Family and Friends,
One month more. Gratitude is the sentiment that comes to mind as I reflect back on the past 10 months. I am just so grateful.
As the year comes to a close and little more than a month remains, I thought it best to do something a little bit different. Attached you will find seven newsletters within one. One excerpt has been taken from each volunteer in Argentina throughout different moments and moods of the year. My hope is that by reading it, you will feel connected to the volunteers who have supported and shared their lives and stories with me (and now, with you), throughout the year; and also that you will gain a greater understanding of our brothers and sisters of Christ in Argentina.
If your name is James, Kate, Kevin, Kim, Kirsten, or Kristina and you are living in Argentina right now, you are not allowed to read this newsletter until after our retreat. It is one of our morning devotions. Seriously. Don't read it.
Attached is the newsletter. Enjoy.
Karin
****************************************
Ubuntu:
I am because you are.
Africans have this thing called Ubuntu. It is about the essence of being human. It embraces hospitality, caring about others, being able to go the extra mile for the sake of others. I am human because I belong. It speaks about wholeness; it speaks about compassion. We believe that a person is a person through another person; we affirm our humanity when we acknowledge that of others. My humanity is caught up, bound up, inextricably, with yours. A person with Ubuntu is welcoming, hospitable, warm and generous, willing to share. Such people are open and available to others, willing to be vulnerable, affirming of others, do not feel threatened that others are able and good, for they have a proper self-assurance that comes from knowing that they belong in a greater whole. When I dehumanize you, I inexorably dehumanize myself. The solitary human being is a contradiction in terms and therefore you seek to work for the common good because your humanity comes into its own in belonging. The quality of Ubuntu gives people resilience, enabling them to survive and emerge still human despite all efforts to dehumanize them.
-Archbishop Desmond Tutu
________________________________________________________________________
“Che it looks like the end of the world is coming. “
“ Nah it’s probably just going to rain real hard” I said. But the clouds kept racing across the sky in a way I’ve rarely seen them move before. What made me worry was the fact that you couldn’t hear any of the birds that usually sing around that time of day there song had been replaced by other noises.
“ Che Andre what’s that noise?” asked Marcos.
“ It sounds like the boards from the construction next door being rattled together.” I said.
“ No, it’s not that.”
Now I really got worried as pastor Andrea’s made a face as if she was remembering something very unpleasant. The wind that was moving the clouds touched the earth and started blowing us around. Wuuuuuuuuuuu, wuuuuuuuuuu came the sound and the water tank that is almost as tall and wide as I am tall started to drag across the ground! Andrea, Marcos and I pushed it into the hall way in between houses and then tried to put the door to the yard back on being that we had to take it off its hinges in the first place to get the tank out side. We had barely hooked it and we’re trying to shut the door when hail the size of balled up fists started to fall inside sliding into the hallway threatening to smack us on the feet. We fell into action I grabbed a large wooden table top and threw it across the entrance because the doors weren’t closing, Eugenia one of the girls who also lives at HUL had come down stairs to see what was going on I looked at her and said “ Euge the window’s in the office are open! “ She ran up stairs and closed all the window blinds of the house that are made out of wood and scroll down as part of the architecture of the window. It started to rain and the lights went out…
We all heard the glass, we heard how things were shattering not only in the temple but in the house as well. . . We listened in that present darkness to how the world around us was breaking. But just as in that first Holy Friday the suffering came to an end and we were able to in the darkness light candles and bare witness to those things that had been lost and a midst all the brokenness realize how much God loves us.
Resurrection, Sunday in the morning others arrived for breakfast before service and as we sat drinking tea and eating pastries we looked at the blue sky that broke through what had survived of the yellow glass. As I said in the beginning storms can take many things and leave others, for us we were left with the reminder of a promise of an act of love on our behalf by means of the brokenness of a body that was resurrected. It means an opportunity to realize that we are not alone and that those who we least expected it from have reached out form the four corners to accompany us in this faith walk. From that day we have felt the support of the communities and how most importantly God keeps us very close to his heart.
-Kristina, La Plata
It is about the essence of being human. It embraces hospitality, caring about others, being able to go the extra mile for the sake of others. I am human because I belong. It speaks about wholeness, it speaks about compassion. We believe that a person is a person through another person;
As we set out two years ago on this journey to South America, I did not fully comprehend that our destination was not a geographic place but rather a spiritual and theological place within ourselves. The process of getting there is a gradual leaving behind of all that is known and certain, of all that comes to define us if we do not let it go and see what is left.
I now have the sense that I’ve reached the Land’s End of my spiritual geography—a craggy ledge hanging over the raging sea. There is not another step of firm ground in front of me. I feel raw and exposed.
It is only now, as I stand completely exposed to the ocean that rages before me, the sea of my own darkness and the darkness of a world of human injustice that I am fully open to receiving God’s grace. It is only from my own vulnerability that I can begin to comprehend Christ’s crucifixion as God’s ultimate act of solidarity with human suffering and brokenness. In the paradox of the Cross, Christ saves us from our sinful nature by completely submitting to the imperial domination of political, economic, and religious powers of his day. “Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.”
God’s call to us as a Church and as individuals is not to turn back from the raging sea of human injustice and suffering but to let it penetrate and transform us. God does not call me to seek consolation for my sorry but rather to heed it as a sacred clamor from deep within, urging me to be an ever more committed instrument of transformation and hope in this broken world.
-Kate, Buenos Aires
We affirm our humanity when we acknowledge that of others. My humanity is caught up, bound up, inextricably, with yours;
By taking the step to participate in the YAGM program, one makes the most of their year by dedicating their lives to a greater cause. As scary and uncertain as this unknown may be, it is an invaluable opportunity. When considering the YAGM program I asked myself, ‘If not now, then when?’ which is a question that has helped me to take advantage of every situation. Tomorrow is never a guarantee, so each experience today – every fight between the kids at La Obra, every smile, every struggle, every beso – needs to be lived to the max. That is what these last two months are for me, taking it all in and taking advantage of each moment and opportunity.
During a conversation with one of the adults from Minnesota, I asked what struck her most about Uruguayan culture. Not to my surprise, she immediately spoke about the Uruguayans’ friendliness and the importance of sharing. This conversation definitely confirmed what I have seen thus far; if nothing else, this year has shown me the importance of sharing your gifts, love and resources with your community. Even though one apple isn’t much, you can always cut it to share with another - with as little or as much as you have, it is more important to enjoy it together than to keep it for yourself. It was wonderful to be able to have these conversations and to see the best of both cultures throughout the week.
-Kirsten, Montevideo
A person with Ubuntu is welcoming, hospitable, warm and generous, willing to share;
For the past two weeks, I have found Valentina´s shoe in the corner. It is dirty white, no larger than the palm of my hand, and there is always just one. I thought little of this at first, until it kept showing up: same spot, same foot. Later I saw standing in its place a plastic, purple and pink high-heal--the kind that Barbie wears, only made a couple of sizes larger to fit 3-year-old Valentina´s left foot perfectly.
So each day, for the past two weeks, Valentina has teeter-tottered around the room, one heel two inches larger than the other. It throws her a little off balance, often causing her to stumble and, on occasion, fall down. Regardless, every morning there is a little white shoe in the corner, and it belongs to Valentina.
As a friend recently wrote in a letter, now is the time in my abroad experience where I have "stopped redefining what it means to live, and instead started living it." All of the expectations and ideas I entered into this with have fallen away, and I am instead focusing on just living. And I am loving it.
Valentina´s plastic and pink high-heal requires me to ask which shoe am I failing to put on because there is only one, or because I will walk a little crooked while wearing it, or because I will be more likely to fall as I walk? These past five months have taught me that our human brokenness and vulnerability can be the bridge between us if we allow it. It is a lesson I am still learning.
-Karin, Comodoro Rivadavia
Such people are open and available to others, willing to be vulnerable, affirming of others, do not feel threatened that others are able and good, for they have a proper self-assurance that comes from knowing that they belong in a greater whole;
In early April, I spent the morning with Alberto and his wife on their farm. They took me on a tour of their pig farm, and showed me where they were drying the tobacco to be sold in Alem later in the month. He explained to me the oppressive system of tobacco producing, in which he is involved. In order to grow the tobacco, the company requires that he buy the tobacco seeds, the fertilizer, the chemicals, even the compost and soil, from the company. The money spent in buying the products will be taken off the final cost of the final product of tobacco at a high rate. The company explains to Alberto exactly how to grow the tobacco, and hires workers to come to his farm to make sure that he is following all of the procedures explained to him. If he has not followed correctly, money will be taken off his final product as well. The actually growing process involves the application of dangerous chemicals, ones that inhibit the growth of the tobacco flower, to continue the growth of the leaves. This chemical is not permitted usage in the United States of America because of its toxicity level! The most frustrating aspect is the soil that the producer is required to buy. Why on earth would a producer need to buy soil that has been shipped from New York when the red soil of Misiones is known to be extremely fertile? The collection, drying, and sorting process is a while other story. After Alberto has sorted and bunched his tobacco together, he will bring it to a collective in Alem that will evaluate his crop and give him a final value. After he is given his final value, the debt that is owed will be taken off. This last year, Alberto earned about $7,000 pesos, which is equivalent to less than $2,500 U.S.D. And that is Alberto’s annual income.
How is it possible that people are spending the amount of money on cigarettes, and the tobacco companies are making billions of dollars a year, and yet Alberto comes out with $2,500 a year? It is hard for me to take in the lack of equality in this system. This year, I am working with producers to search for other methods to bring in an annual income, other than a work that not only generates very little income, but also puts its producers at risk daily. Producers suffer for not only the chemicals that they are exposed to in the producing, but also a high daily dose of second hand smoke, just from working with the crop. Producers suffer from high risks of emphysema and cancer due to the working of this crop.
-Kim, Obera
When I dehumanize you, I inexorably dehumanize myself;
Focus, Che, Focus
Yesterday, Wilma and I were talking in the church office about this. I remember how slowly the first few months passed. My brain was still desperately trying to recall how to piece together coherent sentences, and then conversations, in Spanish; I didn’t know how to do anything work-wise; I didn’t know anyone, and the language struggle was only making that harder. Time dragged; every day felt like a week. Then, sometime in early November, the ice in my brain thawed and the water began to flow again. Carrying on a conversation in Spanish no longer felt like a torture devised by the Inquisition (perhaps “NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!” is the best tagline for my language struggles of September and October), work frustrations became “this isn’t going to plan” as opposed to “what IS the plan?” and I began to feel surrounded by friends rather than just sympathetic strangers. And, just like a river, the time began to flow – first a trickle, then a slow-moving stream, and then the Amazon, forcing its way on to the sea.
And now, I can practically see the breakers – Texas and my pre-Uruguay life, Chicago, who knows what surprises. I find myself asking myself the question – “what now?” How do I make these last few weeks count?
The answer came to me, as it often has this year, on Wednesday afternoon with the kids. One of the young ones, Federico, has glommed on to me. He always saves the spot next to him on the bench for me, and without fail, always ends up resting up against me within 15 minutes. There are the others, too. We always have a greeting/welcome song at the start of our time with the kids, and between the verses we go around and shake hands, joke around a little bit with the kids, etc. One of the girls, Gretel, has March acted very afraid of me since she joined us in March – I’ll stick out my hand, and she’ll shake her head no and look away. But last week...she shook my hand with a big smile on her face. After the welcome song, we listened to a story that came with a song (a monkey cumbia). We all got up and danced to the song (yes, me too), and everyone, every single kid (and the three adults, and even Milton when he popped in the room to see how things were going), danced like a goofball and belted out the song (and occasional monkey noise) with gusto. Everyone danced together, too – people took turns spinning others and being spun, we had a conga (erm, cumbia) line at one point.
I guess that’s the answer to my question. When the monkey cumbia is blaring, you dance. When the students show up with English, North American or African Geography, History, Chemistry, Music, or Computer Science/Information and Research Skills homework, you work with them. When the cook is looking bored in the kitchen, you chat and joke around with her. When the big life questions come up in Bible Study, you talk. When the time is running short, you don’t just watch the sand slip away and feel poorly about it. You accept, reluctantly at times, that such is life, and you make the most of what you have, and you save your Dogon Country daydreams for later.
-Kevin, Montevideo
The solitary human being is a contradiction in terms and therefore you seek to work for the common good because your humanity comes into its own in belonging;
“Do you like life?” I was asked tonight by my friend as we sat and drank mate at her house. When I started my normal speech of the things I enjoy doing and dreams I have, she stopped me, and clarified by saying the question again. “Do you like life? Not your life James, who wouldn’t like your life, you’ve been all over, you are talented, no, Do you like life, sickness, hatred, hunger, and everything that is involved in the human condition” I walked around the barrio after that question in a sort of stunned state. I looked at my surroundings and saw the dirt roads after rain the night before that are impassable now. I thought of the shack homes of pieces of wood and scrap metal that I see as I take the bus to and from the barrio, without water or electricity. I thought about the Toba Indians that are dying of hunger every day here in the Chaco, and I pondered this question. I am almost embarrassed sometimes to talk about how easy my life has been. It is hard to demonstrate to someone that you understand that life is hard, when they tell you that they were hit everyday as a child, and when they ask you about your life you can only answer that your parents love you move than anything in the world. It is hard to show you understand when a 26 year old woman tells you about the three jobs she works to provide for her mother, grandmother, and aunt on top of studying in college. The money I’ve made from working has gone towards vacations, clothes, and coffee shops.
There is so much joy here though, as much as I have seen in anyplace I have been. Kids still laugh at every opportunity. People love to dance, ohh how they love to dance. People help each other, and we talk about how fun falling in love is. In the horrible oppression that this world offers up, most from other humans and their actions, people always find opportunities to laugh and to love. Dancing all night on a dirt patio, watching kids draw and color for hours, drinking mate and talking for hours, being shown a drum set that is made from scrap metal and wood, people sharing food with me, Sunday dinners where they stay and talk for the rest of the day talking after the meal. These are all things that I have seen in the midst of poverty, that make me think that I do like life.
-James, Resistencia
The quality of Ubuntu gives people resilience, enabling them to survive and emerge still human despite all efforts to dehumanize them.
I am because you are.
