that needs to be said. The owner of our Hostel ("Amazing Home," and it lived up to its name), Alex, greeted us as we left the bus. He runs the Amazing Home with his family, and they couldn't be more helpful, kind, nor hospitable. They made us breakfast in the morning, Alex helped us plan a bus tour and a trekking adventure in Colca Canyon, and they all have amazing smiles. If you ever go to Peru, go to Arequipa. And go to this hostel.

I got my fair share of sun on this trip, especially when we were on the open level of a double-decker tour bus. Yes, I did a touristy thing. Let's not dwell on it. Nor on the ridiculous visor they gave us. Especially not on how burned my nose got because I, in a rush, didn't put sunscreen on. That day, I literally saw the undersides of my arms change color: from a white color that would make nobility of the 16th century jealous, I saw little red specks appear. It was amazing to actually see my Northern European heritage in action.

On our third and fourth days, we went to Colca Canyon, which will be getting its own post.

We went to the museum where they keep Juanita, the mummified indigenous child sacrificed atop a mountain to please the gods. She's famous because of how well the ice of the mountain preserved her. I went away with a couple of observations: 1) That girl is TINY. I know that she was young, and that I am taller than many, many people in Peru, but goodness gracious. 2) I want the lung capacity and cardiovascular system of the Inca. They climbed that mountain without rock-climbing shoes, with minimum rope, without mules or llamas, and probably managed to maintain their religious procession the entire time. And it is a STEEP mountain.

I have a habit of emulating accents. In Peru, this is nice, because I quickly shifted from sounding like I had a Brazilian accent to having a Peruvian accent very quickly. In fact, I might have overdone it and emulated the way my kids talk too closely, which would make me sound like a mumbling adolescent Peruvian, which I'm not too keen to have, but whatever. So yeah, great when speaking other languages. Not so great when meeting other expatriates. When I talked with the Australians, I had to fight not to go Australian. When I talked with the English guy, I'll be darned if I didn't notice myself beginning to imitate him. Not much happened with the Scottish guy, because my instincts told me that I just couldn't imitate his accent without sounding like Willy the Scottish Janitor from the Simpsons, and if I were a native Scot, I'd be none to thrilled to hear that as feedback to my thoughts. I blame this habit of mine on my mother (love you, Mom) after hearing that when she and my dad picked up a hitchhiker from Dublin, Mom was droppin' her g's an' givin' a lilt to her words. So yeah, on Wednesday night when we met up with some folks we had met on our excursion to Colca, I had some issues.

All in all, the best thing about Arequipa was the fact that it was vacation. I needed some time to breathe and be in a new atmosphere.

Oh! Arequipa has great food. Rocoto Relleno is lovely, Ocopa is delightful, and they're a good shrimp/crawdad city.

As an afterthought, my only real complaint would probably be that the trash collectors have an obnoxiously loud noise to alert people that they're coming so that people can drop what they're doing, grab their bags, and toss them in the truck. The form the alert took? The beginning of "Fur Elise" by Beethoven. However, our friend Ben made up for that by waltzing with himself on the balcony of a restaurant for our restaurant and all of those restaurants sharing said balcony (and possibly passerby in the Central Plaza below) to see.

That's all I've got at the moment. Next post: Colca and/or Photos. And maybe emo musings if I can't muster enough interesting information and/or photos.

After Some Christmas and New Year....

2010-01-07T20:54:00.002-05:00

I would say that it is high time for an update. Please note that most formality in this blog, aside that which I can blame on tiredness, comes from the fact that the keyboard is not wanting to let me use apostrophes. I know how to use them on these Spanish computers. The simple fact is that through some electrical fault and stubbornness, I have been denied the use of a very useful piece of punctuation for expressing possession and for contractions. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Where to begin? I suppose that Christmas is as good a place as any. I expect that after my retreat that begins on Sunday, I will have other updates as well, as a sufficient number of substantial events have transpired to merit at least a few of them having their proper and individual posts. In any case...

The month of December, as I believe I have mentioned in a previous post, lacked the regular contitution and schedule unto which I had grown accustomed in the past few months. I lacked chickens to herd in the daytime, tasks were ever more strange, and the experience served as a wonderful means to disorient me entirely. That being said, the anticipation for Christmas was palpable at the Ciudad de los Niños, and the season was thusly transformed into a delightful form of chaotic preparation. Each house made its own Nativity scene, because that is a big thing down here. I was amazed to see the meticulousness, the grandiosity, and the sheer interest put into each one. Well done, Ciudad. I also began learning Christmas songs to play at Mass with Hno. Polo and the choir.
While I greatly admire him on many points, patience is something he lacks. We have very little time to learn songs, especially songs that are complicated, and while the kids just need to get some guts and sing into the microphone, sometimes his frustration at them irks me. I hope that the boys get some actual voice training, because presently one cannot hear a single word that they sing. Should Hno. Polo fail to sing, no one will sing, because nobody will hear a leading voice. I have some sympathy for the next frustration: I know how to play any number of songs, but having to explain which chords to play when can sometimes be a daunting task. Hno. Polo, in rush for time, sometimes failed to notify me of some (or any) of the chords to certain songs. I know 6 chords on the guitar, so I was able to read his hands and thusly play the correct progressions for many songs, but if he played something outside of those 6, I was in trouble.
All things considered, music was fun. I must say, though, that liturgical musicianship is a huge challenge for me. The temptation always arises to treat the music as performance. In a sense it is, clearly, but I always focus so narrowly on that one aspect of liturgical music that I fail to recognize the prayerfulness that should accompany well-executed hymns. When I fail to let prayer into my music, i.e., into my mode of functioning or a Mass or Rite or anything, the privation of prayer in the totality of my time spent in the church building is incredibly noticeable. I did not have as much of a challenge this Christmas, not having people to joke with and less of a perfectionist attitude.

After Mass, we had dinner. After dinner, we waited. At 11:59 PM, we had a countdown. At midnight, December 25th, the kids opened presents. I cannot tell you how much excitement, joy, happiness, and goodwill was in that room full of boys aged 3 through 18. After they all had opened their presents, people commenced to hug. If I had complained about a lack of hugs in my life for the past 4 or 5 months, this one night was recompense. Everybody hugged a little more tightly, a little more lovingly, with a little more feeling. Small children with whom I had never interacted asked for hugs and high fives. The heads of houses were, if possible, more giddy than the children. There was enough earnest and sheer joy within the confines of the Ciudad to bring any person to a beaming smile.

I will not expand on this thought too much, but I enjoyed being posed with the question: What are you giving Jesus for His birthday? I also like thinking about the 3 Kings and all the metaphorical and literal subtleties that their gifts entail about His nature and our own.

The kids left the Ciudad for vacations Christmas Day. It was a day of melancholy and awesomeness. On the one hand, a sort of freedom to relax without the slightest feeling of guilt was opening its arms to collect me into a month-long embrace, but on the other, an unfilled schedule was skulking on the horizon. Also, though I would think it goes without saying, I was saying goodbye to some boys whom, for better or for worse, I have come to appreciate and (dare I say it?) love.

After that, we commenced to...do almost nothing. The first week of vacation was an unplugging of sorts. However, that did not last long. The evening of January 1st we jumped on a travel bus and headed for Arequipa, a city in the Province of the same name, where it is brilliantly sunny in the day and chilly at night, where the clouds are a minor part of the day, not the main presence, where the elevation is high, snow-capped moutains have taken up residence, there are less than 8 million people, and the vegetation is not all brown. I am currently writing this blog entry from said city. As such, I will give you the layout of how I imagine the next few blog entries will take shape: I imagine that I will discuss Arequipa in depth, although our largest adventure, trekking the Colca Canyon, will need its own, claiming the second future blog post, and I am sure I will find the need to post some small musings about Caraz, site of our CapCorps retreat that will be starting oh-so-soon.

As such, I have nothing more substantial for now. Bear with me and in a week or two I will hopefully have something more to say than a mere outline of what has happened.

Going Crazy!

2009-12-13T06:47:00.004-05:00

This title does not refer to my sanity: this refers to the state of things as the school year draws to a close here at the Ciudad. As a note, this is being written over several days whenever I have free time, so bear with the choppiness.

(Written on Sunday) We have just come back from Lima Centro after a late morning/early afternoon of exploration. Shelly, our boss, is in town to see what we do and what Lima's like, so we took the chance to be touristy. We went back to San Francisco, which has the catacombs for all of Lima underneath and has a really cool convent and tour. We decided to go in Spanish this time, as when we were first here we went in English. I was surprised that I was able to understand the majority of what he said...without incredible focus. Mighta had something to do with having an idea of what was going to be discussed, but I still was happy. I also really enjoyed getting all of the tour guide's knowledge this time around; the language barrier made the tour last time a lot shorter. There was a lady with our group who was kind of rude and interrupting and probably had a personality disorder, but as the tour guide was explaining the missionaries' assimilation of Incan culture into Catholicism, how the Virgin Mary took the place of the Earth Mother and another god and how the Body of Christ took the place of the Sun, the lady interjected: "Y el Papa en vez de la papa?" or "And the pope in place of potatoes?" I interiorly thought it was a great pun...which I hardly ever laugh at, but will appreciate and find clever. The tour guide was less thrilled.

On the evening of the 12th, 3 brothers got ordained as deacons. It was absolutely AWESOME. So many people were at the church in Chama, the choir was terrific, the Bishop was really cool, and there was a feeling of community like none other! I can't get over how good it felt to be there. What was even cooler was being able to recognize people in the congregation and at the party afterward. I was amazed: people from the Ciudad, a huge number of people who had gone to FestiAsis in Huánuco, some of the leaders from our staff retreat, friars from all over...Seriously, it was awesome.

I can't get over how beautiful people here, either. The women who work here at the Ciudad just overwhelm me sometimes. And I don't just mean those crushes that I talked about several posts back: there is just something that shines through their hellos, their laughter, their moments of anger, and just the way they carry themselves that doesn't quite make my heart flutter in that crush sort of way, but it does make me just think, "Wow, how beautiful, how warm, how kind!" You met people like that? For whatever flaws they may have, whatever guards they might put up, there isn't a bit of guile in them. What you see is them, and you can FEEL it, and it's like hot apple cider on a cold autumn night: it warms you, but in a rich way that goes down to your toes.

(Written on the 16th) The guys overwhelm me, too, because they're just so funny, so knowledgeable, and the earnestness is just...winning. What is the most amazing, though, is the fact that not owing to any virtue or quality of my own other than existing and being here, I'm welcomed, loved, invited, appreciated. It leaves me questioning, "How can this be?" though I already know the answer. In fact, it's more the answer that's awe-inspiring, almost unbelievable: "It's how we do." It's powerful enough, striking enough, that there's almost the temptation to ask the question again in incredulity. The trick for me is swallowing my pride, my arrogance, my assumption that I've got the most important and best interpretation of the world and how it works, and welcome something new.

