Bread and Butter Pickles

I was just commenting to a friend the other day that I am able to show love for someone best with giving them my time. For my mom, if I had to guess, it would probably be the same. Her love is mostly measured by her time in the kitchen. An avid maker, doer and shaker, we have much to learn from women like her.

Today, her birthday, is a perfect time to remember her and pay homage to the time she has spent on me and all her loved ones.

In the middle of Cochabamba
I am reminded of you
bread and butter pickles
como entrada
What a surprise!

From a relative’s recipe
scrawled in ubiquitous Ford handwriting
the circular section of the cursive “l’s”, “q’s”, and “g’s”
are long and slender like great-grandma’s fingers
The cucumbers lay waiting in the garden
with white bellies face down
protected from the harsh sun
smooth yet bumpy to the touch
You gather them in a bucket casually
then cut the green vegetables thin
with a newly sharpened blade
onion slivers follow
slender as the last phase of the waning moon
salt, sugar, vinegar
celery and mustard seeds
sprinkled into a Mason jar
like a snow globe

My frenzy in the kitchen
directly contradicts your
calculated and anticipatory approach
NPR is my mother’s soundtrack
as she moves through
different stages of myriad dishes
Her hands work in concert with
a recipe as if she were reading
a piece of music
her cookbook the sheet music
the counter her music stand
her inspiration:
anything she tries and likes
She travels the world
retraces her roots
remembers her ancestors
respects the land
all in a movement of love.

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Un recuerdo que me acordó la calle

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Hoy, caminando las calles y avenidas de La Paz, Bolivia, tratando de cumplir con un pequeño trámite me topé con una tienda de antigüedades y en particular en la ventana había máquinas de escribir de todo tipo. Me acordé de un bello recuerdo y mil disculpas a los no hispanohablantes por ahí porque la memoria me vino en castellano así que tendré que también escribirla así. Quizás, si me reclaman, la traduzco al inglés. ¡Avisen no más!

Muñequitas con canastas

Recuerdo haber tipeado
Con la máquina de escribir de mi padre
Cubierta siempre cuando no se usaba
Con una mantita que hizo mi mamá
Con su máquina de coser

Tipie una invitación
A la fiesta de mi cumpleaños

Estás invitad@ a mi casita
Para el día 29 de mayo
No hace falta traer nada
Solo una sonrisa y calzados confortables
Vamos a jugar juegos y divertirnos mucho
¡No faltes!

Y antes de haber tipeado ese pequeño mensaje
Yo y mi madre nos íbamos a la librería
Para comprar la cartulina
Color rosado fuerte
Y luego dibujamos un bosquejo de una muñequita
Señorita con una canasta de flores
En sus manitas

Trazamos docenas de esta maqueta
Y con tijeras corté detalladamente y cuidadosamente
Los bordes de la tarjetita
Y de ahí puse las tarjetas
De a una en la máquina
Y con mucha perfección tipie cada invitación

Por último colorée las invitaciones
Cada uno con un patrón distinto
Para que cada invitad@ se siente especial

A veces quisiera regresar a esos tiempos
Donde hacíamos las cosas con propósito y para la gente
Que se siente especial al recibir algo
Hecho con mucha intención y amor

Quisiera por lo menos abordar el presente
Con el mismo empeño del pasado
Para poder regalar el amor
Muñequitas sosteniendo canastas de gran valor.

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My aunt asked if I could translate so here goes:

Today, as a I walked the streets and avenues of La Paz, Bolivia, trying to take care of an errand I ran across an hole-in-the-wall antique store and in particular a window displaying typewriters of all kinds. I remembered a beautiful memory. It sounds better in Spanish, but that is the reality of translated art.

Dolls with baskets

I remember having typed
With a typewriter belonging to my dad
Always protected when it wasn’t in use
With a little cloth that my mom made
With her sewing machine

I typed an invitation
To my birthday party

You are invited to my house
The 29th day of May
You don’t need to bring anything
Just a smile and comfortable shoes
We’ll play games and have lots of fun
Be there!