Showing posts with label Argentina and Uruguay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Argentina and Uruguay. Show all posts
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
May Newsletter - Kevin in Uruguay
This month´s topic: simplicity.It´s amazing how often we use, and hear, the word "simple." Keep it simple, stupid. The simple life. This whatchamacallit is simply amazing. Simple minds, simple pleasures. Simply irresistable. Plain and simple. For the older or old-fashionedly polite, there's talk sometimes about the "simple" aunt or cousin who has the mind of a child in an adult's body. The word "simple" is so used that we sometimes forget what it really means - simply put, simple is simply meaningless to the average person in the U.S.So, you can imagine the sort of questions I had in my mind when I was asked to live "simply" during my year as a YAGM. How simple is simple, after all? Was this mandate to live simply a rigid rule, or a set of basic guidelines and principles? Is simple what the poorest people I work with would consider what's needed to live, or a middle class person? Is there a universal form of simple living, or does it depend on social and cultural context?The simple life of this YAGM has been a journey. In order to play it safe, I began the year living as simply, or perhaps more accurately, as cheaply as was feasible. Why take a bus when you can walk, even if it IS 10 C and raining? No, I don't need to buy meat - beans have plenty of protein and are better for you anyhow. My own mate and associated items isn't necessary - everyone else has them, and in the morning at work, the yerba is just a part of operating costs, so it's not even as if I'm taking advantage of people. Sampling local goodies, like beer, pizza with cheese, alfajores...not that necessary. New clothes? Naw, don't need those, either, even if my wardrobe isn't suited to the climate.Six or seven weeks into this sort of simple-to-the-point-of-monastic-vows lifestyle, I faced my first simple living crisis. For our choir concert in Colonia, I was expected to have black pants. I didn't own any. I either had to buy pants or else throw off our groove and, let's be honest, be the subject of jokes from Seba and Fafre. So, I bought pants...I paid more than I would've really liked, but so it goes. I took care of an honest need, and did it in a fairly budget-friendly way...and I didn't feel bad about it afterwards, or like a total rich yanqui. I did what an Uruguayan would've done if they didn't know anyone their size to borrow from. Simple life lesson number one: Living simply isn't being a skinflint; it's being a wise, thoughtful steward.I started to wonder if I was REALLY living the right sort of simply after the pants episode. After all, even the just-scraping-by doorman in the building was able to spring for a pizza now and again, and the broke college students always seemed to have bus fare, plus ground beef and cerveza in the fridge. Of course, things were seldom done alone - my grupo de jóvenes friends would never spend 300 pesos on a meal for just one person. That amount of money would be spent to make one or two big dishes of insert-your-favorite-food-here, and then the whole gang would come over and bring a drink or bag of chips - everyone brought something to the table. Then, the next weekend, someone else would have a party, and the person who'd shelled out the most bucks and effort for last week's just brought a 20 peso bag of chips, and ya está. There were (well, are) the meals, too, where one person would do the grocery shopping, save the receipt, and after dinner, divide the amount by the number of guests and ask for, say, 30 pesos a head. From all of this, I learned simple life lesson number two: living simply means living in community - sharing, giving, and trusting that other people will share and give, too.Life got more fun after that, suffice it to say. Then, the holidays rolled around, which raised two new themes - gift-giving and traveling. I decided to try my hand at making Christmas gifts; after all, you always hear of people doing it and then talking about how much more rewarding it was than just buying a gift card (much less an ugly sweater or fruitcake), and what better time to try it out than while living in another country? I made salsa for Wilma and Milton's families, picture cds for family and friends back home, and "free-dinner" coupons for my housemates. I'm not likely to go back to the world of just buying a quick gift and calling it done. I felt connected to the people I gave gifts to - it wasn't a soulless card, for a change. It wasn't safe, though - after all, a $20 giftcard to your favorite store is guaranted to please, unlike "hey, I'm making you the dinner of your choice - hope I know how to cook it!" I learned lesson three: living simply is being willing to take a risk now and then.Then, it was time to travel. How does one travel simply? I did what I normally did - stayed in hostels. You meet cool people and save money - so long as there's not a snorer in the room, it's great. I looked for free, or at least cheap, things to do - I went on day-hikes, walked around the towns I was in, hung out with people from my hostel. That enabled some sharing of costs for things like, say, a beer, or a pizza at a restaurant. I tried to figure out the free museum days for various place I visited and planned, within reason, accordingly - why pay today to get into a museum you can go see for free tomorrow? As for food, eat where the normal people eat - the food's probably better there, anyway. I also found bus services that included food, so I got transportation and a meal for one price. For those days spent hiking, there's nothing wrong with packing a sandwich, some fruit, and a bottle of water. And, you know what? My two big trips in South America, plus my African travels and Eurobackpacking-on-a-bidget have been way more fun than the three, pre-packaged, live like a tourist excursions in Europe I did in high school (well, 2 in high school, and once chaperoning for my high school as a college sophomore). Lesson four - living simply when you travel lets you see the world in much richer ways, and brings you closer to the people you meet along the way.So, that all was some time ago, and besides, we all know that nobody has four lessons on their list - it's three lessons, or five lessons. Not four - either shut up early or talk until we come full circle. The summer (well, MY summer) rolled on without simple life difficulties, and then came fall. We were blessed in that the fall was long, warm, and sunny...but I knew winter was coming. Short, dreary days, lots of rain, plenty of cold. I mentioned, several lessons ago, that my wardrobe wasn't suited for the end of the Montevideano winter. That didn't magically change during the spring and summer. I had to go clothes shopping. I combined my shopping with a trip to Argentina, since clothes are cheaper there. I didn't go to boutiques and hit up large, bargain-friendly stores...and the Salvation Army for a coat. So, we're set for winter...but there was one thing lacking. Many people who know me also know that, perhaps, my feet tend to sweat a lot when they get closed up inside shoes. Wthout going into a ton of detail here, this results in rather odiforous feet, socks, and shoes, and the latter item just perpetuates the cycle. In summer, this isn't a problem - I wear sandals, my feet air dry, and no problem is had. However, in the winter, when wearing sandals outdoors would probably result in a lot of cold, wet foot discomfort, they get closed up all day in my boots, and así viene el problema. So...I bought the Uruguayan equivalent of Gold Bond powder to dry my feet and shoes while wiping out odor. And so, I learned lesson five, which is really just a corollary of lesson one: simple living doesn't come at the expense of self-care; you yourself are an asset to protect and care for, not simply a valueless blob of matter. Being a good steward means being a good steward of your body, too.Living simply isn't always the easiest path. After all, it does require sacrifices - not buying this book I want today so I can get produce at the fair tomorrow. It requires budgeting, and (that hardest of things) self-discipline. But...it pays off. Sure, it saves money. You learn what you need to live, what you want to make living easier, and what you want simply because it's a luxury and you want it, and you learn how to prioritize those things. You learn that yes, you can in fact use empanada shells to make tortillas for 1/3 the price you'd have paid for the imported tortillas at the store. Even better, you learn to be part of a community. You learn that life is people and your times with them, and not the things you have or the money you spend.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
newsletter - James in Argentina
April is a journal filled with memories now. Things are happening here, inside me and the barrio. Energy that moves and produces scenes of whirling creativity and beauty. A start to the tale of April could be my birthday where I spent my 21st amongst sixty screaming children and surrounded by the people I have come to love so genuinely here. It was a quick celebration as sixty children in a small room with cake and soda is always a difficult force to contain, but the letters written by the friends I’ve made here will be carried with me as such powerful symbols of love and acceptance.
Shared poetry and music.
We send an entire day organizing a concert of a band we produce that day. La Paz we call ourselves. As the tale spins from 10 in the morning until the eventual concert at 4, the children create signs and banners displaying our name. As I learn anew everyday, the preparation of something is often more important than the event itself. We are presented shyly by a 14 year old who takes his role of announcer as seriously as possible. Oscar is his name. I on the guitar and vocals, giving ridiculous explanations of songs I clearly didn’t create. Victor, a 15 year old, laying down a rhythm on a drum set he created from scrap everything and anything. Alfredo, a ten year old, faking the best he can a bass beat on a nylon string guitar with the truest smile I have ever witnessed. It is the most rewarding concert of my life.
Sharing a meal made for 3, with 14 children, and it being enough. My greedy mind is always surprised by such happenings and demonstrations of selflessness.
A group and I go around the barrio drawing anything in nature that we find beautiful, in hopes of using the drawings for a future mural. Trees, plants, and animals are brilliantly represented using the simple medium of markers in that, one line can represent the world, style that children instinctually have.
An afternoon spent playing camp games in an international day of peace.
More shared poetry.
I spend a day planning a puppet show with a group of 6 year olds. A donkey, horse, and Minnie and Mickey, teach the other children watching, about the importance of telling your family where you are going when leaving the house. 100% produced by the children. It is a simple display of the creativity the mind of the young contain.
Leaf piles and walking the rest of the day with hair filled with little leaf memories of the joy that I have been a part of.
Teaching English to two little girls using the donkey puppet for no real reason at all, and listening to them respond in such funny accents as they pronounce their first English words.
Colonia, Uruguay becomes in my mind the land of Santo Lindo, an old Brazilian musician who teaches me the real soul of the blues, a top his improvised garbage can drum. He tells me of the power that music has, above skin color, creed, and race, as we drive down the narrow cobble stone streets in his 47 ford. The beauty of the fall back to earth, as we are launched into the air going over speed bumps, waiting for the next in the hope to hear that deep wild belly laugh of his. The word wonderful will forever be dedicated to you Santo Lindo.
Moments, beautiful moments in every corner of my life. Moments on beaches, in grass, in dirt, on porches. Feelings of floating with arms wrapped around pure sorrow searching for words I still haven’t found. My memories become color as friends here bring up the past which I am now a part of. I am surrounded by such positive energy here in my life and the gospel becomes action with that presence near by. I am fascinated with the idea of being able to improve one’s actions in this life. That I am wholly who I am, but that I have a power in what I am in the lives of other, positive or negative, and that we can use our time to improve the lives of others. I am influenced.
james
Shared poetry and music.
We send an entire day organizing a concert of a band we produce that day. La Paz we call ourselves. As the tale spins from 10 in the morning until the eventual concert at 4, the children create signs and banners displaying our name. As I learn anew everyday, the preparation of something is often more important than the event itself. We are presented shyly by a 14 year old who takes his role of announcer as seriously as possible. Oscar is his name. I on the guitar and vocals, giving ridiculous explanations of songs I clearly didn’t create. Victor, a 15 year old, laying down a rhythm on a drum set he created from scrap everything and anything. Alfredo, a ten year old, faking the best he can a bass beat on a nylon string guitar with the truest smile I have ever witnessed. It is the most rewarding concert of my life.
Sharing a meal made for 3, with 14 children, and it being enough. My greedy mind is always surprised by such happenings and demonstrations of selflessness.
A group and I go around the barrio drawing anything in nature that we find beautiful, in hopes of using the drawings for a future mural. Trees, plants, and animals are brilliantly represented using the simple medium of markers in that, one line can represent the world, style that children instinctually have.
An afternoon spent playing camp games in an international day of peace.
More shared poetry.
I spend a day planning a puppet show with a group of 6 year olds. A donkey, horse, and Minnie and Mickey, teach the other children watching, about the importance of telling your family where you are going when leaving the house. 100% produced by the children. It is a simple display of the creativity the mind of the young contain.
Leaf piles and walking the rest of the day with hair filled with little leaf memories of the joy that I have been a part of.
Teaching English to two little girls using the donkey puppet for no real reason at all, and listening to them respond in such funny accents as they pronounce their first English words.
Colonia, Uruguay becomes in my mind the land of Santo Lindo, an old Brazilian musician who teaches me the real soul of the blues, a top his improvised garbage can drum. He tells me of the power that music has, above skin color, creed, and race, as we drive down the narrow cobble stone streets in his 47 ford. The beauty of the fall back to earth, as we are launched into the air going over speed bumps, waiting for the next in the hope to hear that deep wild belly laugh of his. The word wonderful will forever be dedicated to you Santo Lindo.
Moments, beautiful moments in every corner of my life. Moments on beaches, in grass, in dirt, on porches. Feelings of floating with arms wrapped around pure sorrow searching for words I still haven’t found. My memories become color as friends here bring up the past which I am now a part of. I am surrounded by such positive energy here in my life and the gospel becomes action with that presence near by. I am fascinated with the idea of being able to improve one’s actions in this life. That I am wholly who I am, but that I have a power in what I am in the lives of other, positive or negative, and that we can use our time to improve the lives of others. I am influenced.
james
Monday, April 28, 2008
April Newsletter - Kevin in Uruguay
This month´s newsletter will, like February´s, be a departure from the Franklin´s Choice formula, albeit for a different reason this time around; namely, that Franklin hasn´t sent us a prompt and it´s almost the end of the month. Today´s topic: Time.
It has been almost 8 months since my arrival in South America. Two-thirds of a year have gone by. When I left the United States, John McCain was all but being encouraged to drop out of the presidential race, Barack Obama wasn´t a household name, and gas still cost less than $3.00 a gallon in southeast Texas. No news organizations had put up hyperlinks to a New York call girl´s MySpace page yet, no senators had been accused of lewd acts in airport bathrooms, and an ounce of rice did not yet have the same approximate value of an ounce of pure gold. The Patriots hadn´t had a perfect season (yet still lost the Super Bowl), the Rockets hadn´t won twenty games in a row, and nobody thought that an Olympic torch relay could become political. There was no “Soulja Boy” on the radio, the screenwriter´s guild hadn´t gone on strike yet, and movies that came out about the time I left are now being released on DVD.
I feel, in some ways, a little bit like a cultural Rip Van Winkle. I remember when I came back to the U.S. after a half-year in Africa and Europe. People would whine about how overplayed certain songs were, only to get a puzzled look from me…half the time, I hadn´t even heard the song in question! I had no idea what was playing at the movie theatre, and I definitely couldn´t tell you what was on T.V.
However, I´m not in a vacuum. My eight months in Uruguay have been filled with other changes. When I arrived, the peso was 24 to the dollar; now, it´s 20 to one. Bus fare was 15.50 pesos; now, it´s 13.50. Argentina still had a male president, and the Partido Colorado hadn´t lost an election for decades in Paraguay. Patito Feo is at least not QUITE as omnipresent, and we all know who ended up with who at the end of “Son de Fierro.” When I arrived, Agarrate Catalina hadn´t swept the Carnaval competition, no shroud of smoke had prompted Uruguayans to dare Argentina to say the word “papermill” again, and it was potatoes and tomatoes, not rice, that were prohibitively expensive.
More personally, I couldn´t read a novel in Spanish (and DEFINITELY could not read Jorge Luis Borges, like I´m doing at the moment), or remember how to say “I´m excited” rather than “I´m exciting” en español. The members at Nuestro Salvador had never heard of enchiladas, tacos, or the Texas Longhorns, and the members included several people fewer than now. La Obra was physically about half as large as it is now, there were 35 rather than 54 kids enrolled in the afternoon program, Fabiana hadn´t had her baby yet, Natalia was out for a sprained wrist, and neither Roman nor Patricia had come, or gone, yet. I weighed 30 pounds more, had a moustache, and much shorter hair on September 5th, and I´d never worked with kids for longer than a few hours every now and again.
I think of the people, too. José, one of the students who comes to La Obra for homework help, has a new, deeper voice compared to when we first got here. His older brother, Gustavo, and another participant from the first half of the year, Ximena, passed all the required exams to move on to the more specialized upper levels of secondary school. Santiago, one of the kids in Escuelita 1, is now no longer missing both of his two front teeth…suffice it to say his Dracula impression has now been ruined, as his canines don´t stand out nearly as much these days. Alejandra, the five year old daughter of two of Carlos and Carla at Nuestro Salvador, has started learning English at school and can count to 10...not always in the right order, but she knows all the words. The grupo de jóvenes at the Valdense church has changed some, as well – a few people have graduated and moved away from the city, and there are some new faces in the group, too. Dorothea is back in Germany, working hard at the university; I have to confess that I miss my talking-about-the-kids-and-making-fun-of-the-news partner.
And then there are the things that are coming full circle. The weather reminds me of October here – sunny and 22 C one day, cloudy and 15 C the next…or occasionally all in the same day. The days are getting short again. Activities that took summer breaks, like the choir at the Valdense church, are back in full swing like nothing ever happened. People come into Centro de Estudios half-panicked about tests, just like in November. Life goes on; the more things change, the more things stay the same.