The school year is over. The kids are recuperating. All of a sudden, there's something I hadn't seen in them. Maybe it's because the end is in sight. But then again, there's the question, "What have I done to merit them missing me? What have I done that could possibly have an impact?" In those moments, I just have to trust that I'll never know the effect of what I do. I'm sad to think that most of the kids I've hung out with these past 4 months will be in a different pabellón next year. I'm glad that they aren't buying so much into macho culture to say things like, "I'll miss you," or show affection, though it's not through hugs or explicitly saying it, like younger kids might do.

It's not snowing, it's not cold, and family's far away, but...it's still managing to feel like Advent.

Half a Month Later

2009-11-30T20:32:00.002-05:00

November has been pretty action-packed, I must say. I will go ahead and say it's for that reason that I haven't updated, but that would be ignoring my laziness, which is such a key factor.

I've been working on getting into a regular exercise routine, which is a huge source of comfort. I had forgotten how much I need to be active to feel my best, and how I need to give it some variety so it's not just another monotonous thing that makes me tired. That was probably why I got so irritated with my swimming routine in college: it was always the same and I never pushed myself. Then again, when I was sick for several days the one time I pushed myself wayyy too hard and was unhappy for the many-hour flight to Berlin and the first 1 1/2 days I was in the city, I figure that I probably instinctively decided against going crazy in the swimming pool. Regardless, exercising is nice.

Two weeks ago, I had the chance to go to Eduardo Talancha's house in the north of Lima. Eduardo works in San Felix, the oldest group of kids, and is an alumnus of Ciudad. I had mentioned last month that I was having trouble with empathy because I had had the world handed to me on a silver platter, and he then said, "Well, I could show you what a lot of kids are coming from. Come look at my house and my neighborhood." Amazing gesture, no? So we went to his house, and it was very small. I wasn't incredibly surprised at the living situation of not having individual rooms for cooking, doing laundry, and getting dressed; I feel like I'd be really dumb if I hadn't picked up on that being the norm from my other experiences in mission work and service. No, I'm not really dumb; I'm really arrogant (though they are invariably connected). While I haven't gotten a doctorate and am very quick to forget stuff that I don't use with frequency (i.e., school skills) and haven't traveled extensively or for long periods of time, I have a college education, a good high school education, very well-learned parents, and have traveled more than many people. The funny thing is, those experiences are supposed to open people up to other cultures, ways of life, struggles in others' lives, and the world in general. I'm now struggling with opening myself to that, because my life has been privilege, opportunity, and abundance of material and spiritual blessings. Here, there are kids who've never been outside of their native neighborhoods, save for going to Ciudad de los Niños. Here there are people who have never had the experience of seeing a North American person, a European, or somebody generally outside of their own heritage. Here there are boys in abundance whose only memory of a father figure is the turned back of a man who walked out on his wife and children when the boys were only 3. Do people have to go to a foreign country to experience interactions with people of this background? Most definitely not. It just so happens that I'm experiencing this in a personal way now that I'm here in Lima. I'm growing up (or at least being given the opportunity to do so) right alongside these kids. Never really thought of myself as having a narrow mindset, but then again, I'd never had to work with adolescents from tough backgrounds, either.

So it's been beautiful, trying, aggravating, and educational. Like it has been every time I've posted. Are you getting bored yet?

In other news, Thanksgiving was this past Thursday, and we decided to have the Capuchin brothers over for a Thanksgiving dinner, of sorts. We found a turkey to cook, weighing a whopping 20 pounds. We cooked it in the bakery's oven, as we lack our own. Its name was Jeffrey, because that was the name of the turkey that Joan, Leah, Sarah, Chelsea, and Sr. Bon Secour (I really hope I spelled that right) cooked for Junior year when they had 50 million people in their apartment and probably violated fire code. I really don't care about fire code, I just remember it being awesome. Jeffrey just seems like a great turkey name, so mixing in gratitude for college friends, which inspired gratitude for friends and family from home and friends from LeaderworX, the great turkey name was icing on the cake. Not that we had real cake...we had a pie that we (meaning Alyssa and Tania, I was busy in the morning and then did salad cutting and a few other not so amazing things because I am lame) made from a kind of squash that resembles pumpkin. It was fantastic, actually, though very rich. But getting back to Jeffrey: one of my jobs was washing him. I thusly took him to the cafeteria kitchen, more equipped to handle a 20-pound turkey than our showers or bathroom sinks, and started washing away ice and body fluid. I then reached into the first cavity to find a bag containing Jeffrey's heart, liver, and stomach. Renee, the head lady (I think) of the kitchen, kindly cut off the parts of heart and liver and stomach that we shouldn't eat. I also pulled out the legs (I guess the feet more than the legs: the scaly part). Renee kindly cut off Jeffrey's toes, though in my head I thought it would probably not make much of a difference, as the three of us collectively abhor poultry feet as food. I then reached into the other cavity to find...Jeffrey's head and neck. Renee severed the head from the neck, instructing me not to eat the head. I told her I had no intention of doing so, thanked her profusely, and went to share my findings with Alyssa and Tania, who were just about as thrilled with the head and feet as I was. We proceeded to slather Jeffrey with olive oil and salt, toss some butter into one of his body cavities, and send him to be baked. He was delicious.

The brothers who came (Hno. Walter was busy) were a delight to have. Hno. Hugo, our local coordinator, is knowledgeable, mellow, fun, and his Spanish is a bit easier to understand. Hno. Sergio works with San Francisco, the second-oldest pabellón in Ciudad. He's a fairly quiet individual with a kind smile, but a beast of a soccer player and no-nonsense when it comes to getting stuff done. Hno. David is in San Felix, the oldest group of boys, has a great sense of humor, and is also very laid-back. He's got an impressive English vocabulary and just needs practice to be semi-proficient. Hno. Polo was there, and was definitely the comedian of the night. I love seeing him away from the kids, because he's a lot less...stressed, I guess. It was a great night.

The following day, I went to Huánuco, a province (and city) to the north of Lima. They were hosting the second annual FestiAsis, which is a gathering of various Capuchin parishes and projects in this particular province to share their ministry, hang out, and have a songwriting competition. Hno. Polo had written a song, gotten four kids together to sing it, and asked me to accompany on piano/keyboard. Thus we went to Huánuco, 8 hours away by bus, hidden away in the mountains, near the jungle, and as green as Lima is brown. The drive there was breathtaking, because I got to see jungle, I got to see mountain, and I got to see desert. I also did NOT get elevation sickness, although one of our kids did. I considered this a personal victory. I now have gastroenteritis, so I guess that Joey (the sick kid) won in the end. Huánuco is up in the mountains, for sure, and the mountains are much greener than the mountains of Lima. Thank goodness. Oh, there is actual rain there, too. In fact, the one thing that Lima has over Huánuco (well, two things) are: The coast and lack of small flies that bite and sting like crazy. Huánuco lacks the former and has the latter in abundance. As we were exploring a temple on Sunday, a giant black winged insect flew near me. Nobody else seemed to think much of it, but in my mind I was thinking, "The insect is the size of my index finger and has something looking suspiciously like a stinger. How are you all not even slightly alarmed at this?"

Huánuco was a great experience, to be sure, but also very trying. The friars who went all stayed at the convent, but due to a lack of space and resources at the convent, the rest of us stayed in hostels in the area. This meant that I was, for the majority of the trip and for all intents and purposes, the voice of authority with my kids. I would not have minded so much if A) I had been told beforehand that this would be the case, B) I had even the slightest semblance of an idea of what was going on, and C) If I could have some authority that wasn't derived from the fact that I'm at least a head taller than 3 of the 4 boys, much stronger than any of them, very hairy, and distressing when angry. However, none of these three criteria were filled, so I felt like I was vested with a whole ton of responsibility without any real idea of how to be responsible, especially when chaperoning in Perú is slightly different than chaperoning in the US. I was looking forward to a fairly stress-free weekend, but when that failed, I decided it was my baptism into the new liturgical year and offered it up as Advent sacrifice. That didn't make me much more cheerful to be around, as I am still learning how to be joyful when all I really want to do is scream, but it helped a bit. We were mainly with other groups of people, so that helped out a lot, too. A group of people from the local parish provided for our meals spectacularly. There were 17 groups there with songs to perform, so our kids were very nervous. I can't blame em, but they kind of refused to listen to any advice I gave them (I think this is payback for all the times I shot down the advice of my parents or other people by insisting that they wouldn't give that advice if they only knew the situation like I did). I think what made me most frustrated was the fact that my kids looked to me as the guy who knew what was going on, and were surprised every single time I told them (it was frequently) that they probably knew more about our plan of attack than I did.

Sunday was a tourist day, so that was fun, and Hno. Polo was there, so I didn't have as much responsibility. I was very happy about this, especially because this weekend was the last "Salida" of the year at Ciudad, meaning that majority of the kids go home or to friends' houses for 24 hours or so, and that we volunteers get to sleep in, go about our personal business, and breathe a little bit. The tourist part of the trip was like my opportunity to partake in Salida time that I otherwise couldn't have had that weekend.

One of the 15-year-old girls from a group near Ciudad was very giggly and probably had a crush on me (or was very amused by the fact that I looked like some artists' interpretations of Jesus). My boys translated this into MY having a crush on HER, which should make anybody who has gone through the Sex Offender training (shout-out to LeaderworX people who've gone through VIRTUS) feel very, very uncomfortable. It sure made me uncomfortable. I staved this off last night by saying that if they all must know, if my eye fixed on one girl throughout the weekend, it was the chaperone of said 15-year-old's group, which immediately led to questions about her phone number, house, the possibility of my bringing her to America, etc. (the last one is not hyperbole, they ask that about any Peruvian girl I admit as being attractive). I just have to laugh, because there isn't any way to explain to them that I'm content just reflecting, "Wow, that girl is truly beautiful," without having much interest in romantic pursuits. They are unable to grasp this concept. I decided to explain to José in seriousness how I just wasn't wanting to use this time of self-discovery and learning to date, especially because of the complications of only being here for 18 months without much intention of being here for a longer, more permanent basis. Explaining that I still had some hiccups in my faith life from a previous romantic endeavor that I'd avoided dealing with until now also didn't do much good. Mentioning discernment didn't aid my cause, either. He responded to all of this by saying, "But Brother, si en 5 años se diera cuenta de que Pamela es su amor verdadera..." ("But brother, if in 5 years you realize that Pamela is your true love...") I responded, "I supposed I'll just have to come back to Lima, then, huh?" Because there really wasn't much else to say. It's gotten less bothersome, but so awkward at times when they ask me my opinion about which high school girl is hotter...because at this point, my tastes have changed just a little bit.