And before typing that short message
My mom and I would go to the craft store
To buy poster board
The color of dark pink
And then we would draw a doll pattern
A little woman with a basket of flowers
In her tiny hands

Then we traced dozens of little dolls
And with scissors I cut with care and great precision
The outline of each card
And then I put the cards
One by one in the typewriter
And with much perfection I typed each invitation

Lastly, I colored the invitations
Each one with a different pattern
So that each guest would feel special

At times I wish to return to these times
Where we would make things for people with purpose
So that they would feel special upon receiving something
Made with love and intention

I would at least like to approach the present
With the same degree of resolve as the past
To be able to gift love
Little dolls holding baskets of great importance.

Don Guillermo: Algunos recuerdos de Nicaragua

Don Guillermo me recibió en casa La Rizoma sin mucho apuro. Me saludó con una sonrisa que le pintaba la cara entera y que me hizo sentir en casa desde el primer momento. Me mostró el cuarto dónde me iba a quedar y me enseñó el sistema de como asegurar cada puerta. Cosa importantísima pero, “¡No te preocupes!” me aseguró. Se nota que le es importante la seguridad. Y luego me doy cuenta que quizás tenga que ver con su historia de militar. Luchó para la revolución. Es un Marxista. Es un Guerrillero. Pero a la vez su tratar es de la más gentil y cálida.

Me invita a un café todas las mañanas y mientras sorbo lo calentito, fuerte y rico de café Las Flores, el me cuenta historias de su vida y de la condición del mundo en que ahora vivimos.

Un día hablamos de que el ser humano es bien complejo y en complicarnos la vida no podemos ver lo simple que es nuestro propósito. Agarra un marcador verde y empieza a rayar el pizarrón. Ahí apunta que la humanidad está llegando a la final de una etapa. Está dando la vuelta a la página de la vida. Estamos regresando a la etapa de la Naturaleza, dónde todo comenzó y donde nos debe importar el mundo natural a nuestro entorno más que cualquier otra cosa.

Y como buen académico describe la dualidad de tres cosas claves muy organizadamente

Y yo, como buena estudiante, las apunto:

1. Yin y yang: lo que se puede describir de lo que es compuesto el Tao. Fuerzas complementarias y opuestas a la vez que llegan a la realidad entera.

2. El Masculino y el Femenino

3. El Yo por dentro y como eso traspasa al exterior

En cada una de estas dualidades hay un gran desiquilibrio, me cuenta. Y el balance de las cosas está llegando a un “tipping point” o un camino sin salida y a un momento crítico.

“¡Así es!, concurrí. Y continuamos hablando de la vida de la naturaleza de la esperitualidad y de la literatura.


Shuffling in scuffed Black and White Reebok sneakers Don Guillermo makes his way out to his morning routine.

Feeding the fluffy white Pókhora and Luna he goes about his quehaceres and puts on a pot of Nicaraguan coffee ”Las Flores.”

He invites me to some and he talks Revolution, Marxism, and Religion in the same breath.

Inhaling hot, humid, and sticky air and exhaling the dense, truths that cling to you like dried sweat.

You need a way to wash them off, come clean, and know your truth and that of others in a way that doesn’t invite arrogance and knowing but invites sharing and a compassionate heart.

Guillermo’s ideas dot the air like the droplets of water spraying in the sun

As he waters the garden

the molecules rest in the form of punctuation marks on the thirsty green plants that enshrine the patio of La Rizoma.

La Rizoma is a space for sharing, a center for cultural immersion and way for folks in the community to learn about and enjoy topics of interest.

I’ll leave you with the vision statement that La Rizoma has on its walls. This safe haven in a world where violence and crossing one another to get ahead is the norm, La Rizoma exists as a way to push away the boundaries that create rigidity and misunderstanding and invite fluidity and understanding. (By the way, this is a new intention I have created for myself this coming year).

“el mundo está en un estado perpetuo de violencia. adentro de tantas masacres y eco-cidios es dificil encontrar espacios seguros. la rizoma pretende ser un espacio “seguro,” pero entedemos que esta seguridad no se puede pronunciar linguisticamente (no es tan facil como simplemente “nombrar” un espacio seguro), un espacio seguro se construye a través de las relaciones empleadas por todas las personas que habitan esta casa. Convivir en este espacio asume que lxs participantes respeten y celebren las similitudes y diferencias que se expresen en este comunidad.”