It has been almost 8 months since my arrival in South America. Two-thirds of a year have gone by. When I left the United States, John McCain was all but being encouraged to drop out of the presidential race, Barack Obama wasn´t a household name, and gas still cost less than $3.00 a gallon in southeast Texas. No news organizations had put up hyperlinks to a New York call girl´s MySpace page yet, no senators had been accused of lewd acts in airport bathrooms, and an ounce of rice did not yet have the same approximate value of an ounce of pure gold. The Patriots hadn´t had a perfect season (yet still lost the Super Bowl), the Rockets hadn´t won twenty games in a row, and nobody thought that an Olympic torch relay could become political. There was no “Soulja Boy” on the radio, the screenwriter´s guild hadn´t gone on strike yet, and movies that came out about the time I left are now being released on DVD.
I feel, in some ways, a little bit like a cultural Rip Van Winkle. I remember when I came back to the U.S. after a half-year in Africa and Europe. People would whine about how overplayed certain songs were, only to get a puzzled look from me…half the time, I hadn´t even heard the song in question! I had no idea what was playing at the movie theatre, and I definitely couldn´t tell you what was on T.V.
However, I´m not in a vacuum. My eight months in Uruguay have been filled with other changes. When I arrived, the peso was 24 to the dollar; now, it´s 20 to one. Bus fare was 15.50 pesos; now, it´s 13.50. Argentina still had a male president, and the Partido Colorado hadn´t lost an election for decades in Paraguay. Patito Feo is at least not QUITE as omnipresent, and we all know who ended up with who at the end of “Son de Fierro.” When I arrived, Agarrate Catalina hadn´t swept the Carnaval competition, no shroud of smoke had prompted Uruguayans to dare Argentina to say the word “papermill” again, and it was potatoes and tomatoes, not rice, that were prohibitively expensive.
More personally, I couldn´t read a novel in Spanish (and DEFINITELY could not read Jorge Luis Borges, like I´m doing at the moment), or remember how to say “I´m excited” rather than “I´m exciting” en español. The members at Nuestro Salvador had never heard of enchiladas, tacos, or the Texas Longhorns, and the members included several people fewer than now. La Obra was physically about half as large as it is now, there were 35 rather than 54 kids enrolled in the afternoon program, Fabiana hadn´t had her baby yet, Natalia was out for a sprained wrist, and neither Roman nor Patricia had come, or gone, yet. I weighed 30 pounds more, had a moustache, and much shorter hair on September 5th, and I´d never worked with kids for longer than a few hours every now and again.
I think of the people, too. José, one of the students who comes to La Obra for homework help, has a new, deeper voice compared to when we first got here. His older brother, Gustavo, and another participant from the first half of the year, Ximena, passed all the required exams to move on to the more specialized upper levels of secondary school. Santiago, one of the kids in Escuelita 1, is now no longer missing both of his two front teeth…suffice it to say his Dracula impression has now been ruined, as his canines don´t stand out nearly as much these days. Alejandra, the five year old daughter of two of Carlos and Carla at Nuestro Salvador, has started learning English at school and can count to 10...not always in the right order, but she knows all the words. The grupo de jóvenes at the Valdense church has changed some, as well – a few people have graduated and moved away from the city, and there are some new faces in the group, too. Dorothea is back in Germany, working hard at the university; I have to confess that I miss my talking-about-the-kids-and-making-fun-of-the-news partner.
And then there are the things that are coming full circle. The weather reminds me of October here – sunny and 22 C one day, cloudy and 15 C the next…or occasionally all in the same day. The days are getting short again. Activities that took summer breaks, like the choir at the Valdense church, are back in full swing like nothing ever happened. People come into Centro de Estudios half-panicked about tests, just like in November. Life goes on; the more things change, the more things stay the same.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Newsletter - James in Argentina
“The poor are poor because they do not want to work and are lazy, what you are doing here is good and all, but it is sort of well, useless”. I hear this phrase said with all the certainty in the world, a fact in the mind of a upper middle class woman I speak with here. I remain quiet the rest of my time with her trying to think of a response to a phrase that speaks against everything I hold true. I dissect the phrase and find story upon story to try to change this woman’s incredibly distorted view.
I think of a mother breaking down in tears telling me how ugly a life it is without an education. Her parents never cared enough or were too busy to encourage her to study, so she never did. She tells me the only jobs she can get, are cleaning the floors and toilets of the rich. She has dedicated her life now to stop that cycle from consuming her children’s life. She is studying now along side her children in order to be able to help and push them to study. She does this on top of working two jobs a day, volunteering in the comedor passing out milk and bread, and having a six, nine, ten, and twelve year old to bring to and from school, do laundry for, cook and being a wife. How could this be called lazy?
I think of my supervisor Ofelia spending all day working with a boy to write the story of his life. After learning to use a computer and typing the story up, he brought it to his parents who didn’t give him the light of day, not a word of encouragement. What is that boy’s motivation to continue with school if no one ever tells him that what he is doing is good?
A pair of brothers has just started school again because of the positive influence that Ofelia has on their lives. They could only start participating in the workshops if they started up with school again. After a month of reminding them everyday to enroll, and telling them they were too smart to waste there time without going to school, they themselves started up again. The incredibly influential power a positive force has in someone’s life. Where I work is a positive force in the barrio. It is a place where children feel loved and special, where they are encouraged to dream the big dreams and where they are challenged to treat others with respect. It is a place where we focus on matching our words with our conduct. Our lips speak the world love while we show it with our actions.
It is a frustrating reality because small change in individual lives is not noticeable by a passerby, or someone who lives a kilometer away from the barrio. Instead of seeing a woman who works every minute of her life struggling to be able to provide her children with a better future than the one she inherited, they will see a tipped over dumpster in the middle of the street with men along side dogs picking through the waste. Instead of seeing a child that just dedicated his day to help clean and fix the inside of a church they will be bothered by that same child asking them for change on the street at night. It is a frustrating but necessary struggle to work toward change that affects people one by one. It is the gospel. The son of the creator of the universe wandered around and listened to people’s problems and ate in people’s homes to talk about them. While Jesus was the savior of all of creation he still healed people one by one.
The poor are not poor because they are lazy. There is poverty because we have forgotten that every man, woman, and child on this earth, we are to love as our family. We can not talk about poverty as if it is a separate entity from the world of the rich and privileged. There is exists incredible wealth in the world because there exists systems of oppression and injustice that provide wealth for a select few while dealing out pain, hunger and disease to the majority of the globe. The gospel defies this reality. It teaches us to love and to care, and struggle one with one for a tomorrow that is better and more just than today.
-james
I think of a mother breaking down in tears telling me how ugly a life it is without an education. Her parents never cared enough or were too busy to encourage her to study, so she never did. She tells me the only jobs she can get, are cleaning the floors and toilets of the rich. She has dedicated her life now to stop that cycle from consuming her children’s life. She is studying now along side her children in order to be able to help and push them to study. She does this on top of working two jobs a day, volunteering in the comedor passing out milk and bread, and having a six, nine, ten, and twelve year old to bring to and from school, do laundry for, cook and being a wife. How could this be called lazy?
I think of my supervisor Ofelia spending all day working with a boy to write the story of his life. After learning to use a computer and typing the story up, he brought it to his parents who didn’t give him the light of day, not a word of encouragement. What is that boy’s motivation to continue with school if no one ever tells him that what he is doing is good?
A pair of brothers has just started school again because of the positive influence that Ofelia has on their lives. They could only start participating in the workshops if they started up with school again. After a month of reminding them everyday to enroll, and telling them they were too smart to waste there time without going to school, they themselves started up again. The incredibly influential power a positive force has in someone’s life. Where I work is a positive force in the barrio. It is a place where children feel loved and special, where they are encouraged to dream the big dreams and where they are challenged to treat others with respect. It is a place where we focus on matching our words with our conduct. Our lips speak the world love while we show it with our actions.
It is a frustrating reality because small change in individual lives is not noticeable by a passerby, or someone who lives a kilometer away from the barrio. Instead of seeing a woman who works every minute of her life struggling to be able to provide her children with a better future than the one she inherited, they will see a tipped over dumpster in the middle of the street with men along side dogs picking through the waste. Instead of seeing a child that just dedicated his day to help clean and fix the inside of a church they will be bothered by that same child asking them for change on the street at night. It is a frustrating but necessary struggle to work toward change that affects people one by one. It is the gospel. The son of the creator of the universe wandered around and listened to people’s problems and ate in people’s homes to talk about them. While Jesus was the savior of all of creation he still healed people one by one.
The poor are not poor because they are lazy. There is poverty because we have forgotten that every man, woman, and child on this earth, we are to love as our family. We can not talk about poverty as if it is a separate entity from the world of the rich and privileged. There is exists incredible wealth in the world because there exists systems of oppression and injustice that provide wealth for a select few while dealing out pain, hunger and disease to the majority of the globe. The gospel defies this reality. It teaches us to love and to care, and struggle one with one for a tomorrow that is better and more just than today.
-james
Saturday, April 5, 2008
February/March Newsletter - Karin in Argentina
"Every authentic encounter with God makes a person less insular, less complacent, and more restless, more inspired, more committed to the world and humankind."
Anthony Gitten
Every morning on my three-block walk to work, I pass Cordoba´s garden. It sits at the intersection of Avenida Kenney and La Roca, where people pass by with frequency and immediacy, myself included. In the past seven months, I have acquired many saludos and smiles, three potted-plants, a handful of Valentine´s day chocolates, and a poster. I encounter God in Cordoba.
My mornings begin at the guardaria, a daycare center for 35 children providing support for surrounding low-income neighborhoods. I see God in Ana, my co-worker, who gives everything that she has to the children and their families. She spends over-time hours on chocolate bunnies at Easter, ornaments at Christmas, and handmade cards for Mother's Day. I see God in her hospitality, organization, and efforts to integrate me into her community in Comodoro by welcoming me into her family, her church, and her daycare center. I encounter God in Ana.
I see God in the food and support of Elsa, the cook, who is always nearby to help when I feel overwhelmed and who makes, I am convinced, the best food served at any daycare center in the entire world. I see God in our early morning, five-minute chats, where she talks about her sore muscles from the gym the previous night and I talk about my sore pansa, or tummy, from my dinner the previous night (which, proportionately, could have fed 5). I see God in Elsa´s efforts to bring home to me on those tough days, by making my favorite apple pancake recipe and cooking up personal Elsa favorites. I encounter God in Elsa.
I see God in the children, like Tiziano, who has a kick and catch that is bound to make him one of the greatest futbol players of his time, in Sophia who is shy but strong, in Mariano, whose smile could make anyone melt, and in Tomas, who loves to read and learn, and who can sing "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" louder than all of the rest combined. God is made clear to me in their simplicity and affection. I encounter God in the children.
I see God in the untiring patience and gracious teaching of Monica. She cares, she listens, and she shares her life with me. Even when it takes me mistake after mistake and sentence after sentence to articulate thoughts in Spanish, Monica listens. She is, to me, a face of kindness, concern, compassion, and understanding.
I see God on Saturday nights at Estudio Biblico, where ten or so neighborhood children gather together to learn, play games, and work together. I see God in the hours we spend jumping rope, drawing and eating cookies. I also see God in the service that follows, with the familiar melodies and chords of Holden Evening Prayer or La Oracion de La Tarde.
I encounter God in my next-door neighbors: Gustavo, Solange, Leandro (10), and Lourdes (8). I see God in the chick-flick and pochoclo, or popcorn nights with Solange, in the home-made pizzas of Gustavo, in the card games and laughter of Leandro, and in the drawings of Lourdes´ that cover my refrigerator. I hear God as we sit around and share laughter and conversation together, either over mate, or The Simpson's, or current political events. There is always an extra chair that sits around the dinner table. I encounter God in my neighbors.
So there it is, a year made up of small kindnesses, and endless encounters with the living God.
Que Dios te bendiga,
Karin
Anthony Gitten
Every morning on my three-block walk to work, I pass Cordoba´s garden. It sits at the intersection of Avenida Kenney and La Roca, where people pass by with frequency and immediacy, myself included. In the past seven months, I have acquired many saludos and smiles, three potted-plants, a handful of Valentine´s day chocolates, and a poster. I encounter God in Cordoba.
My mornings begin at the guardaria, a daycare center for 35 children providing support for surrounding low-income neighborhoods. I see God in Ana, my co-worker, who gives everything that she has to the children and their families. She spends over-time hours on chocolate bunnies at Easter, ornaments at Christmas, and handmade cards for Mother's Day. I see God in her hospitality, organization, and efforts to integrate me into her community in Comodoro by welcoming me into her family, her church, and her daycare center. I encounter God in Ana.
I see God in the food and support of Elsa, the cook, who is always nearby to help when I feel overwhelmed and who makes, I am convinced, the best food served at any daycare center in the entire world. I see God in our early morning, five-minute chats, where she talks about her sore muscles from the gym the previous night and I talk about my sore pansa, or tummy, from my dinner the previous night (which, proportionately, could have fed 5). I see God in Elsa´s efforts to bring home to me on those tough days, by making my favorite apple pancake recipe and cooking up personal Elsa favorites. I encounter God in Elsa.
I see God in the children, like Tiziano, who has a kick and catch that is bound to make him one of the greatest futbol players of his time, in Sophia who is shy but strong, in Mariano, whose smile could make anyone melt, and in Tomas, who loves to read and learn, and who can sing "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" louder than all of the rest combined. God is made clear to me in their simplicity and affection. I encounter God in the children.
I see God in the untiring patience and gracious teaching of Monica. She cares, she listens, and she shares her life with me. Even when it takes me mistake after mistake and sentence after sentence to articulate thoughts in Spanish, Monica listens. She is, to me, a face of kindness, concern, compassion, and understanding.
I see God on Saturday nights at Estudio Biblico, where ten or so neighborhood children gather together to learn, play games, and work together. I see God in the hours we spend jumping rope, drawing and eating cookies. I also see God in the service that follows, with the familiar melodies and chords of Holden Evening Prayer or La Oracion de La Tarde.
I encounter God in my next-door neighbors: Gustavo, Solange, Leandro (10), and Lourdes (8). I see God in the chick-flick and pochoclo, or popcorn nights with Solange, in the home-made pizzas of Gustavo, in the card games and laughter of Leandro, and in the drawings of Lourdes´ that cover my refrigerator. I hear God as we sit around and share laughter and conversation together, either over mate, or The Simpson's, or current political events. There is always an extra chair that sits around the dinner table. I encounter God in my neighbors.
So there it is, a year made up of small kindnesses, and endless encounters with the living God.
Que Dios te bendiga,
Karin
Monday, March 31, 2008
March Newsletter - Kim in Argentina
When he had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, saying, ‘Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks you, “Why are you untying it?” just say this: “The Lord needs it.” ’ So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, ‘Why are you untying the colt?’ They said, ‘The Lord needs it.’ Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying,
‘Blessed is the king
who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven,
and glory in the highest heaven!’
Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, ‘Teacher, order your disciples to stop.’ He answered, ‘I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.’
As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, ‘If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.’
Then he entered the temple and began to drive out those who were selling things there; and he said, ‘It is written,
“My house shall be a house of prayer”;
but you have made it a den of robbers.’
Every day he was teaching in the temple. The chief priests, the scribes, and the leaders of the people kept looking for a way to kill him; but they did not find anything they could do, for all the people were spellbound by what they heard.
Luke 19:29-48
Out of all of the activities that I had over Holy Week here in Misiones, Argentina, what stands out most to me is the Bible Study I was a part of in Olas Petri, the Lutheran church in Oberá (where I worship when I don’t have activities in San Martin or Caa-Yari) the Tuesday before Palm Sunday. We read the text of Luke 19:29-48, the text always read during Palm Sunday. Except we read further than I have ever heard the text read in the Presbyterian churches in the U.S.A.