Also awkward: sexual questions. I wish that they'd just use the real words for things instead of jargon or very, very crude gestures. I had forgotten what it was like to be so absolutely hormone-driven that the idea of losing virginity was the pinnacle of existence. Oh...wait...I was a high school kid who felt natural desires, but who looked with supreme disdain (judgmental bugger that I was) on those whose idea of a great conversation was an in-depth discussion about how much more well-endowed one celebrity was than another. This juxtaposition led to several self issues, explaining my slightly more emo phase, but I really strove not to talk about girls that way or make sexual gratification my point of being. If I can't explain not wanting to date right at this moment to them, I don't know how I'll ever explain why I'm grateful for retaining my virginity or why I hold certain conversational topics and gestures in very bad taste. Maybe it's another cultural thing, because I do verge a little bit more on the prudish side, but this will open up to another topic:

Cultural differences. I know that I'm biased just on the basis of coming from my own culture, but I really do think that cultures have some things to give each other. If the US is too much one way, another culture isn't enough. If the US isn't enough, the other might be too much. I don't think it's as easy as, "We have our way, you have yours," with every single issue. I'd like to see some attempt at dialogue and at the very least looking at how different things really are rather that just writing things off as, "Another culture," and therefore exempt from all comparative analysis. That doesn't mean "WE SHOULD JUDGE."

Final tangent of this long, long post: I'm ready. I'm not sure how to word it, and I don't want to word all of it, particularly, but I feel that I need to at least say what I just did: I'm ready.

New Happenings

2009-11-17T09:21:00.004-05:00

Well, the intestinal thing is gone, which is all kinds of excellent. Left my appetite a little bit askew, so I'm glad for the coca tea that they sell in stores: coca leaves act as hunger suppressants. All kinds of good stuff.

I will say this about the intestinal thing, though...it made me a little bit more aware of what I do like to eat and don't like to eat. College kind of made me numb and omnivorous, especially that first year, and so to have a little bit more opinion in what I do and don't like to eat is like reclaiming a small bit of myself. It's difficult here, because Peruvian custom is that you eat the entirety of what is on the plate set before you, and if it's full of stuff you don't like, you might be in trouble. There are some days that I just physically cannot finish what's on my plate. Thankfully, as an authority leader, I am not morally bound to finish my plate (though it's considered good manners). Usually one of the kids will want to have a go at my leftovers, and so I yield them gladly.

In terms of work I've been doing, there's been a lot of work at the granja (farm) with the chickens. Yesterday (Monday), they had 82 dead chickens, and it was my job to haul them out of their jaulas (cages, but it's cooler to say haul out of jaula) and dispose of them, i.e., throw them into the giant pit aka the Chicken Tomb. 82 is a huge number. I couldn't believe it. Vera, the guy (whose name I spelled wrong in a previous entry) in charge of the granja, couldn't believe it. There were a huge number of eggs, so that was good, but...well, my arms were tired.

Speaking of parts of my body being tired, some kind soul donated three semis' worth of onions to the Ciudad. Getting the semi to the loading dock is an adventure. Unloading the semi is something else entirely. This donation is arriving in segments, which is good. The first installation was two weeks ago, I think. We filled the entirety of the kitchen storage space with the sacks of onions, and the semi wasn't even half emptied. The rest remains outside in a giant pile. Unless we plan on replacing our three breakfast rolls (we get three rolls at breakfast, fyi) with three raw onions apiece, I don't think that we are going to finish all of the onions by ourselves. The administration is of the same opinion, so we are giving onions to families who have some affiliation with the Ciudad and bring their own sacks for carrying the onions home. In this way the first pile has diminished (though the onions for breakfast might be good for our immune systems...better than bread and oatmeal together every morning, anyway). The second pile arrived yesterday. The three older houses have been in charge of unloading the trucks, so we once again went to the front. It's amazing how many times I had to shout, "Onions are not soccer balls," which seems fairly obvious, but the same kid kept on trying to work on his moves. Each time, he managed to hit me with a bruised onion. This made me slightly unhappy. But yeah, that lifting was good for me...albeit tiring.

They've stopped making big panettone in the bakery. Now they're making personal-sized ones. You may or may not remember my last experience in the panadería wherein my work consisted in followed the head honcho around, trying things out, being told, "No, no, like this," and then being asked to do something else. This time, they asked me to shape the wads of dough before putting them in the mold. It was fun and tiring, though it took a very long time to realize what the actual goal was. I thought that it was to make all of the fruit on the inside so that it wouldn't burn, giving the dough some air, too. That's only a secondary goal. The main goal is to make a smooth "shell" out of the dough that covers the entirety of what will be the top and middle of the panettone. Now, they could have told me this, but it's far more fun to learn, right? Right! That's something that's kind of consistent here: they've not told me exactly what to do, but rather let me work my way to the top through trial and error. The efficient and perfectionist part of me hates this, but it's fun. They have fun with it, too, and it's good (in hindsight) to let me make a fool out of myself.

I've got a lot of questions and reflection stuff...I won't divulge much of it here, simply because this isn't the place for it. But in any case, I will say that the authenticity of people here is amazing and difficult. Amazing because authenticity is beautiful...it's real, it's not overbearing but it's not exactly apologetic, and you can really just see people for who they are, and it's absolutely beautiful...even when you see their faults. In fact, the faults make the whole expression even more awesome to behold. Genuineness does something for attractiveness, too...people here are just beautiful and handsome.

It's difficult because it challenges me to do the same. I like to think of myself as an authentic person, and in some ways, the fact that I act more like a 5-year-old helps with that, because a 5-year-old usually can't help but be genuine. But realizing that sometimes (frequently) I lie to myself and coming to terms with that and the reasons behind that self-deception...that takes courage.

I guess that's the overarching goal for this year and a half (transferred over to the rest of life): courage. Fortitude. Audacity. In the list of adjectives I'd give myself, "brave" isn't quite there. I'm not discouraged, though...poco a poco, ¿sí? Sí.

That's all for now.

Playing Some Catch-up

2009-11-08T14:34:00.000-05:00

Come rain or shine, sleet or snow, northern or southern hemisphere, it would seem that my semi-annual illness is non-negotiable. I am typing while in bed, recuperating from a very unpleasant stomach and fever whammie. The worst, it seems, passed about an hour ago, which is good, because it was a very turbulent time when I had to stand up and my stomach immediately informed me via violent revolt that it wholeheartedly opposed this idea.

My stomach's complaints have piped down a little, so that's good. This week has been a crazy one!

I'll start off by talking a little bit about the retreat. It was so good to be on a staff (essentially) retreat with the other people who work here in the Ciudad! There's a bit more of a substantial basis there for saying hello or starting conversation now. Also, the opportunity to talk about stuff on my level, as opposed to the level of 16-year-olds, was hard to beat.

The Capuchin brothers here are saying that I'm going to be joining the order and bringing the Capuchins back to the Pacific Northwest. I told them that anything is possible but that fewer things are probable, but don't think the thought hasn't crossed my mind. Though being in the presence of several girls my age who were exuberant and genuinely excited and very vocal about their faith (our retreat leaders) was like a scent of paradise.

This week was more difficult than many others. Lots of heavy lifting on Monday, which I liked, but left me exhausted. Tuesday I was cleaning eggs. Wednesday we TRIED to get our money converted, but that didn't work. Thursday was a bit more successful. Friday they had me spraying the hen house with disinfectant, which probably contributed to my feelings of awfulness yesterday and today.

Once again I found myself frustrated with the kids, mostly just because they can't get it into their heads that if they just work when they ought to, the rest of their time will be so much better, because I won't be on their cases, Hermano Polo will be much easier to be around, and so on and so forth. I don't know if I've gotten intolerant or have finally just gotten stubborn on insisting that they don't walk over me. One kid keeps pestering me about romantic possibilities with pretty much any female that I've ever known. This began to irritate me almost immediately only because of the persistence with which he did it. I finally just told him that I wouldn't speak to him if he talked to me about this, and we shook hands and declared peace. It was doomed to be a temporary peace, however, as the memories of some of these kids are about as high-quality as the bootlegged movies they watch every other weekend (i.e., not high-quality). I have to remind him of it every time we approaches me, because if I don't, he will start the conversation in a loud voice asking about the possibility of romantic attraction to either Alyssa or Tania, my fellow CapCorps volunteers. So while I know how to keep him quiet, he's done his damage: many other guys in San Juan will now ask me the same thing. On the one hand it's cool because it means that they're interested in at least some portion of my life and want to know more about me in the way that only seems natural to an adolescent boy, I'm sure. On the other hand, it gets SO repetitive and annoying! And, of course, the fact that I'm irritated only drives them to peck further, because they're boys and it seems to be an instinct ingrained in us that I think might disprove Darwin's Survival of the Fittest theory, because playing the game "how many times can we poke the lion before it gets REALLY angry?" doesn't seem conducive to anybody's survival. Except the lion's, after he eats the pests.

But anyway, I can only tell them so many times that I really am not wanting anything more than friendship at the moment, but I could do that until I'm blue in the face and they will still bother me about this issue. Do we get more resistant to testosterone over time? Is it the sudden abundance of this hormone to their systems thanks to adolescence that attributes to this? Probably the whole fact that they don't see girls as often as others also contributes.

This time of illness has awakened my mind to another fact. Yesterday, as I missed dinner, I realized that I didn't mind it at all. I didn't mind missing breakfast this morning, nor lunch. In fact, I'm in need of some other food aside from rice, which is a shame, because that won't be happening in the very near future. Missing home food right now.

So things aren't their best at the moment, but I'm okay with that.

Before Leaving For the Weekend...

2009-10-29T20:42:00.000-05:00

So we were informed last weekend that we'd be going on retreat this weekend, as the kids are gone for three days and we are all in need of a break. This is lovely news.

I'm a creature of habit, so I hate being thrown out of routine, and the Anniversary did just that. Usually we had it timed so that our needs for water, snacks, hygienic supplies, etc., would last through two weeks, so that on weekends off we had the opportunity to go to the store and restock. However, with the Aniversario, we're now on a schedule wherein we'll be needing to restock on weekends wherein the kids don't go home. But, as this is one of my bigger complaints, you can tell that life is fairly good.

Last week was tough, just because of how much I practiced for the dance that we did as the three volunteers. It was a combination of a Hula (I did Poi balls), country line dancing, and the final refrain of "Beat It" (as a crowd-pleaser). I was practicing for so many hours to get the Poi routine down...I came home after breakfast and practiced. I came to the apartment after work and practiced. I practiced a little after lunch, too. Then I'd practice after afternoon work. Then I'd practice in the evenings, too. I practiced too much, it would appear, and was too uptight about it: as soon as I calmed down a little bit, was less rigid with the rhythm, and had a good rest backing me up, I did much, much better. But...the best preparation doesn't ensure a flawless performance. If I had Hawaiian heritage it would be greatly ashamed right now. I will say that the flag-snag was NOT entirely my fault...we hadn't figured that into the performance. The other error definitely was. Oh, well!

The Aniversario itself was awesome: lots of people, LOTS of good food, and it was cool to see all the products the Ciudad had on sale, too.

I will talk disproportionately about chickens here. They make up half of my day, after all. I sometimes wonder why Biblical imagery doesn't use chickens for its descriptions of the people of Israel or the Church. Chickens are, I think, far dumber than sheep. Then again, "The Lord is my shepherd, there is nothing I shall want. He makes me to lie in verdant pastures," is a far more poetic line than, "The Lord is my famer, there is nothing I shall want. He makes me to wander in peckable terrain...Yea, though I wander in the shadow of the cage of the egg collector, I fear no evil...you have given me ample cornmeal lovingly in the face of those who peck me, etc." Sheep, though dumb, evoke a far more beautiful landscape when raised in a free-range environment. The other day we tried moving the chickens from their cages to an enclosed area where they could roam a little more freely. We tried putting them in crates, but they escaped. We tried putting them in other crates, but they escaped those. So we put them in bags. They escaped from these as well, but with less frequency.