“the world is in a perpetual state of violence. under so many masks and eco-cides it is difficult to find safe spaces. la rizoma aims to be a “safe” space, but we understand that security cannot be pronounced linguistically (it is not easy to simply “name” a safe place), a safe place is constructed by way of relationships working in concert for all the people that inhabit this house. Cohabiting in this safe place assumes that the participants respect and celebrate the similarities and differences that are expressed in this community.”

 

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Guanacaste, or Elephant ear tree en route to the Mombacho Volcano
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When you go up to the Mombacho Volcano you feel like you are in a cloud
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Paisaje del mismo Mombacho
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Some wildflowers and in the distance you can see some of the cays that dot the biggest lake in Central America (365 one for each day of the year)
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Active volcano shooting sulphur with lava beds underneath (Don Guillermo took me here): Volcán Masaya
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El patio de la Rizoma de noche
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La Laguna de Apoyo with Itzá and her family
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Itzá entering a cathedral in Granada

 

April sensible

April first is April Fool’s Day and the first day of National Poetry Month. It is also the day my mom’s birthday falls. One of the things that characterizes my mom is sensibility. Craft is another good way to describe her and hopefully here are some prose that help honor the things about her that stand out to me as memorable and as noteworthy aspects of her persona.

Groggily I make my way down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen

Mom is stirring “Bupee (sp?) de Mabele” on the stove and I make a typical teenage “that’s nasty” face.

She chuckles and puts on the lid for the porridge made out of sorghum and who-knows-what else to simmer and cook.

AFT2_Mabele-porridge

Her blue alpargatas, or house-shoes shuffle through the kitchen.

Dressed in faded navy sweat pants, a free T-shirt from a Mennonite event in which the shirt is the only thing you get for volunteering your service, and a flannel over top it all, she has supplies lined out on the counter to make lunches.

Four a day.

Turkey sandwiches with lettuce, mayo (for everyone except for Dad), mustard, cheese.

For me, she separates the tomatoes, when they are in season, in a little Tupperware so the sandwich doesn’t get soggy.

The little baggies she uses for the carrots that she washes, scrapes, and cuts lengthwise, are a yellowy-orange because she re-uses them.

Sometimes I “accidentally” throw my lunch baggies away so my friends at lunchtime won’t see that my little bags are dirty.

“Where are your little baggies, Rachel?” she asks innocently.

“I don’t know,” I respond, annoyed that she would make me use something again. Doesn’t she know that I have an image to keep up.

My favorite part of the lunch, two oatmeal chocolate-chip walnut cookies. A sensible size, of course. She makes these cookies a few times a month. One of the only sweets she allows into the house.

Sometimes, if she makes the cookies on the weekend. I drink mate with her and help mix up the dough and try to make the cookies bigger in size.

“Those are too big!” she says to me aghast.

And I just smile saying, “I like them this big.”

Sometimes she takes parts of the cookies I’ve made and puts them back into the bowl before they go into the oven. Other times she lets me have it my way.

****

Today I stand in front of my own stove-top and stir the oatmeal for my morning breakfast. I look down at my outfit and I have on

some navy sweat pants, not yet faded.

a T-shirt that I got a from a Mennonite grab bag that says “In Harmony with God and Nature” from a Mennonite camp called Camp Amigo

and some “alpargatas” that I got from my last trip to Argentina that have been donned my house-shoes.

Brokenness

A couple weeks ago my friend messaged me that a good friend of hers had passed away just after ten weeks of being diagnosed with cancer. A couple of days later, after my work day had ended, I looked at my phone to see that my sister-in-law had delivered a happy, healthy baby girl(!) Around that same time, my father had messaged us in our family Whatsapp group that my grandpa was taken to the hospital and was in a lot of pain and the doctors were still trying to figure out what the cause was.

I called my friend and I talked to her about memories of her friend. I could hear the grief in her voice so I tried to console her a bit. I reminded her that her friend was once again whole. He had left his broken body behind. He had gone to a place where his body and his mind and his surroundings were complete and lacked nothing. We, humans on earth, are the ones who were broken (with grief and other things). This brokenness, it is true, makes us able to connect with each other and build a life together, but that is just for a short while. Eventually, when our life here on earth is done, we are transformed into something else. Those that stay behind are broken, but we will get through it–we always do. She seemed to take some solace in this.