Why did I not remember that after Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem, Jesus cleanses the temple? All of the people were in the streets, shouting Hosanna, asking Jesus to save them. Yet, where were they just a while later when Jesus cleansed the temple? Were the people really ready to do what needed to be done to be saved and to save others? We, the people of God, look to our Messiah to save us, but are we ready to do the actions needed in order for us to have world peace and God’s kingdom on earth? Are we ready to make the necessary changes? Or, would we prefer to point the finger at the one who tells us what actions need to be changed and say, “Crucify him!”? Are we ready to make personal choices that can create peace and justice?
As world citizens and Christians, with all kinds of power, including consumer power, are we ready to make choices that affect the world? Are we ready to make choices and actions that create the world we want to live in?
‘Blessed is the king
who comes in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven,
and glory in the highest heaven!’
Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, ‘Teacher, order your disciples to stop.’ He answered, ‘I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.’
As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, ‘If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.’
Then he entered the temple and began to drive out those who were selling things there; and he said, ‘It is written,
“My house shall be a house of prayer”;
but you have made it a den of robbers.’
Every day he was teaching in the temple. The chief priests, the scribes, and the leaders of the people kept looking for a way to kill him; but they did not find anything they could do, for all the people were spellbound by what they heard.
Luke 19:29-48
Out of all of the activities that I had over Holy Week here in Misiones, Argentina, what stands out most to me is the Bible Study I was a part of in Olas Petri, the Lutheran church in Oberá (where I worship when I don’t have activities in San Martin or Caa-Yari) the Tuesday before Palm Sunday. We read the text of Luke 19:29-48, the text always read during Palm Sunday. Except we read further than I have ever heard the text read in the Presbyterian churches in the U.S.A.
Why did I not remember that after Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem, Jesus cleanses the temple? All of the people were in the streets, shouting Hosanna, asking Jesus to save them. Yet, where were they just a while later when Jesus cleansed the temple? Were the people really ready to do what needed to be done to be saved and to save others? We, the people of God, look to our Messiah to save us, but are we ready to do the actions needed in order for us to have world peace and God’s kingdom on earth? Are we ready to make the necessary changes? Or, would we prefer to point the finger at the one who tells us what actions need to be changed and say, “Crucify him!”? Are we ready to make personal choices that can create peace and justice?
As world citizens and Christians, with all kinds of power, including consumer power, are we ready to make choices that affect the world? Are we ready to make choices and actions that create the world we want to live in?
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
March Newsletter - Kevin in Uruguay
The word on the street these days is “leadership.” In the past month, it has come up in scholarship applications, discussions with other volunteers, congregational development projects, and even in my newsletter prompt for the month. It´s a huge theme – really, how does one condense the idea of leadership, even in the specific context of a cross-cultural environment, into a congregation-friendly newsletter essay?
If you´re me, the answer is to talk about work. One of my assorted jobs this year has been assisting, and over the past few months, leading, the Wednesday evening Old Testament Bible Study at the church. I´ve no doubt mentioned the Bible Study, and its distinct tendency towards the less-than-normal, before – this, after all, is the only Bible Study in which I´ve participated that has involved questions about the color of the Holy Spirit, as well as whether or not the creation story in Genesis discusses the seven chakras. As Wilma has said to me on at least one occasion, it doesn´t matter that I haven´t been to seminary when it comes to this Bible study – they just don´t teach classes that prepare you for answering, with a straight face, an honest inquiry as to whether or not the Holy Spirit is a white light or a purple light.
It is, in some ways, impossible to prepare for the study. There is no telling what the participants will bring to the table or, for that matter, who the participants will be. Apart from choosing the text (helped by a guide through the Old Testament) and familiarizing myself with its contents, context, and themes, I can only go in on the proverbial wing and a prayer, ready to be surprised. And I´m the LEADER.
I am finding that the only way to lead a Bible study, and perhaps lead in general, is to engage in dialogue. Without conversation, there is nothing – no safe space is created, nobody shares, nobody grows. It would turn into a monologue as I pour out four years of theological and historical education, and no matter how interesting a monologue it might be, it would nonetheless be just a lecture, a top-down, unilateral exchange of information - Kevin Baker, the learned biblical expert, sharing his knowledge of the Holy Writ. No matter how much I know, I can never know enough to warrant placing myself in that position, especially when it comes to a matter of spirituality. If I were to place myself as the learned master pouring out from the deep well of knowledge for the benefit, then I would do no good to anyone or anything except for my ego.
In my very first month as a student at TLU, I was required to read a selection from Paolo Freire´s Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Freire was a Brazilian educator and champion of social justice who devoted much of his life and work to teaching illiterate adults how to read. He identified two models for teaching, learning, and (I´ll make the extension) leadership – the banking model and the dialogical model. In the former, one person gives knowledge, the other receives, and that´s that. Think about your worst class in high school; chances are, the teacher presented material this way. It had nothing to do with your context, interests, or needs; it was just information to be crammed into your head. The dialogical model takes the opposite approach – the teacher is a part of a circle rather than the exalted master, the community takes an active role in its own learning through questions, contextualization, and…dialogue. It is in the talking about what´s being learned – how it relates to people´s lives and needs, what´s easy and what´s hard about it, why they´re learning and wanting to learn – that the true learning takes place…and learning is, after all, transformation.
It´s transformative for the teacher, too. I´m not so arrogant as to view myself as a fabulous example of dialogical leadership, but it´s something I value and strive toward, and I have yet to leave a Bible study here without coming away with new insights and new questions. In fact, I will go on record and say that this is the first Bible study in which I´ve participated in (in the sense of studies with a group, regular meeting time, etc. outside of the confines of an official classroom) which I have not been bored, felt unchallenged, and been attending for strictly social reasons. And it´s all in the conversation.
So, in Bible study, we talk. We talk about how the cleansing of Naaman the leper relates to social class in 21st century Uruguay; we talk about how Elisha and the widow´s oil gives all of us at Nuestro Salvador a model for ministry; we talk about how the sufferings of the Messiah in Isaiah 53 are repeated every day in acts of domestic violence. As we share, we all grow and learn. I can bring to the table what I know from class, other people bring what they know from their own training and work, and we all bring our life experiences. After an hour or better of talking – about history and geography, theology and psychology, last week´s rough times at work and this week´s concerns about sick friends and family, how we´ve seen God in suffering and how we´ve seen God in life´s blessings – we´ve done something far more important than learn about the layers of symbolism in Hosea´s account of his adulterous wife. We´ve formed a community.
I shy away from calling myself the leader of this group. I am a leader in the sense that I do the official planning, but once we all sit down and start reading, I´m just another person in the circle. Maybe this form of leadership hasn´t built empires or Fortune 500 companies, but it´s built faith, and it´s built relationships. At the end of the day, I´ll take faith, relationships, and the little blessings of life over the empires and stock portfolios and never once think twice about the choice.
If you´re me, the answer is to talk about work. One of my assorted jobs this year has been assisting, and over the past few months, leading, the Wednesday evening Old Testament Bible Study at the church. I´ve no doubt mentioned the Bible Study, and its distinct tendency towards the less-than-normal, before – this, after all, is the only Bible Study in which I´ve participated that has involved questions about the color of the Holy Spirit, as well as whether or not the creation story in Genesis discusses the seven chakras. As Wilma has said to me on at least one occasion, it doesn´t matter that I haven´t been to seminary when it comes to this Bible study – they just don´t teach classes that prepare you for answering, with a straight face, an honest inquiry as to whether or not the Holy Spirit is a white light or a purple light.
It is, in some ways, impossible to prepare for the study. There is no telling what the participants will bring to the table or, for that matter, who the participants will be. Apart from choosing the text (helped by a guide through the Old Testament) and familiarizing myself with its contents, context, and themes, I can only go in on the proverbial wing and a prayer, ready to be surprised. And I´m the LEADER.
I am finding that the only way to lead a Bible study, and perhaps lead in general, is to engage in dialogue. Without conversation, there is nothing – no safe space is created, nobody shares, nobody grows. It would turn into a monologue as I pour out four years of theological and historical education, and no matter how interesting a monologue it might be, it would nonetheless be just a lecture, a top-down, unilateral exchange of information - Kevin Baker, the learned biblical expert, sharing his knowledge of the Holy Writ. No matter how much I know, I can never know enough to warrant placing myself in that position, especially when it comes to a matter of spirituality. If I were to place myself as the learned master pouring out from the deep well of knowledge for the benefit, then I would do no good to anyone or anything except for my ego.
In my very first month as a student at TLU, I was required to read a selection from Paolo Freire´s Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Freire was a Brazilian educator and champion of social justice who devoted much of his life and work to teaching illiterate adults how to read. He identified two models for teaching, learning, and (I´ll make the extension) leadership – the banking model and the dialogical model. In the former, one person gives knowledge, the other receives, and that´s that. Think about your worst class in high school; chances are, the teacher presented material this way. It had nothing to do with your context, interests, or needs; it was just information to be crammed into your head. The dialogical model takes the opposite approach – the teacher is a part of a circle rather than the exalted master, the community takes an active role in its own learning through questions, contextualization, and…dialogue. It is in the talking about what´s being learned – how it relates to people´s lives and needs, what´s easy and what´s hard about it, why they´re learning and wanting to learn – that the true learning takes place…and learning is, after all, transformation.
It´s transformative for the teacher, too. I´m not so arrogant as to view myself as a fabulous example of dialogical leadership, but it´s something I value and strive toward, and I have yet to leave a Bible study here without coming away with new insights and new questions. In fact, I will go on record and say that this is the first Bible study in which I´ve participated in (in the sense of studies with a group, regular meeting time, etc. outside of the confines of an official classroom) which I have not been bored, felt unchallenged, and been attending for strictly social reasons. And it´s all in the conversation.
So, in Bible study, we talk. We talk about how the cleansing of Naaman the leper relates to social class in 21st century Uruguay; we talk about how Elisha and the widow´s oil gives all of us at Nuestro Salvador a model for ministry; we talk about how the sufferings of the Messiah in Isaiah 53 are repeated every day in acts of domestic violence. As we share, we all grow and learn. I can bring to the table what I know from class, other people bring what they know from their own training and work, and we all bring our life experiences. After an hour or better of talking – about history and geography, theology and psychology, last week´s rough times at work and this week´s concerns about sick friends and family, how we´ve seen God in suffering and how we´ve seen God in life´s blessings – we´ve done something far more important than learn about the layers of symbolism in Hosea´s account of his adulterous wife. We´ve formed a community.
I shy away from calling myself the leader of this group. I am a leader in the sense that I do the official planning, but once we all sit down and start reading, I´m just another person in the circle. Maybe this form of leadership hasn´t built empires or Fortune 500 companies, but it´s built faith, and it´s built relationships. At the end of the day, I´ll take faith, relationships, and the little blessings of life over the empires and stock portfolios and never once think twice about the choice.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Febrero despues de esta volveran a ser normales- Februrary after this one they'll go back to being normal - Kristina in Argentina
Con Febrero llego la lluvia, la cuaresma, un tiempo de preparación, el fin de algunas cosas y el comienzo de otras. Trae arrastrado con el seis meses de andar diferente abriendo mi caja de memoria colectiva pero esta vez miro para sacar recuerdos específicos de un tiempo específico. Para esto mi gente necesito entrar en mi cajita por que aya dentro existe un jardín lleno de árboles de distintos altos y anchos sembrado por personas distintas a lo largo de mi vida.
En febrero visité dos árboles cuyas raíces se extendían profundamente en mi pasado. El primero es de cuando tenía diez años; escrita sobre ella estaban las canciones que aprendí en el campamento de verano en Maguayo cuando recién nos habíamos mudado de vuelta a puerto rico. Estas canciones daban vuelta a un grupo de nombres que estaba escrito en su centro entre estos estaba, Dimas Javier, Cristina, Juan Pablo, Willie, Yamil, Mary Lisa, Lisa Mari, Rafú, Chachie, Harrybel…
Juntos ellos sembraron la semilla que se convirtió en aquel gran árbol y mientras me senté a sus raíces recordando esos tiempos me dio las herramientas y la valentía para compartir eso con los niños en el campamento de escuela bíblica en Montevideo. Sin embargo ese mismo día cuando me sentía muy preparada recibí una carta Harrybel había partido ese mismo día a morar con el señor. Tropecé cayendo hacia atrás entre dos árboles aun mas viejos que el que me había acordado a Harrybel. Me agarre del mas cerca mirando hacia arriba buscando no se que mas aya de sus ramas. Este árbol era el árbol de Margarita ella había fallecido apenas el año pasado durante la época de pascua.
Mi corazon se lleno de angustia pero su nombre se encendió sobre el tronco y ahí escrito palabras de ellas:
“Todo lo que necesitas para salir de este lugar de dolor esta dentro de ti” Estas fueron sus palabras para mi en otro momento de mi vida y eran recordadas y aplicables en este momento también. Sus palabras se encendieron más brillantes que su nombre antes de convertirse en ceniza pintando mis manos tan negro como cuando ayude a preparar las cenizas para el miércoles de cenizas. Pero aun así sus palabras no quedan como polvo que se lava sino más bien como una marca en mi corazón, visible sobre mis manos marcando a todo aquel que yo toque. No soy quien era cuando se sembraron aquellos árboles mis ojos están abiertos a un mundo que amenaza con caer sobre mi cabeza. Hasta mi manera de hablar ha cambiado, se ha transformado la forma en que me expreso hasta el punto de volverse un hibrido extraño entre puertorriqueñismos y argentinismos que por el momento tienen sentido; ¿pero lo tendrán cuando vuelva a casa? Jeje será interesante ver pero si te animas podrías llamarme y verlo por tu propia cuenta: 54-221-452-5206 me encantaría saber como le van las cosas por aya.
Otros árboles se encienden con palabras que me recuerdan que desde el momento en que empezaron a crecer aquellos árboles ya yo era diferente ya había cambiado. Estas palabras nuevas me doy cuenta son lecciones que surgen al oírlas repetidas por los compañeros que me rodean.
Por ejemplo mi amiga Kim estaba compartiendo conmigo y con los demás voluntarios la historia de los niños con los cual trabaja en San Martín. Son todos niños pero a pesar de que son nuevos en el mundo están aprendiendo cosas claves como lo es el compartir no tan solo cuando tenemos poco sino también cuando tenemos mucho. Aprendiendo que no es necesario lanzarse con un puño para agarrar mas cantidad de galletitas en la merienda, que es mejor cuando tomamos nuestro tiempo agarrando uno solo a la vez para darnos cuenta de que todos podremos comer. Recuerdo cuando niña el haber aprendido esta lección y ahora como joven adulto tiene aun mas significado cuando miro al estado del mundo en que vivimos.
También recordé otra lección de mi infancia al salir de entre los árboles mientras otro amigo voluntario mío James compartía sobre parte de sus experiencias. Hablaba de cuando se sentaba a tomar mate y compartir algunas galletitas con una compañera de trabajo. A pesar de que para el lo que tenían era suficiente para compartir entre ellos ella llamaba a todo aquel que estaba cerca para compartir, para que comieran de su mesita. Supongo que los discípulos de cristo se habrán sentido igual en aquella tarde después de la predicación de Jesús al ver que la multitud seguía cerca pero en vez de enviarlos a buscar en donde dormir y comer por que se hacia tarde les llamo y dijo vengan tenemos pan tenemos pescado cortémoslo con amor y compartamos vengan todos tomen su porción hagamos una ronda y tomemos mate.