It's actually very good that I work with chickens in the morning. They teach me how much patience I need to have to work with any creature. Like when the chickens escaped, they were smart enough to run directly underneath their cages which is where all their excrement resides and where humans are unlikely to follow. But occasionally as they wandered through their self-made mire, pecking for traces of something that'd be edible (gross), I could hear them squawk in dismay as the mire became deeper than they anticipated and they sank into it farther than their legs. At the end of the whole process, I definitely looked at a few of them and thought, "May you drown in your own excrement and may it serve you right, o dumbest of God's creatures." Clearly Franciscan spirituality is having a positive impact on my life.

But seriously, patience. My immediate instinct is to react angrily, sometimes to throw chickens (this only happens in the morning when I work with chickens. I have never wanted to throw a chicken at one of the kids), or to make snide comments. My still-limited Spanish is making the snide comments stay at a minimum, which is beautiful, because I don't think the kids are ready for my sarcasm. Besides, it'd eventually just undermine my authority, because I'd become known as the dude who says really nasty thing and has authority even though nobody really likes or respects him. That's not my role to play. I realized that today while working with the kids. Yesterday, while finishing up some work in the viña, Hno. Polo asked that we pull weeds with the remaining hour that we had. I conveyed the message, and the kids said, "Okay," and continued sitting in the shade. I started pulling weeds. Fifteen minutes later, I look over at them, still happily in the shade, with me clearly there and working and watching them, and finally said, "So, if there's a shortage of weeds here, feel free to go to the bigger vineyard, but if you see a couple, pick em up for goodness' sake, and show me that you're not as lazy as Hno. Polo keeps accusing you of being." So my snide comments are building up, which is bad, and I felt bad for accusing them of being lazy on a hot day.

One of my big frustrations and weaknesses, I think, is that some things just make sense for me. I'll understand fairly quickly, and it's hard for me to comprehend that others don't understand, and if I do comprehend that, WHY they don't understand. The big challenge for me is asking that question without arrogance, ego, superiority, or disdain. I don't know why that's so hard to do, but it is. Dude, I'm extremely patronizing and I never realized it. So this is a lame way to apologize, but if I've been unbearably (or even bearably) arrogant to you, I apologize and hope you'll bear with me if I do it in the future, because goodness knows this is hard. Sure, I can think about their experiences and lives and think, "Yeah, it makes sense that they don't get this or that they're slow on the uptake or that they have attention problems," but how I react is a totally different story.

Today was a little better and a little worse. I was getting upset because the kids were choosing the fast way over the good way of laying fertilizer in the vineyard. When a kid asked me how things were, I immediately replied, "Ja, claro que no bién. De hecho, mal. Hay muchos espacios, muchos partes de los surcos sin guano, y hay que llenar espacios vacíos en más o menos cada surco." "Definitely not good. Bad, in fact. There're a lot of spaces, lots of these tilled lines don't have fertilizer, and we're going to need to fill in spaces in pretty much every row." I said it pretty snappishly. I wasn't put off that they weren't following directions: today was the last day of afternoon work this week and I wanted it to be done. And I didn't want to look like I wasn't being a good supervisor. So yeah, I was taking the work too personally, and so my anger had nothing to do with the kids. Dang it. Again. So I followed up by saying, "You know, it's manageable, but just pass the word on to be a little more careful and deliberate, please. I'll take care of stuff here if you guys move on to the next vineyard." Small gesture for being in such a foul mood, but it's a start.

But see, then I got angry again when Walther and Wilson started playing. They always play when they're together. They're very athletic and so I can understand having energy, but...dang it, we have to finish this this afternoon, there's plenty of work to do, it's not too hot, and why can't you be as good workers as you were in the other vineyard? They didn't answer because I didn't ask. It's a very different life than that to which I'm accustomed, so I supposed when you have fun is different, too...but when I saw them later after I'd hauled sacks of manure for them to fill (note: hauling the sacks is much harder than pouring them out, in my opinion), and they were huddled around much as a similar group was two days before, I asked them a little too sharply why they were just sitting around when there was work to be done that really, actually HAD to be done today (as they'll be gone tomorrow and the whole weekend and we were kinda late in fertilizing the vines). Poco a poco, pienso. Slowly but surely, I'll learn patience, if I can give myself the chance to breath before reacting and learn to cut myself out of the equation, as I very rarely belong in it with as much emphasis as I give myself (consciously or unconsciously).

Self-honesty is a terrific thing. Painful sometimes, but...well...worth it. I'm missing Esto Vir a bit right now.

Three small stories. First one happened tonight:
-A kid at my dinner table asked me about Paris Hilton, and if I thought she was beautiful. I responded, "No, because ever since Scott Nye said she reminded him of a pterodactyl, I can't think of anything other than how accurate a description that is. Plus, the whole adult film portion of her life choices really is a turnoff." The kid was very surprised to hear that she'd been in adult films. He then voiced his desire to be an adult film actor. I have yet to determine the proper course of action to quell this desire.

-Monday, while moving chickens, Berra (one of the older guys) was holding a sack into which I was placing hens. He dropped the sack and was going to pick it up when a hen leaped out and sprinted away. There was a pause as we considered said chicken, and afterward, he said, "Sh..." (but he said the whole word. I'm now not sure who's reading my blog, and I don't want parents mad at me. Though after the story about adult films, maybe this is a moot point). Berra had never spoken any English to me before. He has yet to say anything else in English aside from "Finished" when our work in the morning is done. I want to now how he learned that.

-So after my description of people I find attractive here in Perú, I feel it necessary to say that I'm really not feeling in the mood to pursue anything of a romantic nature (much to the astonishment and puzzlement of the kids in San Juan). That being said...
One of my kids has a sister who is my age. He introduced me to her at the beginning of September, so I deem it appropriate to greet her when I see her. At the Aniversario, I was talking with Bradish (the 12-year-old who looks 8 who is now my godson) and his family when she and her family walk by. I nod to her younger brother and then to her and smile. She smiles back, but then she keeps looking at me. Then keeps looking at me. She does not freaking stop looking at me as she walks along. Perhaps people more adept at social interactions would have picked up that the changed expression was one of flirtatious interest long before I did, but I think we all know that I sort of fall into situations and take a while to realize what's going on. I swear, I wouldn't know I was drowning until I was about to die. Anyway, so after finally realizing she was looking at me with interest (the longish hair and beard aren't repelling enough. THAT's why I've been working with chickens! To complete the woman-repelling ensemble!), I successfully avoided her the rest of the day.

Sometimes I have to wonder if the chickens are smarter than I am.

"I shall strike the Farmer and the chickens will scatter. But it'll actually be significant, even though the chickens scatter at pretty much everything."...yeah, definitely better off with sheep.

Quickly...but not so quickly

2009-10-24T22:27:00.000-05:00

Because I don't have much time, and won't for a while, I just wanted to say that there'll be a slight lag in updates. I was going pretty strong with the weekly thing, but these next couple of weeks throw a wrench in that plan.

The anniversary of the Ciudad is tomorrow. It's amazing how big a deal it is...it's like a miniature carnival. In two days they've really changed the face of the Ciudad...in a good way. But to be honest, I'll be glad for it to end. Next week, all the pro staff goes on a retreat. Apparently Alyssa, Tania, and I are included in that. That's not a problem for me.

Anyway, here are my thoughts of the moment (not quite as humorous as the last time I did this):

Sometimes my Spanish is good, sometimes it's not. I go into fits when I actually have to converse on the phone with somebody in Spanish. I pray each and every time I have to call that I can just ask for what I need and they will say, "Sí," and I don't have to worry anymore. Each an every time somebody calls, I hope that they're just calling to ask how I am. Sometimes the first hope bears fruit. The second one is never the case. Thus I usually just try to find out where they are so that I can jog to their location and hope that the task that needs doing is on-site. This yields more success than my hope of a conversation that goes, "Miggy, ¿cómo estás? ¿Bién? Excelente. Simplemente te llamé para averiguarlo. Nos vemos."

Our ceilings aren't very tall. I have borrowed Tania's jumprope, but I have to take out the lightbulb every time I use it, because otherwise I'll be without a light source for a while. This makes me sad. It also makes me nervous about practicing jumping.

I got to speak to Hannah O'Sullivan over Skype the other day, courtesy of Juliette Szczepaniak. That was awesome. Thanks for that, both of you.

The rest of you should get Skype and add me (clydeomnis is my sn) so that we can talk, too. Seriously.

I think that every saint and person who's ever done something that requires courage has a moment of, "Oh, shoot, what have I done?" I'm sure that St. Francis was hit by at least the temptation to think, "Well, I screwed the pooch THERE," after he disowned himself from his father and walked off in his infamous habit after stripping naked. I don't think that there's sin or counter-doctrinal assumption in saying that after (and during his announcement) Gabriel departed, she had a slight, "Oooooohhhhhhh man," moment. And we all have them. What was the Agony in the Garden but finding the courage to surrender to God's will? I know that it was more than steeling Himself, clearly, but yeah.

If you want joy, you need courage to risk and endure pain.

For courage. For Diego and Bradish and Joel, my godsons (yeah, a third one was added the day of the sacrament).

2009-10-17T23:14:00.000-05:00

I think it's a cycle that I get to my breaking point, have a lovely respite, and then go back into battle. I found myself halfway through this week back in that emotional turddom of last Friday. I will spare the public domain more angst, so if you really want to hear me whine*, email me and I'll unload (do not attempt).

Last weekend we went to Barranco for dinner. It's a very small little district in Lima that overlooks the waterfront. It was beautiful. I just love the feel of it.

The only griping that you will hear is this: I think that working with the live hens is worse than killing the other chickens. I know it's not their fault that they live in cages and that they live to lay eggs until their rumps bleed and they die, so their days consist of laying eggs, eating, pecking at the guys who take their eggs, drinking water, making lots of squawking noises, and pooping what seems a disproportionate amount to what they eat, and not much else, and that that disproportionate excrement really can't go anywhere but right below them, and with five chickens to a cage and several hundred cages in one place, that's a lot of smell, but...I would think you're supposed to get acclimated to the smell. Somehow that's not working. 2 months down and I'm eager to try a chicken-free diet.

There, that's it. The rest is something I'm going to try putting into a positive frame of mind, namely:

What you can learn about yourself from being abroad in a place where you don't speak the language, and that involves more than just what's said.