I called my brother and sister-in-law to congratulate them on the new one, and while I listened to the cries of the new baby, born into a broken world, I couldn’t help but wish the best for her. Of course, we wish the best for those around us whom we love.

I called my grandpa and he was too tired to speak so I talked to my grandma for a few minutes to ask them how everything was with Grandpa and to let them know that I was thinking of them and that I loved them. I told them that I wished I were close by to visit but at least I could think about them in this difficult time.

And so it goes, death, pain, and new beginnings swirl around us every day and make our existence here what it is. Even on the hard days, we must gather our strength and see what it has in store for us. One of my favorite authors, Paulo Coelho says: “If you only walk on sunny days you’ll never reach your destination.” And if you have read any of his books, he also believes, as do I, that the destination, in fact, is the very journey and not the endpoint. These turn of events a few weeks back, especially of Grandpa, made me think about loving kindness and how we move through life and how some people are more in tune with compassion and attention to others than the average Joe.

My grandpa, for example, exudes loving kindness and is always on the lookout to lend a hand. Here’s a poem/memory chain of sorts for him to highlight what I know and to acknowledge my gratitude for him. I hope he feels better real soon!

 

Grandpa, you’re on my mind

It is hard for me to wrap my mind writing about a person that I really admire and one that you want to make sure and write about with precision, tact, and honesty in order to capture the spirit of such an important soul. I feel this way about Grandpa, someone I only see once or twice a year and who, while I was growing up abroad, I didn’t see hardly at all, and my conversations with him were fleeting check-ins, at best.

In Argentina, we would go to the Telefónica a few times a month to talk to our grandparents. We entered the building ceremoniously, the five gringos, loyal customers, ready for the conversation that we would have with each of our grandparents. There were three telephone booths that housed the phones that would connect us to our loved ones back in the United States. The lady at the counter gave us la cabina 1, 2, o 3 al azar. The booth she seemingly picked at random because there was hardly anyone present making phone calls, was carpeted from top to bottom with blue 70s carpeting and the door that swung out inviting the speaker inside, had a long window to see in and out. The seat inside the booth was a little bench, also carpeted. There was probably enough room to comfortably, for a very short time, fit two, very lean adults in that booth. And so, my parents would go in and they would talk to our grandparents, first one set and then the other. Closing the door behind them they would communicate with our relatives, thousands of miles away. My grandparents only ever knew our experiences in the Chaco through these conversations. They relayed on the lens that my parents saw the world to transport them to the faraway land, because they never visited.

Meanwhile, the three of us kids would run, play, and try to stay out of trouble in the uninspiring building built for conversations suspended in air, and not for the activities of lively children. We ventured outside to play as well and came in and out at our leisure until my mom or dad would come get us one by one to say “hi” to each of their parents.

When my turn came I ran into the cabina, which had gotten pretty toasty  because of the close quarters and body heat created by all of us breathing and the energy of our conversations in general. I said “hi” and I probably talked about school, and piano lessons, and what new tumble I had learned in gymnastics, and the ducks, and my friends, and whatever else children talk about. To tell you the truth I don’t remember the substance of those conversations or what I talked about in specifics. My memory serves me pretty well, but the content of these phone chats just don’t seem to come to mind. I do remember the spirit of the calls however, and how my grandparents’ calming voice took hold of you and carried you where you needed to go, like that of a mother cat carrying its young by the scruff of their necks. Grandpa Wigginton never forgot to say “I love you” and that’s all I needed to know–that he was there and that he cared about me.

Besides these conversations, periodic letters and pictures my mom sent were largely how my grandparents got to know us until we moved to the States. And when I did move to Indiana I got to see my grandparents more often and I have to say, that Grandpa Wigginton is my favorite grandparent. Expressing gratitude for you is easy.

Here’s a memory that is of Grandpa when I moved to the States, circa Spring of ’96:

The pancakes he makes are three-in-one

Spraying the pan he pours batter in the center—the head

And then two more little circles to the right and to the left—the ears

Mickey Mouse pancakes.

Flipping the pancakes he leans against the counter.

Sometimes silent,

Sometimes talking about someone in the

Neighborhood,

Family,

Church,

His attention always drifts to those around him,

What they may need, and, most importantly

How he can help.