Es posible que se hayan sentido igual que todas las personas de mi familia ahora en el pasado y lo mas seguro en el futuro cada vez que adoptábamos a un extraño a la familia expandiendo nuestra mesa.
Al terminar de escuchar su relato el viento se comenzó a levantar y mis compañeros voluntarios ya se estaban preparando para partir a sus respectivos hogares luego de un tiempo compartido y mientras esperábamos bajo un cielo nublado observe mi reflexión en un charquito de agua. Podía ver como caían las semillas a todo mi alrededor llevados por un viento que los regaba desde mi jardín al de mis compañeros y viceversa. Mi cuerpo entero estaba cubierto de ceniza y las hojas de los árboles empezaron a caer también en aquel proceso de renovación, pero cuando me mire de nuevo con mas intención me di cuenta de algo muy particular y muy importante. La ceniza que había caído sobre mí en aquel momento era más que ceniza era palabra viva también y en esa palabra viva leí todo sus nombres.
Gracias
No hay nada como el regresar a un lugar que se ha mantenido igual, para poder ver las maneras en que tu mismo has sido cambiado.
-Nelson Mandela.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
February brings fall rain, lent, preparation the end of some things the beginning of others. It brings six months of walking differently opening my box of collective memory but this time to pull out specific thoughts from a specific time. But for that my friends I had to step inside the box because inside is a garden full of trees of different widths and heights planted at different times in life by different people. In February I visited two trees whose roots extended deep into my past. One from when I was ten; written all over its trunk were songs from that first summer camp after moving back to Puerto Rico. Many names are on the bottom of that trunk, Dimas Javier, Cristina, Juan Pablo, Willie, Yamil, Marylisa, Lismari, Rafú, Chachie y Harrybel…
Together they all planted that seed and as I sat remembering that time it gave me tools and courage to share with the kids in Montevideo the things that I had learned. Then I received a letter Harrybel had passed away that same day. I stumbled backward falling in between to trees older than the one I had been looking at before. I held on to one looking up in to its branches. This was Margarita’s tree she had passed away only last Easter. My heart was filled with anguished but her name burned brightly on the trunk and there written were words:
“All you need to come out of this place of pain is inside you.” These were words she had said to me at another time they were words remembered now. They burned and then were dust the ashes painting my hands black as when I helped prepare the ashes for ash Wednesday, but her words are not dust they are a mark on my heart. It is on my hands marking everything and every one I touch. I’m not who I was when these trees were planted my eyes are open to a world that threatens to collapse upon my head. Even the way I speak has changed transforming the way my expressions to the point that my speech becomes some sort of strange hybrid between puertoricanisms and argentinaisms that makes sense now but will it make sense when I get home. Hehe I wonder. Other trees ignite other words burning bright reminding me that from the moment of their germination I was already different all ready changed. Their words burned bright as well repeating lessons learned by those who surround me during this walk.
For example my friend Kim was sharing a story with me and the other volunteers about her “kids” ( the ones she works with) in San Martin they are children but all though they are new they are still learning what it means to share not only when there is little but also when there is more than enough. That it isn’t necessary to grab fist first into the bowl of cookies to have more if we each take one at a time we can all eat. I remember learning this lesson too as a child as a young adult it means so much more when looking at the world.
I was reminded of another childhood lesson while coming out of the forest at last by another friend James as he talked about sitting down to drink mate and eat cookies with a fellow worker in the barrio and how she would call out to the others around them to come in and share what he had seen as enough for just the two. I can only image that the disciples must of felt the same way when the crowd had gathered and the day was coming to an end and instead of sending on their way to find food and housing he called them in instead saying we got fish we got bread come in take a piece drink some mate.
The same way generations have felt with in my family as we adopt members expanding our table.
By this time the wind had picked up my fellow volunteers were getting ready to part ways after a time of meeting and as we waited under a clouded sky I looked at my reflection in a puddle. I could see new seeds falling all around me carried away from my own garden and into theirs and from theirs into my own. My whole self was covered in ash and the leaves upon the trees were renewing themselves, but as I took a closer look I saw that the ash that had fallen upon me was not just dust no, upon taking a more intentional look I could see that the ash was word too and in that word I read all of your names.
Thank you
There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged, to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.
-Nelson Mandela.
En febrero visité dos árboles cuyas raíces se extendían profundamente en mi pasado. El primero es de cuando tenía diez años; escrita sobre ella estaban las canciones que aprendí en el campamento de verano en Maguayo cuando recién nos habíamos mudado de vuelta a puerto rico. Estas canciones daban vuelta a un grupo de nombres que estaba escrito en su centro entre estos estaba, Dimas Javier, Cristina, Juan Pablo, Willie, Yamil, Mary Lisa, Lisa Mari, Rafú, Chachie, Harrybel…
Juntos ellos sembraron la semilla que se convirtió en aquel gran árbol y mientras me senté a sus raíces recordando esos tiempos me dio las herramientas y la valentía para compartir eso con los niños en el campamento de escuela bíblica en Montevideo. Sin embargo ese mismo día cuando me sentía muy preparada recibí una carta Harrybel había partido ese mismo día a morar con el señor. Tropecé cayendo hacia atrás entre dos árboles aun mas viejos que el que me había acordado a Harrybel. Me agarre del mas cerca mirando hacia arriba buscando no se que mas aya de sus ramas. Este árbol era el árbol de Margarita ella había fallecido apenas el año pasado durante la época de pascua.
Mi corazon se lleno de angustia pero su nombre se encendió sobre el tronco y ahí escrito palabras de ellas:
“Todo lo que necesitas para salir de este lugar de dolor esta dentro de ti” Estas fueron sus palabras para mi en otro momento de mi vida y eran recordadas y aplicables en este momento también. Sus palabras se encendieron más brillantes que su nombre antes de convertirse en ceniza pintando mis manos tan negro como cuando ayude a preparar las cenizas para el miércoles de cenizas. Pero aun así sus palabras no quedan como polvo que se lava sino más bien como una marca en mi corazón, visible sobre mis manos marcando a todo aquel que yo toque. No soy quien era cuando se sembraron aquellos árboles mis ojos están abiertos a un mundo que amenaza con caer sobre mi cabeza. Hasta mi manera de hablar ha cambiado, se ha transformado la forma en que me expreso hasta el punto de volverse un hibrido extraño entre puertorriqueñismos y argentinismos que por el momento tienen sentido; ¿pero lo tendrán cuando vuelva a casa? Jeje será interesante ver pero si te animas podrías llamarme y verlo por tu propia cuenta: 54-221-452-5206 me encantaría saber como le van las cosas por aya.
Otros árboles se encienden con palabras que me recuerdan que desde el momento en que empezaron a crecer aquellos árboles ya yo era diferente ya había cambiado. Estas palabras nuevas me doy cuenta son lecciones que surgen al oírlas repetidas por los compañeros que me rodean.
Por ejemplo mi amiga Kim estaba compartiendo conmigo y con los demás voluntarios la historia de los niños con los cual trabaja en San Martín. Son todos niños pero a pesar de que son nuevos en el mundo están aprendiendo cosas claves como lo es el compartir no tan solo cuando tenemos poco sino también cuando tenemos mucho. Aprendiendo que no es necesario lanzarse con un puño para agarrar mas cantidad de galletitas en la merienda, que es mejor cuando tomamos nuestro tiempo agarrando uno solo a la vez para darnos cuenta de que todos podremos comer. Recuerdo cuando niña el haber aprendido esta lección y ahora como joven adulto tiene aun mas significado cuando miro al estado del mundo en que vivimos.
También recordé otra lección de mi infancia al salir de entre los árboles mientras otro amigo voluntario mío James compartía sobre parte de sus experiencias. Hablaba de cuando se sentaba a tomar mate y compartir algunas galletitas con una compañera de trabajo. A pesar de que para el lo que tenían era suficiente para compartir entre ellos ella llamaba a todo aquel que estaba cerca para compartir, para que comieran de su mesita. Supongo que los discípulos de cristo se habrán sentido igual en aquella tarde después de la predicación de Jesús al ver que la multitud seguía cerca pero en vez de enviarlos a buscar en donde dormir y comer por que se hacia tarde les llamo y dijo vengan tenemos pan tenemos pescado cortémoslo con amor y compartamos vengan todos tomen su porción hagamos una ronda y tomemos mate.
Es posible que se hayan sentido igual que todas las personas de mi familia ahora en el pasado y lo mas seguro en el futuro cada vez que adoptábamos a un extraño a la familia expandiendo nuestra mesa.
Al terminar de escuchar su relato el viento se comenzó a levantar y mis compañeros voluntarios ya se estaban preparando para partir a sus respectivos hogares luego de un tiempo compartido y mientras esperábamos bajo un cielo nublado observe mi reflexión en un charquito de agua. Podía ver como caían las semillas a todo mi alrededor llevados por un viento que los regaba desde mi jardín al de mis compañeros y viceversa. Mi cuerpo entero estaba cubierto de ceniza y las hojas de los árboles empezaron a caer también en aquel proceso de renovación, pero cuando me mire de nuevo con mas intención me di cuenta de algo muy particular y muy importante. La ceniza que había caído sobre mí en aquel momento era más que ceniza era palabra viva también y en esa palabra viva leí todo sus nombres.
Gracias
No hay nada como el regresar a un lugar que se ha mantenido igual, para poder ver las maneras en que tu mismo has sido cambiado.
-Nelson Mandela.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
February brings fall rain, lent, preparation the end of some things the beginning of others. It brings six months of walking differently opening my box of collective memory but this time to pull out specific thoughts from a specific time. But for that my friends I had to step inside the box because inside is a garden full of trees of different widths and heights planted at different times in life by different people. In February I visited two trees whose roots extended deep into my past. One from when I was ten; written all over its trunk were songs from that first summer camp after moving back to Puerto Rico. Many names are on the bottom of that trunk, Dimas Javier, Cristina, Juan Pablo, Willie, Yamil, Marylisa, Lismari, Rafú, Chachie y Harrybel…
Together they all planted that seed and as I sat remembering that time it gave me tools and courage to share with the kids in Montevideo the things that I had learned. Then I received a letter Harrybel had passed away that same day. I stumbled backward falling in between to trees older than the one I had been looking at before. I held on to one looking up in to its branches. This was Margarita’s tree she had passed away only last Easter. My heart was filled with anguished but her name burned brightly on the trunk and there written were words:
“All you need to come out of this place of pain is inside you.” These were words she had said to me at another time they were words remembered now. They burned and then were dust the ashes painting my hands black as when I helped prepare the ashes for ash Wednesday, but her words are not dust they are a mark on my heart. It is on my hands marking everything and every one I touch. I’m not who I was when these trees were planted my eyes are open to a world that threatens to collapse upon my head. Even the way I speak has changed transforming the way my expressions to the point that my speech becomes some sort of strange hybrid between puertoricanisms and argentinaisms that makes sense now but will it make sense when I get home. Hehe I wonder. Other trees ignite other words burning bright reminding me that from the moment of their germination I was already different all ready changed. Their words burned bright as well repeating lessons learned by those who surround me during this walk.
For example my friend Kim was sharing a story with me and the other volunteers about her “kids” ( the ones she works with) in San Martin they are children but all though they are new they are still learning what it means to share not only when there is little but also when there is more than enough. That it isn’t necessary to grab fist first into the bowl of cookies to have more if we each take one at a time we can all eat. I remember learning this lesson too as a child as a young adult it means so much more when looking at the world.
I was reminded of another childhood lesson while coming out of the forest at last by another friend James as he talked about sitting down to drink mate and eat cookies with a fellow worker in the barrio and how she would call out to the others around them to come in and share what he had seen as enough for just the two. I can only image that the disciples must of felt the same way when the crowd had gathered and the day was coming to an end and instead of sending on their way to find food and housing he called them in instead saying we got fish we got bread come in take a piece drink some mate.
The same way generations have felt with in my family as we adopt members expanding our table.
By this time the wind had picked up my fellow volunteers were getting ready to part ways after a time of meeting and as we waited under a clouded sky I looked at my reflection in a puddle. I could see new seeds falling all around me carried away from my own garden and into theirs and from theirs into my own. My whole self was covered in ash and the leaves upon the trees were renewing themselves, but as I took a closer look I saw that the ash that had fallen upon me was not just dust no, upon taking a more intentional look I could see that the ash was word too and in that word I read all of your names.
Thank you
There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged, to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.
-Nelson Mandela.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
newletter february - James in Argentina
An afternoon somewhere in the past my supervisor and I sat down to do an evaluation of my time here so far, and my supervisor being the wonderful wise woman that she is, suggested we try and do some sort of artist demonstration to sum up everything we had talked about in the day. The program I am doing here has this wonderfully slow feel to it, where every step you take is so analyzed that every action in your life becomes so important and valued. There is something so beautiful about being aware of your life and your actions. I began to think about what this year has meant to me so far and what I would like the year to come to look like and I came to this conclusion. I don’t believe I ever before appreciated the interconnectedness of life; how every action affects the next, how every decision is really a decision for the next decision, with it never ending the time we have here.
To represent my life I drew my head with all this chaos behind it, not an ugly chaos, but a chaos of confusion and uncertainly. Everything in my life that I had learned and experienced everywhere, in every action I did, but never consciously guiding my actions. In front of me I drew what I hope to be the future, as I already feel is near in my recent present, colors focused, all of the chaos of my past and present, still complete, in that every color and line still existed, but centered. A sort of prism that sucks in light and spits out a rainbow. I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately as I read and find out more about poverty and underdevelopment in the world.
I had the opportunity to read “Open veins of Latin America” by Eduardo Galeano during the month of February, and have been fascinated by it ever since. It talks about the real and factual history and current exploitation in Latin America, which leads up to the current situation of some of the riches countries in the world in terms of natural resources having people dying of hunger. The prism in my mind is starting to put into focus my reality here, as I see hundreds of people living inside shacks of cardboard and scrap metal. The forces that drive thousands of hungry families from the farms and country to cities such as Resistencia, to make a living collecting bottles and cardboard in horse draw carriages at night. Poverty is not television program or commercial, it is a little girl I know coming up to us as we eat at a restaurant and confessing she is on the street every night until 6 in the morning selling Valentines Day cards, her sisters and her supporting the family on change. And as I understand more of the realities of the world we live in, I discover this remarkable web that covers our existence here.
It is scary to think that our actions affect so much more than ourselves. Every product we buy and use, every leader that we elect, every natural resource we decide to consume affects people on the other side of the world. This world is so injust, and for centuries this interconnectedness has been used for oppression and hurt, but we have the power to change that. Look at the interconnectedness of the church. I live in a city where over 80% of the population identifies themselves as a Christian, and I would bet another 10% identifies themselves with other religions. What a rallying point that is in itself; if we could only start living the beautiful messages religion around the world teaches us, how couldn’t we change this world?
My skewed vision that I saw the world with for so many years is being altered but as I become more and more critical of my own ways and the ways of my people I also find so much hope. I find hope in knowing so many movements of change have already been started and work. We cannot wait though for someone to place into our laps a handbook on how to live for change. It comes to the point where we can no longer wait to be informed of the problems of this world, we have to search and long for knowledge. That is where transformation and hope for a new tomorrow will come from. As I am connected to all of you, so now are you connected to every person and story I know, and I to your story. Through this stringing together of human lives we will span all humanity and carry each other towards a new understanding of what love and life can be. Steps over stumbling step we will walk together, uncertain and scared, but together.