You can learn a lot. I didn't quite appreciate that Fr. Regis told me that he HATED Rome the first time he was there living abroad. That's not to say that I HATE it here. I don't even hate it here in lowercase. There are definitely some very trying moments, though. When I have the time to look at them, though, it's amazing what these moments teach me. For example, Hermano Polo had to go to Ñaña to talk with the postulants there, and that left me in charge, more or less. God help us. God help me. God help the children I was supervising. I immediately found myself irascible and wanting them to conform to more rules, less willing to laugh...I essentially found myself modeling the kind of behavior that I question in others in positions of leadership in the Ciudad. I won't speculate why they do what they do, but I can speak for myself. I was not happy with how unhappy this authoritarian model made me, and upon some short reflection realized that I was getting angry with kids more with an insecurity that I had rather than because of their interests. I had their interests as an auxiliary, but I was more concerned with making a good impression and having them follow rules so that I'd look good. It was not a pleasant revelation, but it's where I am, so I'll work from there.

I am experiencing a hug withdrawal. As witheringly as I might look at people for touching me, I am a physically affectionate person, and suffer for lack of it. Fortunately, there are some very touchy-feely kids in San Juan. Unfortunately, they usually want piggy back rides or to fake-spar. These are not hugs. And hugs are magical. And fake-sparring...generally isn't.

I have the privilege of being honest with myself. Sometimes I have to be, but sometimes, I get to be. I get to take a moment to ask, "Wait, why DO I think this or do this?" I don't think that I lie to myself all that often, but I do tend to plow ahead without taking what I think into proper consideration. I've made small victories in self-honesty. And they're awesome.

I need man-talk. Not like, "dude she's hot," man-talk. Just...talking with guys my age. 15 year olds have a very different world view. It involves a lot of girl-induced system failure. Then again, I'm not sure I ever recovered from said failure after my crush in 5th grade...but seriously, nothing beats having some solid friends of the same gender. I'm working on talking with the older kids who work here and with the friars, so that's cool.

Places with four seasons are places I probably prefer to be. The weather is slowly getting warmer here, so that's good! However, I'll say it a billion times...you who live in places where the leaves change color and the mornings come with some mist and the nights are cold and sharp and clear and the sense of family and community seems as natural and warming as the apple cider and sweaters that you're using don't know how lucky you are. I also would like to live in place with clear skies. I have seen one star in the night sky since being here. Maybe two. I can count the number with less than five fingers, though. The blanketed sky makes for a cool effect, nevertheless.

That being said, I'd love to explore the South of the US when I come back. I need to explore that part of my heritage. Also, I would love to explore West Virginia, Kentucky, Missouri (I know, not the most southern), Louisiana, North Carolina...and others. When I was driving across the country to get home from CUA, I thought it was such a pity that we couldn't spend more time in WV or KY. Also, "Take Me Home, Country Roads" and "Black Water" are playing on repeat in my head.

Somewhere along the way, I let the sarcastic gruffness actually become gruff in part, and that was an error. I'm not a cinephile, so I feel okay and not at all emasculated to say that some chick flicks are great.

Hannah O'Sullivan once thought about standing outside of seminaries, waiting for guys who'd discerned that priesthood wasn't for them, because there's a caliber to those seminary boys. There's some truth in that, at least for girls discerning the religious life: I have a mild crush on one of the postulant nuns. After one of my previous endeavors into love, this seems like a regression: from going to girls contemplating the religious life, I'm now attracted to those currently in it. Why do they have to be so intriguing before they wear veils? I'm trying to rationalize that it's a friend crush on an attractive young women who happens to be a postulant nun. Also, there is a woman working with the preschool-aged kids whom I find very attractive. She won me over when at a meeting Hno. Hugo asked what her group would be making for the anniversary of the Ciudad and she temporarily had a very flustered, almost defeated, look. So I like helpless and/or unavailable women. Perhaps you can now share in the irony of all the boys in San Juan asking me for girl advice.

IMPORTANT - I am now a godfather. I was asked at the last minute to sponsor a 9-year-old boy named Bradish in the sacrament of baptism. What? I don't know, either. And I will be the sponsor for a boy getting confirmed this Friday, too. I guess the need is there. I better brush up on my theology-speak in Spanish (this is why they housed me in a small library with many catechesis books). Bradish's two older brothers are also at the Ciudad, and their mom is really kind and has essentially welcomed us into the family and wants to make sure we're present, so that's really cool. Prayers?

I'm sure I forgot some things I've learned about myself, but I think they might be things other people know and that I'm getting/needing to learn for myself now. I do find it interesting that I, at least, often will respond to uncouth or insulting or unseemly behavior in an uncouth, insulting, or unseemly manner. I'm learning here that doing so won't result in making my situation better, instilling them an understanding of why what they're doing is wrong, or that they shouldn't do it. By responding in kind, I have to count on being more powerful, with authority to prevent the temptation to escalation, so that teaches that the might is right, I'm responding to them in the same way, so I'm acting as a first-class living example of hypocrisy for them to either ridicule or emulate (or both, if they're like me), and they know not to do things when I'm watching because I'm taught them nothing more than to prevent a certain stimulus-response pattern. Were I to act as they did in an overblown manner to satirize their behavior, that might be different, but it's insulting to them, requires premeditation, and there's the chance they don't get it. I guess that chance is always there.
I just wonder about this stuff because some say that what makes us the most irritated is the quality or qualities we see in another that we find ugly or wrong in ourselves. Maybe that's right, because we usually respond to what we find very ugly with ugliness. Makes me want to think through everything.

Final thought of a tired guy: After much thought, before totally getting rid of my hairdo that will be very long, I will first craft my facial hair to be a goatee...ish. I will then buy a circular hat with a star on it. I will set it atop my shoulder-length hair, look off into space purposefully at an angle, have somebody take a picture, and then maybe I will be as popular as Che Guevarra.

Probably not. But I think the irony of his face being a popular consumerist decal is delicious. Also, the t-shirt with his face and the writing: "Communism killed over 10,000 people and all I got was this lousy T-shirt" is amazing. But this goes back to what I was saying earlier. Some say that violent revolution is the way to go. As a casual observer who hasn't experienced grief at the hands of corrupt government officials, I feel like that illustrates (in a sick way) the humanity of everybody. The oppressed who overthrow and gain power battle ugliness with ugliness. The "better world" sometimes seems to involve a world where roles are reversed in place of some actual greater equality. Too much to talk about for two paragraphs, and I have no answers, and I'm very tired. Know that you're loved and missed. And if you read this but don't communicate with me, you make me sad, but I still love you and there's legit only a little bit of pressure to get in touch with me (because I have to be honest, right?).

Silence Is Golden

2009-10-11T08:40:00.000-05:00

Some very good days this week, especially Friday and yesterday. But we'll get to them in due time.

The news that I killed chickens still is in my mind. I'm mostly over it, though the one chicken that squawked in protest as I began cutting its neck is kind of haunting.

Aaaaanyway, Monday, day after the feast of St. Francis (we celebrated it on Sunday and it was a big deal), we went up to the Capuchin Postulant House in Ñaña to partake in their celebratory luncheon. It was a bountiful and delicious lunch, but it was even more cool to see the Capuchins all there, because they were genuinely glad to hang out together and celebrate that fraternal bond. I got to see Hermano Polo smile a bit more, which is nice, because he usually has to wear his stern or his very stern face at the Ciudad. Of course, when the subject turned to how to kill various animals painlessly, I kind of wished that lunch had happened beforehand. Definitely not a conversation I expected to have.

After that, I returned and worked in the Panadería, "helping" with the Pannetone-making. I mostly just followed the guy who knew the most around and he would occasionally tell me to do things, watch me do them, say, "No, no, Michael," show me a different way, then have me do something else. I was pretty effective at slamming cubes of lard and margarine into the table and proceeding to mix them together, which, along with my height, slowness at speaking, and hairy features, simply further contributes to a widespread (no factual basis for this) rumor among the folks here that I am a Neanderthal. I got to help add the fruit and raisins to the dough a couple of times...one time part of the plastic bag got stuck in the mixer and went into the dough. The next day I was helping bag pannetone (see a connection? There actually isn't one, I said I wanted to see what the next steps in the process were, so they assigned me there). It's a tough thing, feeling like I have to constantly thank people for their patience. They're very good-natured, even in the midst of having to get stuff done, though, so that's very cool.

So that was Monday afternoon and Tuesday the whole day. Wednesday, I painted goal posts in the AM and helped dig a hole for depositing rocks and debris in the PM. Thursday was a no-school-day, so I basically just acted as supervisor for the various things the kids had to do. I still struggle with what I'm doing here, because there are just so many moments that I forget that it's not about me and I'm here for the kids. Sharing what I have as a basic human being and receiving from them the same, stripping away academic smarts (though it sometimes helps), technological knowledge (because it's kind of different here), and simply giving and receiving who we ARE...it's a lot to take in. I'm not sure if that made any sense, but hopefully by now you're used to what I write not making a lot of sense.

But yeah, the current struggle is having myself follow suit with the idea of being here for them, being myself for them, and improving myself for them, because the idea of getting to the core (well, more or less, that's a lifelong journey) of who I am is a beautiful notion, but it's rather uncomfortable. Thus, my mind and my body protest very vocally. In the midst of this struggle came Friday, a day I really just wanted to not be there so that the kids would go out for the weekend and I could just veg. In the morning, I worked in the granja with the hens, feeding them and collecting eggs, but then I was called over to help clear debris, i.e., very large portions of tree. I had a little forklift (not one that you drive, but one whose lever you manually pump. They call it a "pato" here, which means "duck" literally, which I find hilarious), but it was a difficult slog. I was by myself doing this, and kinda just being an emotional turd, especially when I was told that I had to move the stuff farther away than I had, which meant going back and lifting everything by hand and carrying it to the new destination. When lunch rolled around, I felt a lot better (food can do that), and was honest enough to realize I was just bitter that I couldn't go on break early and had to plod along right up till the lunch hour. What? Do work? Who'd have thunk? That afternoon, I was assigned to finish the job, but I had the help of three kids. Here's where Friday became amazing. They were good workers, but also freaking hilarious. They would pile as many branches as they could onto the lift, then one would sit on the pile while the other two would lie down on it, and the two would push the lift forward with their legs while the one would steer. It was amusing to watch and I wish I'd had my camera. It was just so nice to have people there, and light-hearted ones, at that.

Saturday, which I've come to dread because the last two weeks it's meant cleaning the Comedor, which isn't a small task and usually leaves me frustrated with the kids who don't work too hard, was an interesting surprise, because Hno Polo asked me to accompany the kids to a session that some folks specializing in education were holding on punctuality. I tell ya, playing ice-breakers in another language is an interesting experience. Also, I found myself repeatedly thinking that punctuality is a nice quality, but so is knowing how to pay attention without opening your mouth, i.e., I was angry with some of my kids. They tried telling me afterward that that is just how people act according to custom, but I responded that the people who led the 5-year-olds have been chewing the little ones out for acting in a similar fashion. So maybe it's the custom for 3-year-olds, but for everybody else, it's just a sign that you don't have respect. They weren't impressed, because what does the gringo know? but they had to listen to me, because nobody wants to make the Neanderthal raise his voice, because he will either be intimidating or tell Hno Polo what's going on (or both), and those aren't pleasant options. The boys were also shameless, because the majority of the people in this presentation and workshop were girls, and so they would misbehave just so that the girls would grab their hands and tell them to be quiet. They were also very excited when one of the girls was the same age as me. They told me several times that she was within 5 months of my age, and they told her the same thing. The both of us being exasperated and entertained at the same time was the result. She asked me, "So, they're hard to handle, huh?" And I said, "Yeah, they're a bunch of miscreants," (in Spanish, clearly), and the kids were so overjoyed that I knew Spanish. I had been issuing threats to them all day, yet my ability to joke around was far more worthy of realizing I can sometimes speak the language. Hmmm.

So a couple of weeks ago we went to this restaurant Rustica which is on the beach, and I just have to think about it more...The night is dark enough and the sky uniformly cloudy that at a certain point, you can't distinguish the water from the sky. It's amazing what the clouds will do. I'll get pictures up someday to show you guys what Ciudad's view of San Juan de Miraflores looks like on a regular day, maybe in the morning, and what it looks like on a sunny day. When the daylight is able to pierce through the clouds, you see the city for what it really is. It's not just a bunch of hills completely covered with houses and radio towers and the like: when the sun pierces through, a veil is lifted and you can see the graceful green mountains sloping into the hills, the green intact and unsullied by humans, though still covered in a bit of a haze that's unavoidable in a city of about 8 million people. On the days of gray, the days of haze, when it's chilly and unpleasant and I feel totally isolated, I know that summer's around the corner and brings a a heck of heat and illumination. The same thing with the beach and really with the whole city: when the sun is out, it's ten billion times more amazing. I pray that the days I have like Friday morning can have the same hope in joy and meaning as I have knowledge and assurance of sunny days and gorgeous vistas, that the days when there's light are a closer approximation to what the place is than the days without it.

Sappy enough for you? I'm choking over here. But really, I do hope for that.

Y Ahora Soy Matador

2009-10-04T15:07:00.000-05:00

The big story of this week is that I killed chickens. I won't go into much detail, seeing as some viewers might object (come to think of it, I object), but suffice it to say that I have wrung their necks and decapitated them. And plucked their feathers afterward. I did not butcher them any further, which I consider a blessing. However, it will be almost impossible to get the chicken blood off of my sandals, so I'll carry around a little piece of that wherever I go. And I'm sure that they will call upon my killing services again in the future.

I was SO hoping that I'd get by with just put the live chickens in bags, feeding the egg-yielding hens, and plucking feathers. The feather-plucking wound up being my downfall, though: I had never done that before, so I was a little slow, and Hermano David noticed and said, "Miguel...ahora, solo matar." And in my mind, I grimly thought, "Sí, qué suerte..." knowing that it was just too good a stroke of luck not to have to bring a knife to chickens' necks.

I've managed to eat chicken since then. I have to will myself to think about the trauma of it all. Trust me, when I let my mind go there, it's horrific and makes me shudder. But seeing as my food options are rather low, I'll just have to shudder about it on days when we have lentils for lunch.

I have a whole long line of thoughts about this, but they're all semiformed and disjointed. Not that that's much of a break from tradition.

On a more food-FRIENDLY basis, the word this week: Papas a la Huancaína y Arroz con Pollo. Dude. The former is some boiled potatoes put on a lettuce leaf with a spicy cheese sauce (hardboiled eggs and olives optional), the latter is just really good chicken with some rice that has great flavor. OH! Also, anticuchos de corazón. Beef-heart shish-kebab. Slightly chewy, but oh so delicious.

Even with how much I gush about meat, I could totally see being a vegetarian when I come back to the states. I'd have to find a way to combat the constant hunger that I would feel, but I know I'd be fine. We'll see.

Other events: I have decided to forgo the whole shaving and hair-cutting thing for a while. We're not sure how long. Maybe all my time here. I'll keep you updated. It's already somewhat disheveled and I'm not really socially presentable, and that's before I need to comb my hair back and possibly put it in a ponytail. Yikes.

October marks the beginning of Pannetone season at Ciudad de los Niños. The Panadería is open 24/7 to churn 'em out (they make a lot of their money by selling these things). Thus, the Panadería smells delicious almost all the time.

I really am glad for the older guys who're in San Juan with me. They're patient with my Spanish and willing to converse. Also, they have a level of maturity that's just right, so I don't feel quite so isolated as I might were I the only guy my age in San Juan. The 13/14/15 year olds need to grow up quickly in certain ways (i.e., poverty, drug issues, sex issues, etc.), but they're still not quite there. Some are more mature than others, which is almost deceiving sometimes, because they'll be a real ally to me one moment, then they'll act their age the next, and it's almost more a threat to patience than the kids who're consistently acting like awkward adolescents. It's beautiful to work with them, though, because they're so awkward that they can't help but be genuine. I can see through most airs that they put on to look more mature and impressive, and they can be really fun.

It's weird, though, being so consistently immersed in a group of people that's so definitely NOT my age. I'm so used to just being in a group of cohorts that it's slightly off-putting. It's a great way of discovering that I'm not as mature in some ways that I thought and that I'm more mature in others. I'd elaborate, but I'm not sure what I'm saying. I can genuinely say that I miss Fall, but I'm glad for the sunshine today.

Oh!And to make this perhaps even more long-winded than usual, I have been reading this book called The Sacrament of Salvation by Fr. Paul McPartlan. I had to read portions of it for his class in the fall of 2008, and now I'm dedicating myself to reading it all, especially now that Senioritis isn't an issue and I'm not bored of school. The book is about Eucharistic Ecclesiology, which I find fascinating. It's been a way to rejuvenate a somewhat stale taste I had in my mouth regarding the Mass.

Now, maybe the folks who went to Catholic University already think about this regularly, but I just find it amazing how often we go to Mass and don't even wrestle to find a deeper meaning in what we're doing. I mean, clearly we're human, so we're not really ABLE to grasp its meaning in its entirety, but dang. It IS about community, but it's deeper than the community of people who eat coffee and donuts and occasionally are impressed with the homily. It's about love, but not about a love that God and Christ had for us and each other to such an extent that led to the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ that stops there that we're simply to admire for an hour.

I keep coming back to this one verse that Fr. McPartlan's book mentions: "You have approached Mount Zion and the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and countless angels in festal gathering, and the assembly of the firstborn enrolled in heaven, and God the judge of all, and the spirits of the just made perfect, and Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and the sprinkled blood that speaks more eloquently than that of Abel." (Heb 12:22-24, NAB). Some versions say "graciously" instead of eloquently. My thinking simply isn't working today, so I'll just say: I really pray for the grace of awareness during Mass, because that phrase has opened up a world of strength, of possibility, and of courage...and now what I need is the courage and openness to jump into it. What are you saying "Amen" to at Communion?

Thoughts

2009-09-26T23:35:00.000-05:00

I thought I'd make a post, though I don't have much to say involving my week. Oh! I did go to Ñaña, which is a very cool town with a Capuchin Franciscan Postulant house. Beautiful! Very relaxing time there, beautiful mountain, and they have a ton of fruit trees. And a dog that really was too friendly: it followed me freaking EVERYWHERE.

Some random thoughts, though:

-When we in the US say, "That guy doesn't have the cajones, the huevos, whatever," and are using it as a substitution for "moxy," "guts," "balls," "nerve," or whatever, it sounds all cool and slangish, but I think we should take a minute and realize what these words truly mean. Next time you want to say that somebody lacks the cajones to do something, realize that you are saying that they lack the large boxes/drawers for the task. Now, it's used in some Spanish-speaking places as slang for what we've talked about, but I will never take you seriously (read: lies). But seriously, I crack up when I think of one of my friends saying that he didn't think another guy had the cajones to do a job well. "This guy lacks the boxes."
Huevos, by contrast, makes a little more sense. Literally "eggs," the idea that somebody is lacking eggs at least morphically makes sense in my head. But talking about not having the huevos...is there a recipe that we are needing to make? "You haven't got the huevos!" "You're right! My chickens died yesterday!"

-I feel a little bit like I'm in an episode of Arrested Development. Those who are fans might know my reference. Others...not so much. I'm commonly just referred to as "Hermano" here (it means "Brother"). In season 1, when Michael had an interest in his brother's girlfriend and she had one in him, Gob (the brother) comes up to Michael and says, "I think Marta is cheating on me...I heard her talking on the phone last night...she kept mentioning this guy's name...'Hermano, hermano.'" We who know what this means are amused. Meanwhile, the non-Spanish-speaking Bluth family is clueless. Anyway, I'm just called "Hermano" here, so if Michael Bluth ever were in search of "Hermano," he'd find me. I'd prefer it if Marta was looking for me, though.

-It is very hard to take even Hermano Polo seriously when he's giving a serious lecture when there's a small kitten batting his cincture around.

-I hate trying to understand people on cell phones in English...when people don't annunciate, I have problems. Now multiply this by 10 billion (based on scientific calculation) and you understand how I feel about talking to people on cell phones in Spanish.

-Ben Vincent once asked: "Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults do adultery?" I thought that if they did, we'd see some niche in the book market akin to the smutty romance novels you buy at the grocery store, except pertaining to the ecstatic experience of infancy. Then I forgot that infants are, for the most part, illiterate. So to answer the question, Ben, I don't know.

-We just went to hang out in Miraflores. We were hungry and waiting for Hno. Hugo, so we stopped at a bookstore. We proceeded to look at cookbooks. I feel that when you start fantasizing about food, you're either in a place of (if you can just STOP focusing on the broccoli salad) grace and able to appreciate what those who daily go without feel like, or you really need to eat more food.

-I once tried a detox diet that consisted of drinking just water, lemon juice, cayenne pepper, and grade b maple syrup. It was the worst decision of my life. I say it is worse than giving up gluten and meat for Advent AND my choice in hair length Sophomore year of high school. I dreamed about broccoli salad for 2 days, I kid you not. The detox did not last.

With that, and the fact that it's now past midnight where I am, I bid you a good night. I'm sorry that this blog post is vapid. I'll end it with a Deep Thought:

It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.

Thank you, Jack Handey.

Blastoff and Blasted In

2009-09-20T15:32:00.001-05:00

This last week really flew by. Lots of adventures: Figuring out how to withdraw money (and getting charged far less than I thought I would), the end of language school, more adventures and misadventures with Peruvian cuisine...hooray. I really can't fathom that a month has gone by! I've started and finished language school! Wowza. Winter is ending, "Spring" is beginning.

Anyway, on to the adventures of this week. Monday was money day, so we spent some extra time in Miraflores post-language school to withdraw the funds. It wasn't really that exciting. The most exciting thing was that I didn't get charged for withdrawing from an ATM! However, I DID get charged for checking my account balance. I'm not quite sure how that works.