Over the “less than half year remaining” hump, and so nervous and excited by that
-James
To represent my life I drew my head with all this chaos behind it, not an ugly chaos, but a chaos of confusion and uncertainly. Everything in my life that I had learned and experienced everywhere, in every action I did, but never consciously guiding my actions. In front of me I drew what I hope to be the future, as I already feel is near in my recent present, colors focused, all of the chaos of my past and present, still complete, in that every color and line still existed, but centered. A sort of prism that sucks in light and spits out a rainbow. I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately as I read and find out more about poverty and underdevelopment in the world.
I had the opportunity to read “Open veins of Latin America” by Eduardo Galeano during the month of February, and have been fascinated by it ever since. It talks about the real and factual history and current exploitation in Latin America, which leads up to the current situation of some of the riches countries in the world in terms of natural resources having people dying of hunger. The prism in my mind is starting to put into focus my reality here, as I see hundreds of people living inside shacks of cardboard and scrap metal. The forces that drive thousands of hungry families from the farms and country to cities such as Resistencia, to make a living collecting bottles and cardboard in horse draw carriages at night. Poverty is not television program or commercial, it is a little girl I know coming up to us as we eat at a restaurant and confessing she is on the street every night until 6 in the morning selling Valentines Day cards, her sisters and her supporting the family on change. And as I understand more of the realities of the world we live in, I discover this remarkable web that covers our existence here.
It is scary to think that our actions affect so much more than ourselves. Every product we buy and use, every leader that we elect, every natural resource we decide to consume affects people on the other side of the world. This world is so injust, and for centuries this interconnectedness has been used for oppression and hurt, but we have the power to change that. Look at the interconnectedness of the church. I live in a city where over 80% of the population identifies themselves as a Christian, and I would bet another 10% identifies themselves with other religions. What a rallying point that is in itself; if we could only start living the beautiful messages religion around the world teaches us, how couldn’t we change this world?
My skewed vision that I saw the world with for so many years is being altered but as I become more and more critical of my own ways and the ways of my people I also find so much hope. I find hope in knowing so many movements of change have already been started and work. We cannot wait though for someone to place into our laps a handbook on how to live for change. It comes to the point where we can no longer wait to be informed of the problems of this world, we have to search and long for knowledge. That is where transformation and hope for a new tomorrow will come from. As I am connected to all of you, so now are you connected to every person and story I know, and I to your story. Through this stringing together of human lives we will span all humanity and carry each other towards a new understanding of what love and life can be. Steps over stumbling step we will walk together, uncertain and scared, but together.
Over the “less than half year remaining” hump, and so nervous and excited by that
-James
Monday, March 10, 2008
A very late February Newsletter - Kevin in Uruguay
I am, quite sadly, almost 2 weeks late with my February update. It has been an incredibly busy few weeks around here, though – Mate Monday´s latest few entries should tell you quite a bit about what I´ve been up to for the past while. This month, I am not going to be using the Franklin´s Choice format for my newsletter entry; the prompt wasn´t a bad one, by any means, but I have other things on my mind – one episode that has only casually been mentioned in Mate Mondays.
On the second night of the Minnesota group´s stay with us in Montevideo, Daniela (our doctor/friend/neighbor), KD, Dorothea and I were sitting around the church office after hours, working on a photo show about the kid´s camp from a few weeks back. We were talking, laughing at Dorothea´s playing the Las Divinas song from Patito Feo, and in general having a good, laid-back time. And then Amanda entered the room. Her grandmother, Jean, was feeling very ill and disoriented, and Amanda asked if there was a doctor nearby who could take a look at her. Daniela, of course, volunteered, and I went along as the translator.
It was not hard to tell from the look in Amanda´s eyes that something more than just a stomach ache was bothering her grandmother, and as soon as we walked into their room (they were staying in Carlos and Carla´s apartment, which is also in the church building), it was obvious that Jean was not well at all. She seemed incredibly disoriented and dizzy, her speech was slurred, and she could barely move or control the right side of her body. I´ve taken enough First Aid to have been able to recognize immediately what was likely happening to Jean – those are the classic signs of a stroke. Jean was very obviously worried; she knew First Aid, too. Amanda was worried. For that matter, I was worried, but I didn´t show it. Daniela very calmly began her investigation, and so I translated for Jean. I never thought my Spanish skills would be use to ask a 75 year old woman if she´s been having regular bowel movements, or have to say in Spanish that among her medications is one for vaginal dryness.
After a basic examination, Daniela decided that a hospital visit was in order – it didn´t seem as if Jean´s condition was serious, but neither was it something treatable in the “take two of these and call me in the morning” manner. Jean´s blood pressure was skyrocketing, though, and so Daniela gave her a blood pressure med – mostly nerves, we assumed. From there, it was time to make hospital arrangements, and then the fun began. We had to use Jean´s travel medical insurance, and in this delightful system, you end up making about 7 phone calls, including one to Jamaica, just to talk to a live person. In the end, after all kinds of going back and forth between the phone downstairs and the upstairs bedroom, an insurance agent from the U.S. called Daniela´s cell phone...to talk to Jean. Yes, needing to talk to the patient is ALWAYS the best way to authorize emergency medical care – stroke patients are always lucid, happy, and able to share a description of their conditions with a penpusher back in the United States. Fortunately, by the time Poindexter finished grilling her, she felt better, looked better, and didn´t need a hospital visit after all – our best guess is that she had an extremely minor stroke (there´s a proper medical name for them, but I´ve forgotten it), and once it passed, she was back to normal.
Daniela, however, was livid over the episode – in Uruguay, if you´re sick, you go to the hospital. They treat you, and then they ask about insurance, and since the state (cash-poor as it is) pays for a reasonable chunk of medical expenses, people without the financial means to pay don´t have to. It made no sense to her that someone having a stroke should have to physically get permission from an insurance agent on another continent to receive medical treatment.
It doesn´t make much sense to me, either. If a country that meets at least some official definitions of “third world” can provide adequate, treat-first-and-ask-questions-later medical service, then why can´t the world´s wealthiest nation find a way to take better care of its citizens? When did we decide to let soulless corporations, who could care less about the individual so long as they get their money, run virtually everything in our country? What would have happened if Jean had died because Poindexter was in the bathroom for 5 minutes too long before returning our call, or if we had just gone to the hospital without authorization and the insurance company used this as grounds not to cover her treatment, thus stiffing her with a huge bill? 2008 is an election year; it´s time to start finding some answers to these questions, and an acceptable answer is not “stay the course” this time around.
Soapbox speeches and residual anger aside, the God of the Cross was there that night, in the midst of pain and anxiety. God was there, calming us – we watched as Jean got better, as her blood pressure went down, as she began to talk and think clearer. We watched as Amanda managed to hold in her own fears and be a strong, calming presence for her grandmother. We watched as Daniela and I tried simultaneously to keep it together and communicate in adverse conditions, even though we were both tired and frazzled. The next day, after Jean and Amanda got some sleep, things went back to normal – they re-joinec group activities in the afternoon, and went and did everything the rest of the group did for the rest of the week.
I think about my position in it all – the translator, the person having to bridge a communication gap rain, shine, or stroke – and I think about how far I´ve come in 6 months. I couldn´t have done this in September. I would have been almost as clueless as the two non-Spanish speakers were. However, just for being here, for having ears and a mouth and a brain, I´ve learned Spanish, and something else along the way - that God gives us what we have, and what we need, and then finds ways to use us where we are. Maybe that´s my lesson of the year.
On the second night of the Minnesota group´s stay with us in Montevideo, Daniela (our doctor/friend/neighbor), KD, Dorothea and I were sitting around the church office after hours, working on a photo show about the kid´s camp from a few weeks back. We were talking, laughing at Dorothea´s playing the Las Divinas song from Patito Feo, and in general having a good, laid-back time. And then Amanda entered the room. Her grandmother, Jean, was feeling very ill and disoriented, and Amanda asked if there was a doctor nearby who could take a look at her. Daniela, of course, volunteered, and I went along as the translator.
It was not hard to tell from the look in Amanda´s eyes that something more than just a stomach ache was bothering her grandmother, and as soon as we walked into their room (they were staying in Carlos and Carla´s apartment, which is also in the church building), it was obvious that Jean was not well at all. She seemed incredibly disoriented and dizzy, her speech was slurred, and she could barely move or control the right side of her body. I´ve taken enough First Aid to have been able to recognize immediately what was likely happening to Jean – those are the classic signs of a stroke. Jean was very obviously worried; she knew First Aid, too. Amanda was worried. For that matter, I was worried, but I didn´t show it. Daniela very calmly began her investigation, and so I translated for Jean. I never thought my Spanish skills would be use to ask a 75 year old woman if she´s been having regular bowel movements, or have to say in Spanish that among her medications is one for vaginal dryness.
After a basic examination, Daniela decided that a hospital visit was in order – it didn´t seem as if Jean´s condition was serious, but neither was it something treatable in the “take two of these and call me in the morning” manner. Jean´s blood pressure was skyrocketing, though, and so Daniela gave her a blood pressure med – mostly nerves, we assumed. From there, it was time to make hospital arrangements, and then the fun began. We had to use Jean´s travel medical insurance, and in this delightful system, you end up making about 7 phone calls, including one to Jamaica, just to talk to a live person. In the end, after all kinds of going back and forth between the phone downstairs and the upstairs bedroom, an insurance agent from the U.S. called Daniela´s cell phone...to talk to Jean. Yes, needing to talk to the patient is ALWAYS the best way to authorize emergency medical care – stroke patients are always lucid, happy, and able to share a description of their conditions with a penpusher back in the United States. Fortunately, by the time Poindexter finished grilling her, she felt better, looked better, and didn´t need a hospital visit after all – our best guess is that she had an extremely minor stroke (there´s a proper medical name for them, but I´ve forgotten it), and once it passed, she was back to normal.
Daniela, however, was livid over the episode – in Uruguay, if you´re sick, you go to the hospital. They treat you, and then they ask about insurance, and since the state (cash-poor as it is) pays for a reasonable chunk of medical expenses, people without the financial means to pay don´t have to. It made no sense to her that someone having a stroke should have to physically get permission from an insurance agent on another continent to receive medical treatment.
It doesn´t make much sense to me, either. If a country that meets at least some official definitions of “third world” can provide adequate, treat-first-and-ask-questions-later medical service, then why can´t the world´s wealthiest nation find a way to take better care of its citizens? When did we decide to let soulless corporations, who could care less about the individual so long as they get their money, run virtually everything in our country? What would have happened if Jean had died because Poindexter was in the bathroom for 5 minutes too long before returning our call, or if we had just gone to the hospital without authorization and the insurance company used this as grounds not to cover her treatment, thus stiffing her with a huge bill? 2008 is an election year; it´s time to start finding some answers to these questions, and an acceptable answer is not “stay the course” this time around.
Soapbox speeches and residual anger aside, the God of the Cross was there that night, in the midst of pain and anxiety. God was there, calming us – we watched as Jean got better, as her blood pressure went down, as she began to talk and think clearer. We watched as Amanda managed to hold in her own fears and be a strong, calming presence for her grandmother. We watched as Daniela and I tried simultaneously to keep it together and communicate in adverse conditions, even though we were both tired and frazzled. The next day, after Jean and Amanda got some sleep, things went back to normal – they re-joinec group activities in the afternoon, and went and did everything the rest of the group did for the rest of the week.
I think about my position in it all – the translator, the person having to bridge a communication gap rain, shine, or stroke – and I think about how far I´ve come in 6 months. I couldn´t have done this in September. I would have been almost as clueless as the two non-Spanish speakers were. However, just for being here, for having ears and a mouth and a brain, I´ve learned Spanish, and something else along the way - that God gives us what we have, and what we need, and then finds ways to use us where we are. Maybe that´s my lesson of the year.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Jan part2 trying to catch up... - Kristina in Argentina
Este es un dia especial quiero tener otra oportunidad, dimos un salto mortal y hoy vuelvo a ver al faro en la oscuridad.... Shakira
Pablo A: ¿Porque el mapa del mundo esta al revés?
… Pregúntale a Kristina ella fue la que lo colgó así…
Pablo A la mira esperando una respuesta.
Kristina: ¿Por qué no? Yo leí un articulo recién sobre las injusticias que ejerce el supuesto mundo de arriba en contra del mundo de abajo. Por eso más que nada para recordar o para que surja la pregunta.
Pablo A: Me inquieta verlo así.
Kristina: Esa es la idea.
La realidad es lo que más que nada a mí me inquieta…
Es interesante lo que sucede cuando cambiamos algo tan sencillo como la orientación de un mapa viejo. Este mapa que formo parte de la obra de navidad ahora cuelga al revés en el comedor de las chicas. Cuando la gente visita y preguntan he escuchado el gesto nombrarse como la protesta de Kristina. Pero lo interesante en realidad son las reacciones que surgen después del porque. Espero que la pregunta se forme en sus mentes de la misma manera que se forman en la mía al caminar las calles de la plata mirando como queda escrito cada otro edificio con los reclamos por un cambio, por la justicia por un mundo al revés.
Ahora la pared del comedor se ha vuelta razón de pensar por una pequeña decisión. Imagínate que sucedería si al tomar decisiones más importantes optáramos por otras alternativas recordando las costumbres de nuestros abuelos y nuestros padres al cuidar de la isla en que vivimos. Por que estas cosas el cuidado es aprendido y las decisiones toman en consideración las influencias por más pequeño que sea. Por ejemplo en la casa todos lavan sus zapatos hacen sus camas y tratan con un cuidado sus pertenencias que me inspira a cuidar mejor mis cosas. Si mi gente lavo mis zapatos hago mi cama opto por comprarle al verdulero de la esquina y al carnicero en la otra cuadra. Esas pequeñas decisiones inspiradas por los demás aunque lo sepan o no. Para no volvernos cómodos en un mundo en donde cada día nos importa menos lo que no tiene que ver con nosotros y formamos parte de una cultura de basura en donde tiramos todo lo que nos aburre porque no le queremos dedicar tiempo incluyendo la gente.