So then the week continued. Thursday, we decided to try this restaurant called Punto Azul for lunch. It's a somewhat cheap seafood restaurant that's actually more upscale than I thought, and it serves ridiculous portions. It was really an adventure! There was an interesting mixture of Spanish and English, because we were on all different levels, and my teachers (who are very cool, I might add) came along, too. I decided to try Cebiche Mixto. Cebiche, for those unacquainted, is a general name given for several different types of seafood. I've tried Cebiche Pescado and Mixto. Both of them involve cold seafood soaked in a lemon juice with raw red onions and served with a garnish of lettuce, some choclo (corn), yam, and more of the leche de tigre (which is the lemon juice mixture). I had the pescado (just fish) in its spicy variation last week. It was adorned with what looked like a cross-section of a red bell-pepper, so I ate the whole thing. Had I not liked spicy foods, this would have been a poor life choice. Liking them, it was only a surprising life choice. Anyway, Cebiche Mixto: fish is there, but you've also got calamari and octopus and something else. I've gotta say, octopus tentacles aren't half bad cold. Chewy, though.

I seem to talk about food disproportionately, but it's just such a different variety of foods! The fruits here are so different. Seriously, google "Charimoya," because it's not really something we have in the US. Yogurt is pretty much a drinkable commodity here: no spoons. Fun fact: yogurt comes in the plastic gallon and liter containers, but milk comes in plastic bags. I find this amusing. Soooo many different tastes and brands and ways of making things. Someday I'll go crazy in the potato chips section, because it's Perú, land of like 200 different potatoes.

While I'm on a food tangent, let me talk about Chicha Morada some more. Do we just not have purple corn in the US? If so, all is forgiven, but if not, I want to know who is responsible for keeping this beverage from the public at large. It's delicious, fairly nutricious, and a lifesaver if you don't want to drink soda in a Latin American country. So what gives? Are we seriously that afraid of purple stains? It can't be that, we give kids neon-colored popsicles.

Sooo...returning from the food talk (but with a promise to talk about more later), Friday was the last day of language school. To celebrate, Brooke (fellow classmate) baked cookies, Alyssa bought Inca Cola (which tastes to everybody but Peruvians like bubble gum, but that's because it must be the only place that Peruvians use the bubble-gum flavoring), and Rosa, our teacher, who will be leaving to pursue a Master's Degree in Spain, bought some more cookies. It was pretty fun, because we spent the discussion class asking each other questions like, "If you had an autobiography, what would the title be?" or "If you could date any celebrity, whom would you date and why?" It reminded me of the question prompts for the AP Spanish test way back in the day. Only this time I had fun answering the questions.

Oh! Wednesday was the end of the second trimester, so the kids received their grades. I got to look at every San Juan kid's grade (the 13-14 year olds) in order to enter them into an Excel spreadsheet. The way grades work here is slightly different from the US: They grade with a points system, the highest score being 20. For each subject, they get an overall evaluation ranging from 0 to 20. My job was to record the subjects' grades for each kid and then find each kids' GPA (as it were) for the trimester. Perhaps this was a nice introduction into a more real world for me, a guy who's been in private education all his life and been given the benefit of being in atmospheres of incredible intelligence (I have very, very smart friends). These grades were not so great. If you were to encounter a phrase "Masterpiece of an understatement," I think that that past sentence would probably be one of the example sentences. Jeez louise, man. I was so happy every time my fingers had to make the extra effort to type "18", because it was so rare. I was happy when I entered grades above 12. Dang.

It was a revealing moment for me. Some might wrongly assume that the grades were what gave me such pause. It wasn't like I realized, "Ah! I'm working with delinquent and/or dumb children." I will tell you to your face that you're wrong. What I encountered in those grades, and what was confirmed for me later on, was a sense of pessimism, of resignation, of grim reality that never was and probably never will be waiting for me at the end of my educational endeavors in the United States. People might get sick and tired of hearing about all of the opportunity that we have in the United States and how we take it for granted, and it's cliché to then mention Jairo from Guatemala who can't get an education or doesn't have much of a future post-education, but it's so flipping true. I wasn't aware that I had this particular assumption, but I suddenly realized that I was not here to bring the American dream of education to the deprived children. If you want to bring that dream to fruition, work with the school system, the culture, the government, while people with this ideal tutor kids and nurture them in a space encouraging that future with a life that confirms the encouragement. It's more than what 3 volunteers singlehandedly can do. So I'm not here to make them "A" students, because even if I do, what's the point? How do I bring hope to kids who face grim and difficult futures, and what kind of hope should that hope be?

Let me tell you, I've entered data before, and so I know that working in Microsoft Excel can be one of the more painful experiences in life (my life as a research apprentice, more or less). This was painful for a very different reason. I went to bed wondering, "So I'm not here to be their Messiah, because it's so far beyond my power. What in God's name am I here for, then? What the heck am I supposed to do?"

I'll interrupt here to say that I think that being in a foreign country for a prolonged period of time allows people to learn a lot about themselves. I'll venture to say that I've learned that I'm a far more kinesthetic learner than I thought. I always thought I was a mental kind of person, maybe pencil and paper when it came to math, but for that information to hop on the elevator and travel from the head to the heart, I need to live through experiences to make them concrete. One such example are any number of the Mother Theresa quotes, like, "God does not demand that you succeed, only that you try," or "There are no great works, just small works with great love," and things of that nature. Some people can read them and get it. I envy them. However, I'm being granted the boon and bane of experience in order to understand. The words of Theilhard de Jardin, "Above all, trust in the slow work of God," and of Bishop Ken Untener (though these words are often attributed to Oscar Romero):

It helps now and then to step back and take a long view.
The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of
saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.

No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession
brings perfection, no pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives include everything.
This is what we are about. We plant the seeds that one
day will grow. We water the seeds already planted
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects
far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of
liberation in realizing this.
This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning,
a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord's
grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results, but that is the
difference between the master builder and the worker.

We are workers, not master builders, ministers, not
messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.

Ah, so that's what we're about! I love how that comes at the middle of the reflection, because it connects what's been said and what's being said. It comes together with the phrase "God is God and I'm not," and it was of enormous consolation to think of that. Pray, trust God, know that you won't do everything, that you'll inevitably do something silly or wrong because hey, you're human. Be yourself and be that well (name that saint!), know you're not God, but trust in His presence, believe that all will be well, pray for the hope in a certain future to get you through an uncertain and turbulent present. All will be well (I'm on a roll with quotations, this sentence was another saint).

Clearly I'm still in the process, because hey, that's life. I am still piecing together how to love, especially when it's rendered difficult by the kids I'm here to serve (which is when it's most worthy of the name love, I suppose). The day we went to Punto Azul, I got back from lunch and Hermano Polo was holding a town hall meeting. These happen daily. They are never, ever cheerful. And he's not the only one who does them. I understand that this is another culture, that they function far more on shame than on guilt, so it's theoretically more efficacious to publicly ridicule than privately guilt, but when that's all they ever hear (as I feel it is, and I feel it's pervasive), I have to wonder how effective that really is at doing anything other than confirming what people who live in a place like this, have few recourses, and have had rough childhoods have been told through society and possibly through family: they're not worth much. That was the confirming moment I had a couple of days ago. How do I tackle this misgiving? I need to talk with Fr. Hugo about it before I make any confrontations or even contemplate them, really.

With all the quotes, I really didn't mean to suggest that I have achieved Nirvana or really had everything make sense. I'm still struggling, am unsettled, and wanting to cry more than I have in a while. I've gotten attached to the kids, and I'm a softy, anyway.

What a way to begin working full-time, no? Hence the title. I just heard something akin to an explosion, so I ought to go and check that out, methinks. Much love and prayers, please pray for everybody here.

A Month in Lima, or How Many Different Routes Exist Between These Two Locations?

2009-09-13T15:51:00.000-05:00

Just under a month has gone by, and in just one week, I'll be getting used to a new shift as language school ends and begin full-time at Ciudad! I'm excited for that. Language school has been very cool, and I love the teachers and conversation, but it's tiring to be there ever day, and the pollution that you get in your lungs from the transit from San Juan de Miraflores to Miraflores everyday is like smoking a pack of cigarettes (read: I have no idea how bad it is for your lungs, but the comparison seemed appropriate).

I think I've said that I'm working with adolescents aged 13-14 (ish). They're a great group of kids! I think I have finally gotten to the point where I know all their names (and what names they prefer to be called). To be honest, when I first walked in, I kind of thought that maybe I had walked back into my college dorm. They're lively, fun, kind, but won't hesitate to laugh at you, because they have the audacity to tell you that yeah, you're being ridiculous. Right now, my work consists of being with them in the afternoons post-school. I have been put in charge of gardening maintenance and tending to the vineyard, so when the kids work with me in the afternoon, there is a lot of weed-pulling, wire-tightening, and vine-enforcing. Weed-pulling is something I like. When I don't have open wounds, I like getting my hands dirty, and don't mind getting junk under my nails as I root around for...well, the roots. Vines fascinate me. We don't grow grapes to make wine (it's a city of kids, after all), but we eat the grapes. I just like how flexible they are, how you can generally guide them to grow in a certain way that will be more beneficial for it (and for us come harvest time).

The challenge of working with kids is one that I experienced last summer for a week doing Serviceworx with middle-schoolers. They can have great senses of humor, but they genuinely lack maturity, and it's not their fault, because that's just where they are in life. The trick is to remember this so as not to take things personally and jump down to an equal level of immaturity or vindiction in punishment, but at the same time trying to encourage them (both through punishment when necessary) and positive example how to grow into more responsible, more sensitive, more mature people. That's probably why so many people don't like working with adolescents: It requires patience and the equilibrium for reprimand and understanding is so hard to discern (and even harder is adhering to it). So yeah, it's been a challenge.

I work with Hermano Polo, a Capuchin Friar from Arequipa (South of Lima). He's a terrific guy. He plays guitar very well, he's got a pretty good musical ear, he knows how to do a million and one things, his sense of humor is terrific, and his life story is pretty cool, too. Or...what of his life story I could comprehend. He talks pretty quickly. He's trying hard to find the balance I was talking about...and, unsurprisingly, it's challenging. This is not an easy age group to lead. Props to him, though.

But yeah, I'm loving it. We went shopping this weekend. I've never been so excited for yogurt in my life (I was in desperate need of some calcium and milk products).

Note about language school: It can be very frustrating to learn another language. It can be even harder for somebody who likes to know things and hates not knowing things, because you've got to be willing to admit that your English vocabulary won't always help you and that thinking in paragraphs can be detrimental to getting across basic thoughts (especially if you have a lot of SAT and GRE words in those paragraphs). If you like being self-sufficient, it's tough, because a freetranslation.com translation usually won't help you out. I am liking this, tough though it is. When you strip away the intelligence, the fancy words, the knowledge of stuff that nobody else knows, you get a sense of who is there underneath. And, though sometimes it can be hard to look at that person, if you want to adjust happily, you've just got to bite the bullet and trust that people never loved you because you got good grades, because you happened to know the answers to questions, but because of who you were. And, if you're anything like me (who's really the "you" in all of these statements), your friends probably wanted to know you more.

It's hard to believe a month has gone by. Hard to believe that this is life, too, you know? That was kind of ambiguous. But I can't get any more specific. Much love, once again. Much missage, but not the sad kind.