Lo siguiente es el artículo que mencioné les prometo tenerles las versión en español en unos días… Y la pueden buscar a: www.kristinadiazrivera.blogspot.com
Le pido a Dios que en este nuevo año pueda darle mejor uso a mis decisiones…
Dios los bendiga,
Kristina…
Dreaming Upside-Downby Tom Peterson "I dreamed the other night that all the maps in the world had been turned upside down. Library atlases, roadmaps of Cincinnati, wall-sized maps in the war rooms of the great nations, even antique maps with such inscriptions as "Here be Dragons" were flipped over. What had been north was now south, east was west. Like a glob of melting vanilla ice cream, Antarctica now capped schoolroom globes.In my dream, a cloud of anxieties closed around me. The United States was now at the bottom. Would we have to stand upside-down, causing the blood to rush to our heads? Would we need suction-cup shoes to stay on the planet, and would autumn leaves fall up? No, I remembered, an apple once bopped Newton on the head - no need to worry about these things.Other things troubled me more. Now that we're at the bottom, would our resources and labor be exploited by the new top? Would African, Asian, and Latin American nations structure world trade to their advantage?Would my neighbors and I have two-dollars-a-day seasonal jobs on peach and strawberry plantations? Would the women and children work from dusk to dawn to scratch survival from the earth of California and Virginia? Would the fruit we picked be shipped from New Orleans and New York for children in Thailand and Ethiopia to hurriedly eat with their cereal so they wouldn't miss the school bus? Would our children, then, spend the morning, not in school, but fetching water two miles away and the afternoon gathering wood for heating and cooking? Would a small ruling class in this country send their daughters and sons to universities in Cairo and Buenos Aires?Would our economy be dependant upon the goodwill and whims of, say, Brazil? Would Brazil send war planes and guns to Washington, D.C. to assure our willingness to pick apples and tobacco for export while our children went hungry? Would Brazil and Vietnam fight their wars with our sons in our country? Would we consider revolution?If we did revolt, would the Philippino government plot to put their favorite U.S. general in power, and then uphold him with military aid?Would we work in sweatshops manufacturing radios for the Chinese? Would our oil be shipped in tankers to Southeast Asia to run their cars, air-conditioning and microwave ovens while most of our towns didn’t even have electricity?Would top of the world religious leaders call us stubborn pagans upon whom God's judgment had fallen, causing our misery? Would they proclaim from opulent pulpits that if we simply turned to God, our needs would be met?In my dream, I saw child crying in Calcutta. Her parents wouldn't buy her any more video games until her birthday. I saw her mother drive to the supermarket and load her cart with frozen and junk food, vegetables, cheese, meat, and women's magazines.I also saw a mother in Houston baking bread in an earthen oven. She had been crying because there were no more beans for her family. One of her children listlessly watched her. He was a blond boy, about six years old. He slowly turned his empty, haunting gaze toward me.At that point I awoke with a gasp. I saw I was in my own bed, in my own house. It was just a bad dream. I drifted back to sleep, thinking, "It's all right, I'm still on top.Thank God!"
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today is a special day I want to have another chance, we took a mortal dive, and today I am able to see the light house in the darkness.... Shakira
Pablo A: ¿Why is the map of the World upside down?
… Ask Kristina she’s the one who hung it that way…
Pablo A looks at me waiting for his answer.
Kristina: Why not? I read an interesting article about a man who dreamt the World upside down and all the injustices of the world of the north had fallen on him becaue now he was in the south. It left me thinking so I hung my map upside down to remember that so that people would question it.
Pablo A: It makes me uncomfortable…
Kristina: That’s the idea.
The reality of it is what makes me more uncomfortable …
It’s interesting what will happen when you change something as simple as the orientation of an old out dated map. This map which I rescued from the Christmas play props now hangs upside down in the girls dinning hall. Now when people come to visit and ask it is referred to as Kristina’s protest, but the interesting thing has to be the different reactions to the question to the reason behind it all. I hope that question of what if? Forms in their minds the same way it forms in mine while I walk down the now familiar streets of La Plata reading the words spray painted on every other building with cries out for justice, change, for a world turned upside down.
Now the wall in the girls dinning room has become a statement in itself something to think about all because of a small decision made at the last moment. Imagine what would happen if we in our more important choices we opted to change things remembering the customs and examples of our parents, our grandparents in caring for this island we live on. Because how we care is something we have learned and the decisions we make are influenced by the people we learn from no matter how small. For example my housemates all really take care of there things they even wash their shoes and are careful with the stuff they own. This inspires me to take better care of my own things so yes I wash my shoes too and I make my bed every morning. I choose to go to the fruit and vegetable stand on the corner I buy my meet from the butcher a block away instead of visiting the super market. These small choices inspired by others whether they realize it or not. So that I do not become comfortable in a world where with every passing day things that aren’t directly related to ones well being matter, refusing to fall into that throw away culture in which even people are cast aside.
So as this New Year begins I hope to make better use of my choices….
The following is the before mentioned article:
Dios los bendiga,
Kristina…
Dreaming Upside-Down
by Tom Peterson
"I dreamed the other night that all the maps in the world had been turned upside down. Library atlases, roadmaps of Cincinnati, wall-sized maps in the war rooms of the great nations, even antique maps with such inscriptions as "Here be Dragons" were flipped over. What had been north was now south, east was west. Like a glob of melting vanilla ice cream, Antarctica now capped schoolroom globes.In my dream, a cloud of anxieties closed around me. The United States was now at the bottom. Would we have to stand upside-down, causing the blood to rush to our heads? Would we need suction-cup shoes to stay on the planet, and would autumn leaves fall up? No, I remembered, an apple once bopped Newton on the head - no need to worry about these things.Other things troubled me more. Now that we're at the bottom, would our resources and labor be exploited by the new top? Would African, Asian, and Latin American nations structure world trade to their advantage?Would my neighbors and I have two-dollars-a-day seasonal jobs on peach and strawberry plantations? Would the women and children work from dusk to dawn to scratch survival from the earth of California and Virginia? Would the fruit we picked be shipped from New Orleans and New York for children in Thailand and Ethiopia to hurriedly eat with their cereal so they wouldn't miss the school bus? Would our children, then, spend the morning, not in school, but fetching water two miles away and the afternoon gathering wood for heating and cooking? Would a small ruling class in this country send their daughters and sons to universities in Cairo and Buenos Aires?Would our economy be dependant upon the goodwill and whims of, say, Brazil? Would Brazil send war planes and guns to Washington, D.C. to assure our willingness to pick apples and tobacco for export while our children went hungry? Would Brazil and Vietnam fight their wars with our sons in our country? Would we consider revolution?If we did revolt, would the Philippino government plot to put their favorite U.S. general in power, and then uphold him with military aid?Would we work in sweatshops manufacturing radios for the Chinese? Would our oil be shipped in tankers to Southeast Asia to run their cars, air-conditioning and microwave ovens while most of our towns didn’t even have electricity?Would top of the world religious leaders call us stubborn pagans upon whom God's judgment had fallen, causing our misery? Would they proclaim from opulent pulpits that if we simply turned to God, our needs would be met?In my dream, I saw child crying in Calcutta. Her parents wouldn't buy her any more video games until her birthday. I saw her mother drive to the supermarket and load her cart with frozen and junk food, vegetables, cheese, meat, and women's magazines.I also saw a mother in Houston baking bread in an earthen oven. She had been crying because there were no more beans for her family. One of her children listlessly watched her. He was a blond boy, about six years old. He slowly turned his empty, haunting gaze toward me.At that point I awoke with a gasp. I saw I was in my own bed, in my own house. It was just a bad dream. I drifted back to sleep, thinking, "It's all right, I'm still on top.Thank God!"
Pablo A: ¿Porque el mapa del mundo esta al revés?
… Pregúntale a Kristina ella fue la que lo colgó así…
Pablo A la mira esperando una respuesta.
Kristina: ¿Por qué no? Yo leí un articulo recién sobre las injusticias que ejerce el supuesto mundo de arriba en contra del mundo de abajo. Por eso más que nada para recordar o para que surja la pregunta.
Pablo A: Me inquieta verlo así.
Kristina: Esa es la idea.
La realidad es lo que más que nada a mí me inquieta…
Es interesante lo que sucede cuando cambiamos algo tan sencillo como la orientación de un mapa viejo. Este mapa que formo parte de la obra de navidad ahora cuelga al revés en el comedor de las chicas. Cuando la gente visita y preguntan he escuchado el gesto nombrarse como la protesta de Kristina. Pero lo interesante en realidad son las reacciones que surgen después del porque. Espero que la pregunta se forme en sus mentes de la misma manera que se forman en la mía al caminar las calles de la plata mirando como queda escrito cada otro edificio con los reclamos por un cambio, por la justicia por un mundo al revés.
Ahora la pared del comedor se ha vuelta razón de pensar por una pequeña decisión. Imagínate que sucedería si al tomar decisiones más importantes optáramos por otras alternativas recordando las costumbres de nuestros abuelos y nuestros padres al cuidar de la isla en que vivimos. Por que estas cosas el cuidado es aprendido y las decisiones toman en consideración las influencias por más pequeño que sea. Por ejemplo en la casa todos lavan sus zapatos hacen sus camas y tratan con un cuidado sus pertenencias que me inspira a cuidar mejor mis cosas. Si mi gente lavo mis zapatos hago mi cama opto por comprarle al verdulero de la esquina y al carnicero en la otra cuadra. Esas pequeñas decisiones inspiradas por los demás aunque lo sepan o no. Para no volvernos cómodos en un mundo en donde cada día nos importa menos lo que no tiene que ver con nosotros y formamos parte de una cultura de basura en donde tiramos todo lo que nos aburre porque no le queremos dedicar tiempo incluyendo la gente.
Lo siguiente es el artículo que mencioné les prometo tenerles las versión en español en unos días… Y la pueden buscar a: www.kristinadiazrivera.blogspot.com
Le pido a Dios que en este nuevo año pueda darle mejor uso a mis decisiones…
Dios los bendiga,
Kristina…
Dreaming Upside-Downby Tom Peterson "I dreamed the other night that all the maps in the world had been turned upside down. Library atlases, roadmaps of Cincinnati, wall-sized maps in the war rooms of the great nations, even antique maps with such inscriptions as "Here be Dragons" were flipped over. What had been north was now south, east was west. Like a glob of melting vanilla ice cream, Antarctica now capped schoolroom globes.In my dream, a cloud of anxieties closed around me. The United States was now at the bottom. Would we have to stand upside-down, causing the blood to rush to our heads? Would we need suction-cup shoes to stay on the planet, and would autumn leaves fall up? No, I remembered, an apple once bopped Newton on the head - no need to worry about these things.Other things troubled me more. Now that we're at the bottom, would our resources and labor be exploited by the new top? Would African, Asian, and Latin American nations structure world trade to their advantage?Would my neighbors and I have two-dollars-a-day seasonal jobs on peach and strawberry plantations? Would the women and children work from dusk to dawn to scratch survival from the earth of California and Virginia? Would the fruit we picked be shipped from New Orleans and New York for children in Thailand and Ethiopia to hurriedly eat with their cereal so they wouldn't miss the school bus? Would our children, then, spend the morning, not in school, but fetching water two miles away and the afternoon gathering wood for heating and cooking? Would a small ruling class in this country send their daughters and sons to universities in Cairo and Buenos Aires?Would our economy be dependant upon the goodwill and whims of, say, Brazil? Would Brazil send war planes and guns to Washington, D.C. to assure our willingness to pick apples and tobacco for export while our children went hungry? Would Brazil and Vietnam fight their wars with our sons in our country? Would we consider revolution?If we did revolt, would the Philippino government plot to put their favorite U.S. general in power, and then uphold him with military aid?Would we work in sweatshops manufacturing radios for the Chinese? Would our oil be shipped in tankers to Southeast Asia to run their cars, air-conditioning and microwave ovens while most of our towns didn’t even have electricity?Would top of the world religious leaders call us stubborn pagans upon whom God's judgment had fallen, causing our misery? Would they proclaim from opulent pulpits that if we simply turned to God, our needs would be met?In my dream, I saw child crying in Calcutta. Her parents wouldn't buy her any more video games until her birthday. I saw her mother drive to the supermarket and load her cart with frozen and junk food, vegetables, cheese, meat, and women's magazines.I also saw a mother in Houston baking bread in an earthen oven. She had been crying because there were no more beans for her family. One of her children listlessly watched her. He was a blond boy, about six years old. He slowly turned his empty, haunting gaze toward me.At that point I awoke with a gasp. I saw I was in my own bed, in my own house. It was just a bad dream. I drifted back to sleep, thinking, "It's all right, I'm still on top.Thank God!"
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today is a special day I want to have another chance, we took a mortal dive, and today I am able to see the light house in the darkness.... Shakira
Pablo A: ¿Why is the map of the World upside down?
… Ask Kristina she’s the one who hung it that way…
Pablo A looks at me waiting for his answer.
Kristina: Why not? I read an interesting article about a man who dreamt the World upside down and all the injustices of the world of the north had fallen on him becaue now he was in the south. It left me thinking so I hung my map upside down to remember that so that people would question it.
Pablo A: It makes me uncomfortable…
Kristina: That’s the idea.
The reality of it is what makes me more uncomfortable …
It’s interesting what will happen when you change something as simple as the orientation of an old out dated map. This map which I rescued from the Christmas play props now hangs upside down in the girls dinning hall. Now when people come to visit and ask it is referred to as Kristina’s protest, but the interesting thing has to be the different reactions to the question to the reason behind it all. I hope that question of what if? Forms in their minds the same way it forms in mine while I walk down the now familiar streets of La Plata reading the words spray painted on every other building with cries out for justice, change, for a world turned upside down.
Now the wall in the girls dinning room has become a statement in itself something to think about all because of a small decision made at the last moment. Imagine what would happen if we in our more important choices we opted to change things remembering the customs and examples of our parents, our grandparents in caring for this island we live on. Because how we care is something we have learned and the decisions we make are influenced by the people we learn from no matter how small. For example my housemates all really take care of there things they even wash their shoes and are careful with the stuff they own. This inspires me to take better care of my own things so yes I wash my shoes too and I make my bed every morning. I choose to go to the fruit and vegetable stand on the corner I buy my meet from the butcher a block away instead of visiting the super market. These small choices inspired by others whether they realize it or not. So that I do not become comfortable in a world where with every passing day things that aren’t directly related to ones well being matter, refusing to fall into that throw away culture in which even people are cast aside.
So as this New Year begins I hope to make better use of my choices….
The following is the before mentioned article:
Dios los bendiga,
Kristina…
Dreaming Upside-Down
by Tom Peterson
"I dreamed the other night that all the maps in the world had been turned upside down. Library atlases, roadmaps of Cincinnati, wall-sized maps in the war rooms of the great nations, even antique maps with such inscriptions as "Here be Dragons" were flipped over. What had been north was now south, east was west. Like a glob of melting vanilla ice cream, Antarctica now capped schoolroom globes.In my dream, a cloud of anxieties closed around me. The United States was now at the bottom. Would we have to stand upside-down, causing the blood to rush to our heads? Would we need suction-cup shoes to stay on the planet, and would autumn leaves fall up? No, I remembered, an apple once bopped Newton on the head - no need to worry about these things.Other things troubled me more. Now that we're at the bottom, would our resources and labor be exploited by the new top? Would African, Asian, and Latin American nations structure world trade to their advantage?Would my neighbors and I have two-dollars-a-day seasonal jobs on peach and strawberry plantations? Would the women and children work from dusk to dawn to scratch survival from the earth of California and Virginia? Would the fruit we picked be shipped from New Orleans and New York for children in Thailand and Ethiopia to hurriedly eat with their cereal so they wouldn't miss the school bus? Would our children, then, spend the morning, not in school, but fetching water two miles away and the afternoon gathering wood for heating and cooking? Would a small ruling class in this country send their daughters and sons to universities in Cairo and Buenos Aires?Would our economy be dependant upon the goodwill and whims of, say, Brazil? Would Brazil send war planes and guns to Washington, D.C. to assure our willingness to pick apples and tobacco for export while our children went hungry? Would Brazil and Vietnam fight their wars with our sons in our country? Would we consider revolution?If we did revolt, would the Philippino government plot to put their favorite U.S. general in power, and then uphold him with military aid?Would we work in sweatshops manufacturing radios for the Chinese? Would our oil be shipped in tankers to Southeast Asia to run their cars, air-conditioning and microwave ovens while most of our towns didn’t even have electricity?Would top of the world religious leaders call us stubborn pagans upon whom God's judgment had fallen, causing our misery? Would they proclaim from opulent pulpits that if we simply turned to God, our needs would be met?In my dream, I saw child crying in Calcutta. Her parents wouldn't buy her any more video games until her birthday. I saw her mother drive to the supermarket and load her cart with frozen and junk food, vegetables, cheese, meat, and women's magazines.I also saw a mother in Houston baking bread in an earthen oven. She had been crying because there were no more beans for her family. One of her children listlessly watched her. He was a blond boy, about six years old. He slowly turned his empty, haunting gaze toward me.At that point I awoke with a gasp. I saw I was in my own bed, in my own house. It was just a bad dream. I drifted back to sleep, thinking, "It's all right, I'm still on top.Thank God!"