Repotting

2009-09-06T07:42:00.000-05:00

It's a drizzly Sunday morning as we enter the 4th week of service in Lima. It's amazing. I'm loving it.

The last two weeks, we've been going to language school in the morning and returning for Ciudad in the afternoon. The first week was cool, and I really liked the review that it gave me. That weekend, the kids left in the afternoon to go visit families, so we had some time to ourselves to go exploring/eat more typical Peruvian cuisine/allow the tourist gringo part of us to show. We went down to Miraflores, one of the "Municipalities" in Lima (barrios/neighborhoods/what have you), which is a pretty happening part of town. Very cosmopolitan, some nice parks, right on the coast...very pretty, very fun. The coast is really beautiful. We saw it from much higher up, but even so. Anyway, we met up with Br. Hugo, our local coordinator, and had dinner at a small little place. There are a lot of foods to try, and we got started. I can't remember what kind of chicken Alyssa ordered, but it was a typical Peruvian fare that tasted very good. I got Lomo Saltado, which is very good (but, as you might guess from the name, very salty). Br. Hugo got Cebiche, which is terrific: fish served cold, prepared in a sauce of lemon juice and onions. Seriously, very tasty. Tania tried fried Cuy, which is....guinea pig! I don't know if I could ever eat dog (a mental image of my golden retriever pops into my mind, and more or less makes me want to cry), but guinea pig was delicious. The skin was a very interesting texture, and the meat was very good, if not...well, small. It's a creature the same size as a rat, after all. We then went to Barranco, an artsy sector that is very cool (and also with a nice ocean view) and tried Picarones, a fried dessert with a pumpkin batter. Delicious, with an interesting anise syrup on it.

While I'm on a food kick, I tried one of the popular Peruvian fruits: Charimoya. Google it, I can't explain it. We had no idea what we were buying at the time...we just had a hankering for avocados (and dude, the heck with California avocados with apologies to Californians out there, but they were the biggest and some of the best avocados I've had), saw another green and oddly-shaped fruit and had at it. Very good. Mark Twain thought it the most delicious fruit on the face of the earth. Not entirely in accordance with him, but it is quite tasty. Also, though it's not a fruit, per se, I tried a drink called "Chicha Morada," made out of purple corn. It was actually really good. Just don't spill it: it would make for some nasty stains.

Anyway, second week of language school was also good, but I have been sick. I essentially lost my voice, and still have a chest cold and lack the ability to sing in falsetto, meaning that I cannot entertain the adolescents with my renditions of Billy Jean or Beat It. This is not necessarily bad, but being sick is a drag. The air pollution doesn't help. We've been taking taxis everyday to Miraflores, as our neighborhood is pretty far...Miraflores is south-central, and San Juan de Miraflores is north-east. Anyway, traffic in a huge city boasting a population of 8 million+ people is...well, ghastly. Lots of car exhaust. Makes it difficult to recuperate.

Another challenge this second week was just realizing how totally inept I am. At one time, I'm impatient with these reviews, because the arrogant part of me remembers that I learned this stuff. Speaking it normally and knowing the rules for writing essays are very different, though, and I know that, but Mr. Arrogant isn't happy to admit it. At the same time, I'm just in awe as the realization drives its way deeper into my thick skull that Spanish is its own language. I mean, I gathered as much, but I really understand that it's a foundation and byproduct of culture, with a whole mindset, a history, and I know only the scarcest bits of it. Also, I may be able to talk about cohabitation in broken Spanish, but if I want to convey to Vargas at dinner that my food slipped off my fork, I don't know the verb for "slip". I don't know many, many, many things. It's amazing. Lots of gestures, lots of circumlocution, and lots of making a fool of myself. It's gotta happen, yeah? It's good.

I started reading a version of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" that's in Spanish. I thought it'd be a good way to pick up on verbs and vocabulary, since I remember many of the details of that particular book, but then I had to question its authenticity. In Spanish, you should never say, "Yo estoy embarazado" if you're a guy and feel embarrassed. It's inadvisable to use "embarazada," as well, ladies. See, it's a false cognate: In Spanish, that means that you're pregnant. The adjective to use would be "Avergonzado/a". So when on page 70 the book described Cedric Diggory as seeming slightly pregnant, I had to start wondering about the validity.

The title of the post has to do with my mental state, which is a little bit less interesting than what's been happening (unless you're me). This past Wednesday was my mom's birthday, so I sent her a gift and called her using Skype. She was in New York, having helped Stephen settle in at NYU (aw, he's a freshman), and chilling with Dad in Manhattan for a little mini-vacation. It made me sad that I wasn't there to see Stephen move in, to wish her happy birthday in person, won't be able to do the same for Dad, Steve, Grandparents, and other things. It wasn't demoralizing, but it was a "bummer" moment. I was listening to some music that always transports me back to late summer/all of fall back in what seems another world: senior year of high school and freshman year of college. The weather is very different, and I love the crisp of fall, the crunch of leaves, the transformation of ponds and rivers from (generally) pleasantly cool to ice water, the smell of mist and green in the morning, the mingling of the colors of the leaves and the green. Also, I just had a flashback to summers past, and it was beautifully bittersweet.

"Repotting" because it's the same thing wherever you travel: when a plant moves to a different pot or soil, it generally leaves some tendrils of its roots in the native soil. The connections are...undeniable and not going anywhere. And it'll be the same when in a few months I have to say goodbye to this place. I'll miss it. Never thought I'd miss DC my freshman year, and I was missing it last summer. It's cool, though, I like missing people. Motivates me to a) stay in touch and b) get more involved with the folks here. I just felt a moment of really liking the kids today. I've kinda felt it before, but it was a lot more pronounced this morning. So...without further ado, that's where I'm headed. Stateside, abroad, wherever you are, God bless, God speed, and much love.

Ahora, mientras mi mente no está funcionando...

2009-08-23T14:49:00.000-05:00

Pensaba que escribiría aquí.

Botched as my Spanish is, I find myself having trouble constructing English sentences and thoughts, too. I guess that's part of the process: I have to become unable to communicate in order to better comprehend the language. No, seriously.

It's been a good almost-week here: The first day or two were purely getting into a pattern of things. I have a cell phone to communicate with people here, I have the internet, I have drawers to store my clothes, I begin language school tomorrow...it's awesome.

I'm working with the 14/15/16 year olds (mostly 14/15) here at Ciudad. This is a huge operation, so let me explain what all goes into it. Ciudad de los Niños de la Inmaculada is an orphanage/thing that the Capuchin Franciscan friars run. They have 350-ish boys here. I include the "thing" specification (specific as it is) because it's an effective boarding school for many boys who have parents but come from destitute circumstances, have suffered abuse, etc. in addition to those who live here because they don't have parents who take care of them. It's hard to describe in full. They house kids from ages 3-18, i.e., the whole span of pre-primary through secondary education. There is a portion of the property that is a private school, in which both CdlN and non-CdlN can enroll (girls can enroll, too). The boys are split into various houses depending on grade level and age. I'm working with the awkward adolescents, which is an adventure and a challenge. The older kids also get some education in various trades through the various shops they have around Ciudad: they have a cobbler, a sewing shop, a farm with hens and pigs, an auto shop, a vineyard, a bakery...they're called "Talleres" in Spanish. Anyway, it functions as being sort of "shop" classes so that kids get an idea of how to do basic life skills, but it also helps maintain CdlN, and it gives the kids the ability to have a "trade" or sorts when they leave to tackle a career or the university.

The basic day for the older guys is as follows: Wake up, clean the household, get dressed and ready for school, eat, get backpacks and stuff for school, attend classes, come back for lunch, study/hang out a little bit, go to the various "talleres" until 5, study, go to communal prayer, dinner, study, bed.

I'm ready for sleep every night by the time dinner's over. Sheesh, it's a full-time job. Also, we wake up very early. Try
5:10 AM on school days. I thought I was a morning person, but my urge to hibernate when it's a cold, gray, usually somewhat wet morning (it's winter here) comes into conflict with being chipper.

Regarding Spanish-speaking, I'll admit it's tough. My Spanish is broken and barely proficient, and because I'm in overdrive by having to listen to it and decipher and interpret, etc., I feel like I'm regressing a bit. It's very difficult to not have the capacity to express anything more than the most basic needs (e.g., I'm hungry, thirsty, tired, not able to understand, confused, cold, warm, etc.), and so the feelings of being powerless and useless (ugh, especially useless) are hard to surmount, because I can't express frustration well, nor can I do much of anything that I imagine my role should be here. Yet.

The reminder that I've been here less than a week brings comfort. It's still very tough at moments throughout the day, and I'm thankful that there is ample free time on weekends to talk with Alyssa and Tania at night and rest a little bit during the day. Like now, for example. I do know that as comforting as it is to have some fellow expatriates here in solidarity, and as much as I need that connection and ability to communicate, a difficulty lies in having the internet around: The temptation is to shut down and/or do something inane like wikipedia for hours (it's become a luxury to do *anything* in English), so I have to be careful when trying to strike a balance.

I'm very grateful to be here, after it's all said and done. Even if the teenagers mumble and don't pronounce the words or think that my requesting, "Un poco más despacio, por favor," means "Communicate to me as if I am a Neanderthal incapable of expressing thoughts outside the realm of hand gestures and Spanglish" (which is actually more funny than anything else). It's a real exercise in trust and in being able to live with myself. I'm glad to have that opportunity. Hopefully I'll eventually be able to do something like service, but as language school doesn't even start till tomorrow, I think I can muster some patience. Also, I have 18 months left.

In retrospect, let me say this: I absolutely LOVED orientation, both international and CapCorps-specific. The people are absolutely wonderful, I look forward to seeing the two Nicaragua groups in a few months (5 is a few), and I certainly hope to keep in touch with the domestic groups, even if they'll be done with their time in CapCorps before we set foot on US soil again.

That all being said, it's time to do something else. I'm horrible about remembering concrete things I've done, but Alyssa and Tania have photographic evidence that will manifest itself on Facebook at sometime, I'm sure. Until next time, peace and all the good will I can muster to you all. God bless!

¡Aquí!

2009-08-19T06:59:00.000-05:00

Greetings from Perú!

Well, I woke up at quarter to 6 this morning and expected to feel tired. I don't. I guess that's the way that things go when breakfast's at 6:30 and you go to bed around 10.

I'm at this place called Ciudad de los Niños. It's an orphanage and residential school that the Capuchin Franciscans run. We've been running around so much that we haven't had time to make a tour, but that will happen after Mass in about an hour. The place is awesome. The boys are fantastic, the friars and staff are so friendly and inviting and hospitable, my apartment is part of a library, and man, this is gonna be awesome. Difficult, frustrating at times, but awesome.

The transition is a slow one: lots of English still, we haven't gotten started with our jobs, and we begin language school this next Monday, so we have some down time. We're getting very slowly acclimated to this little gem in San Juan de Miraflores, Lima, Perú.

I apologize for the brevity, but I don't feel right blogging at this hour on my second full day here. I've got a lot still to do! Much love to all those back in the states!