Saturday, March 1, 2008
February's Newsletter - Kim in Argentina
On February 20th, 2008, I had the opportunity to visit a community of the MST (Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra), or the Rural Landless Workers Movement, in Brazil. For me, this was an opportunity of a lifetime. When I was in my senior year at Bates College, I wrote my senior religion thesis on the MST, the role of the church in the movement, and how the MST gives Christians a new model how to live out their faith in community today. In the conclusion of my thesis I wrote, “The community is united in its poverty, living a life of liberation theology’s praxis, and working towards their own liberation. The MST is working for God’s kingdom – the brotherhood of all humanity.” The moment that I started to learn about the MST, I had the desire to experience an MST community, to more fully understand what it means to be in community working for the kingdom of God. And on February 20th, 2008 my dream came true!
I visited a community of 106 families, with 2,011 acres of land in the Paranã province of Brazil, outside of Santa Helena. The trip to the community was an experience of its own. I was driving with several agricultural technicians from an NGO based in Marechal C Rondon, Brazil, Centro de Apoio ao Pequeno Agricultor (CAPA), or Support Center for the Small Farmer, that works with small farmers on sustainable, organic farming, who work with some MST communities in the province. As we drove from Marechal C Rondon to the community, we passed by soy field after soy field, cornfield after cornfield. My eyes were opened to the reality of how large agro-business of the U.S. and other countries is ruining the entire ecosystem of Brazil and the world. Currently, less than 3 percent of the Brazilian population owns two-thirds of Brazil’s arable land! The MST is a movement that was created by the rural poor, with the support of the Catholic Church, to change the land ownership and inequality issue in Brazil. This grassroots movement has proved to be a living model of liberation theology’s idea of a grounded, healthy, successful, and liberated community. Due to the work of the people of the MST community, by 2002 more than 350,000 families in three thousand settlements have won land titles to over 20 million acres – results that far surpass the Brazilian government’s actions for land redistribution.
When we approached the MST community, the agricultural climate around us changed from mono-crop fields to lush bio-diverse land. A sign marked the change, stating that it was an MST farming community and now part of what is the Brazilian agricultural reform. First, the technicians took me to the center of the community, where there is a space for the community to have monthly community meetings and a center for the farmers to homogenize the milk that their cows produce. From the center, I looked out and saw rolling hills filled with all shades of green and brown. I felt as though I had entered into an oasis. Before even having the chance to speak with any families of farmers, I felt a sense of God’s kingdom come in that moment.
For the rest of the morning, I spent time with a family of four, father, mother, son, and daughter, who told me stories about the community’s 10-year history and its struggle for land with the Brazilian government. As they told me their story, they offered me the organic peanuts from their farm and chimarrão, their traditional tea that is served in a large gourd with a metal straw, and passed in a circle. Then they took me on a tour of their farm, which had rice, beans, peanuts, squash, corn, bananas, grapefruit, green beans, sunflowers, peppers, grass for the cows, cows and chickens.
In the afternoon, I visited with another family, a mother and her children. What stands out to me from this visit with the mother is that at one point in her conversation I asked her if her life is better now that she is on the cooperative. She looked me right in the eyes and said, “100%.” She said that not only are her living conditions better, but that now she lives with dignity.
My experience with this community has confirmed that the MST is a community that can give hope to the landless, the poor. The MST stands up to the oppressive forces in today’s world and looks to a new way of being community, a new way of living out God’s promise of new life.
“The future of history belongs to the poor and exploited. True liberation will be the work of the oppressed themselves; in them, the Lord saves history.”
-Gustavo Gutierrez, liberation theologian
To learn more about the MST, visit: www.mstbrazil.org
February YAGM Newsletter, Kim, 2008
I visited a community of 106 families, with 2,011 acres of land in the Paranã province of Brazil, outside of Santa Helena. The trip to the community was an experience of its own. I was driving with several agricultural technicians from an NGO based in Marechal C Rondon, Brazil, Centro de Apoio ao Pequeno Agricultor (CAPA), or Support Center for the Small Farmer, that works with small farmers on sustainable, organic farming, who work with some MST communities in the province. As we drove from Marechal C Rondon to the community, we passed by soy field after soy field, cornfield after cornfield. My eyes were opened to the reality of how large agro-business of the U.S. and other countries is ruining the entire ecosystem of Brazil and the world. Currently, less than 3 percent of the Brazilian population owns two-thirds of Brazil’s arable land! The MST is a movement that was created by the rural poor, with the support of the Catholic Church, to change the land ownership and inequality issue in Brazil. This grassroots movement has proved to be a living model of liberation theology’s idea of a grounded, healthy, successful, and liberated community. Due to the work of the people of the MST community, by 2002 more than 350,000 families in three thousand settlements have won land titles to over 20 million acres – results that far surpass the Brazilian government’s actions for land redistribution.
When we approached the MST community, the agricultural climate around us changed from mono-crop fields to lush bio-diverse land. A sign marked the change, stating that it was an MST farming community and now part of what is the Brazilian agricultural reform. First, the technicians took me to the center of the community, where there is a space for the community to have monthly community meetings and a center for the farmers to homogenize the milk that their cows produce. From the center, I looked out and saw rolling hills filled with all shades of green and brown. I felt as though I had entered into an oasis. Before even having the chance to speak with any families of farmers, I felt a sense of God’s kingdom come in that moment.
For the rest of the morning, I spent time with a family of four, father, mother, son, and daughter, who told me stories about the community’s 10-year history and its struggle for land with the Brazilian government. As they told me their story, they offered me the organic peanuts from their farm and chimarrão, their traditional tea that is served in a large gourd with a metal straw, and passed in a circle. Then they took me on a tour of their farm, which had rice, beans, peanuts, squash, corn, bananas, grapefruit, green beans, sunflowers, peppers, grass for the cows, cows and chickens.
In the afternoon, I visited with another family, a mother and her children. What stands out to me from this visit with the mother is that at one point in her conversation I asked her if her life is better now that she is on the cooperative. She looked me right in the eyes and said, “100%.” She said that not only are her living conditions better, but that now she lives with dignity.
My experience with this community has confirmed that the MST is a community that can give hope to the landless, the poor. The MST stands up to the oppressive forces in today’s world and looks to a new way of being community, a new way of living out God’s promise of new life.
“The future of history belongs to the poor and exploited. True liberation will be the work of the oppressed themselves; in them, the Lord saves history.”
-Gustavo Gutierrez, liberation theologian
To learn more about the MST, visit: www.mstbrazil.org
February YAGM Newsletter, Kim, 2008
Saturday, February 9, 2008
December/January Newsletter - Karin in Argentina
"Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing, there is a field. I'll meet you there." - Rumi
For the past two weeks, I have found Valentina´s shoe in the corner. It is dirty white, no larger than the palm of my hand, and there is always just one. I thought little of this at first, until it kept showing up: same spot, same foot. Later I saw standing in its place a plastic, purple and pink high-heal--the kind that Barbie wears, only made a couple of sizes larger to fit 3-year-old Valentina´s left foot perfectly.
So each day, for the past two weeks, Valentina has teeter-tottered around the room at the daycare, one heal two inches larger than the other. It throws her a little off balance, often causing her to stumble and, on occasion, fall down. Regardless, every morning there is a little white shoe in the corner, and it belongs to Valentina.
**** **** **** **** ****
Over five months have passed since my arrival in Comodoro. Holidays have been celebrated, loved ones have been born, spanish has improved, laughter has been shared, friends have died, friends have been made...it is no wonder they call it a roller coaster.
The new year marked a new beginning in my life here. I moved into an apartment connected to the pastor´s house (meaning that I have the greatest neighbors a gal could ask for), enjoyed the company of three dear friends from the states, and went backpacking in southern Chile. The time away spent surrounded by a close community of friends, endless mountains, clear lakes, and an occasional glacier, reminded me of the goodness and grace of God. It is indeed a powerful realization to know that the same hands that created all of this beauty, created you and I.
As a friend recently wrote in a letter, now is the time in my abroad experience where I have "stopped redefining what it means to live, and instead started living it." All of the expectations and ideas I entered into this with have fallen away, and I am instead focusing on just living. And I am loving it.
Valentina´s plastic and pink high-heal requires me to ask which shoe am I failing to put on because there is only one, or because I will walk a little crooked while wearing it, or because I will be more likely to fall as I walk? These past five months have taught me that our human brokenness and vulnerability can be the bridge between us if we allow it. It is a lesson I am still learning.
**** **** **** **** ****
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don´t open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Rumi
For the past two weeks, I have found Valentina´s shoe in the corner. It is dirty white, no larger than the palm of my hand, and there is always just one. I thought little of this at first, until it kept showing up: same spot, same foot. Later I saw standing in its place a plastic, purple and pink high-heal--the kind that Barbie wears, only made a couple of sizes larger to fit 3-year-old Valentina´s left foot perfectly.
So each day, for the past two weeks, Valentina has teeter-tottered around the room at the daycare, one heal two inches larger than the other. It throws her a little off balance, often causing her to stumble and, on occasion, fall down. Regardless, every morning there is a little white shoe in the corner, and it belongs to Valentina.
**** **** **** **** ****
Over five months have passed since my arrival in Comodoro. Holidays have been celebrated, loved ones have been born, spanish has improved, laughter has been shared, friends have died, friends have been made...it is no wonder they call it a roller coaster.
The new year marked a new beginning in my life here. I moved into an apartment connected to the pastor´s house (meaning that I have the greatest neighbors a gal could ask for), enjoyed the company of three dear friends from the states, and went backpacking in southern Chile. The time away spent surrounded by a close community of friends, endless mountains, clear lakes, and an occasional glacier, reminded me of the goodness and grace of God. It is indeed a powerful realization to know that the same hands that created all of this beauty, created you and I.
As a friend recently wrote in a letter, now is the time in my abroad experience where I have "stopped redefining what it means to live, and instead started living it." All of the expectations and ideas I entered into this with have fallen away, and I am instead focusing on just living. And I am loving it.
Valentina´s plastic and pink high-heal requires me to ask which shoe am I failing to put on because there is only one, or because I will walk a little crooked while wearing it, or because I will be more likely to fall as I walk? These past five months have taught me that our human brokenness and vulnerability can be the bridge between us if we allow it. It is a lesson I am still learning.
**** **** **** **** ****
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don´t open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Rumi
Friday, February 8, 2008
January Newsletter - James in Argentina
A month away from my adopted reality here. January was spent covering Argentina with distinct purposes but all so rewarding. My first stop was to the province of Missiones in the northeast. Missiones is a very different atmosphere than mine here in El Chaco. Missiones is a lush mountain paradise, verging on rainforest, but not quite there. I’ve always been so curious about how the terrain here changes from arid flatland to banana trees, but my transition always occurs during the night on a bus so it may forever remain my mystery. My first voyage to Missiones was to translate for a group from Pennsylvania who came for a mission trip. My favorite experience, or better said, the experience that brought on the most change in my mental process, was a talk that I had with another volunteer and the pastor of the Pennsylvania church. We got onto the subject of former mission trips and the pastor got to talking of a trip member, a youth, if I remember correctly. The youth after hearing that an argentine church only needed 11,000 US dollars to be able to build and maintain a brand new building, returned to his congregation and rallied support for the project. The youth rallied so much support that the church in Pennsylvania was able to give the argentine church 100% of the funds needed to build the building, with some left over for maintenance in the following years. The story sounded like a dream come true to me, a new church, friendships over-seas formed, but then my friend, who is infinitely wiser than I, began telling the side of the story that she had heard. You see, less than a year after the new church was built, the membership had almost completely died in the sparkling new building. This puts a very different dimension of the giver-recipient model that we are taught and witness to in so many aspects of our lives in the United States. The church in Argentina was surviving and growing on the challenge and struggle of building a church without walls first, and then working to put a roof over their heads. If one person had a brick, they would bring it, another with the ability to lay it, and soon you have a wall. In the struggle relationships are built, and a church becomes a church, in a much deeper sense than a building with a sign hung. When the church was just given to the people the struggle was gone, and so was the integral formation of the church. They had a perfectly laid cement foundation to stand on, but with no real foundation to the membership. We get so sucked into the power of money in the United States, with it you can solve and help any problem it seems. Real power though, comes from loving and stepping into the problem with the people. I am stuck many times in my thinking because there are so many dimensions to every problem and solution. I offer no answers here; I only offer experiences that I’ve seen.
A return to Resistencia to wash clothing and rest for a day and then back to Missiones, this time with our youth group from my church. What a wonderful time of relaxation and play to develop relationships with the youth. Brilliant talks in a colossal circle discussing the eternal questions of the human condition. Real faith vs. being gullible. I pondered all of this while floating down the river, Brazil on the left, Argentina on my right, learning from the silence and power of water.
My vacation started on my return from Missiones, and I left for Buenos Aires to pick up my friend that came to visit me the following day. A 26 hour bus ride later and we were in Patagonia, the south of Argentina. I spent my days traveling place to place with all my life in a backpack, and when I had become comfortable with that, our backpacks were stolen and I was left with less. It made walking easier, and we eventually acquired new ones to facilitate the trip. I have never felt freer as I did as I sat on top a mountain staring off for miles at perfect lakes and tree covered islands. Life stopped in those moments. I learned to cook over a fire and live so much more simply. It seems I am always placed next to people that offer so much to my thoughts on life, and this trip was no different, with my friend always offering beautiful new thoughts on a life I constantly feel I have figured out.
I am safe and home now in Resistencia, but not for long. In the coming month I have a kids camp and then I am back again in Buenos Aires for a retreat with the other volunteers. Embracing being lost-james
A return to Resistencia to wash clothing and rest for a day and then back to Missiones, this time with our youth group from my church. What a wonderful time of relaxation and play to develop relationships with the youth. Brilliant talks in a colossal circle discussing the eternal questions of the human condition. Real faith vs. being gullible. I pondered all of this while floating down the river, Brazil on the left, Argentina on my right, learning from the silence and power of water.
My vacation started on my return from Missiones, and I left for Buenos Aires to pick up my friend that came to visit me the following day. A 26 hour bus ride later and we were in Patagonia, the south of Argentina. I spent my days traveling place to place with all my life in a backpack, and when I had become comfortable with that, our backpacks were stolen and I was left with less. It made walking easier, and we eventually acquired new ones to facilitate the trip. I have never felt freer as I did as I sat on top a mountain staring off for miles at perfect lakes and tree covered islands. Life stopped in those moments. I learned to cook over a fire and live so much more simply. It seems I am always placed next to people that offer so much to my thoughts on life, and this trip was no different, with my friend always offering beautiful new thoughts on a life I constantly feel I have figured out.
I am safe and home now in Resistencia, but not for long. In the coming month I have a kids camp and then I am back again in Buenos Aires for a retreat with the other volunteers. Embracing being lost-james
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