He shoves the spatula under Mickey’s chin and slides him onto my plate.

“Anyone else want a pancake?” he inquires simply.

Large hands with slender fingers carefully tie his black shoelaces and then he is off to care for someone else.

 

On love

Yesterday I wrote a post on love. Today I would like to write another post on love and experiment by sharing more of myself in a way that I normally would shy away from. It is weird to put out information of your life into the world for anyone and everyone to read, but at the same time, in my commitment to be more vulnerable and open, I think it makes sense to share more of my story, especially around the particularly important topic of love.

Love, when I was a child, was given in the form of time. I spent a lot of quality time with my family and I think this has led to the fact that now, my love language, so to speak, is that of spending quality time with folks more than anything else. In addition to this, as a baby, I was privileged enough to bask in the touch of others, more than I probably would have had I grown up in the United States. I was born in Botswana and spent the first year or so of my life in a rural village with many people around me, not related to me, but part of a close-knit community. Whenever my family (at that time just my parents) were out and about I was passed around like a really interesting souvenir from a foreign land—and as a white baby, I was. Getting exposure to so many sets of laps, arms encircling around me, and mouths uttering baby talk in languages and dialects I certainly didn’t understand, probably set the foundation for the reality that now-a-days I am easily adaptable and can really be comfortable and content in most settings. At the same time, this experience as a baby, more likely than not, primed me for the desire to be touched, even by strangers; if the intention was genuine, I was happy to receive it. This touch however, mostly did come from people outside my family circle because my parents really aren’t the touchy-feely type.

At this point in this short autobiography of the thing I call love, it might be helpful to mention that by the time my family really settled down, my thirteenth birthday had just passed. Before the tumultuous years of teenagerdo[o]m I had lived in many places around the world. (If you are interested in this particular story and timeline of my life please let me know and I’d be happy to write a brief synopsis or just give you the 411 on the many places I lived and homes that were created as a result).

An example of the care and touch that I got outside of my parents is an example from Argentina. When we first moved to Argentina we lived in the northernmost province of Formosa and I was just shy of four years old. We had a niñera, or nanny, named Andrea who accompanied us everywhere and gave us cariños and touch in a way that neither my mom nor my dad ever provided me. She gave us the warmth that so characterizes this region of the world and through her I was able to realize how touch could be a healing, caring, and nurturing force.

On the other hand, with my parents, love was provided in a different way. The way that my parents showed me they loved me was through the time my mom spent cooking a delicious and nutritious meal, día tras día… When she and my father read to me and my twin siblings, noche tras noche, sin falta.

I was reminded of this love and the nightly story-telling this past weekend. On Saturday, my roommate and I went to a Meetup in hopes to meet new people (go figure), experience something a little different from the Bay Area, and to get out of our comfort zones. We went to a story Meetup where people were encouraged to share true stories from their own lives, on stage, with the guidance of a few themes that as an audience we tentatively and timidly yelled out from our seats. A bundle of nerves, my friend and I decided not to put our names in the hat to be called to story-tell but we participated in the warm-up activity before the “show”. Afterwards, we mingled with people and shared stories in a more intimate way with folks.

As each individual’s name was called out of the moderator’s hat, the audience clapped loudly and then the storyteller would tell a pretty good story or a very mediocre story and then the audience would once again clap loudly and the next person would come up. It was a really great way of sharing stories and included totally novice story-tellers all the way to experts in the field.

This storytelling made me think of the tradition that my family had while growing up, of reading stories. Of a totally different variety than free-form but in any case, sharing stories in general is a powerful way of being in community, developing a literary repertoire, using your imagination, and appreciating that of others. Every night before bed, my mom or dad would read to the three of us kids. In this way we read the Chronicles of Narnia, The Little House on the Prairie (and all the books that came after), C.S. Lewis’ Lord of the Rings series, and other lesser known books like Madeline L’Engle’s Wrinkle in Time and books that we had photocopied and bound with plastic spiraling and pastel colored-covers (it was really difficult to find books in Argentina, especially books in English, at that time, so we would borrow books from other English-speakers or we would photocopy books like the Warton and Morton series).

We were always caressed by the words of short stories, tall tales, and wide volumes of prose carried in the bottoms of suitcases by people coming from the U.S. to visit the montes of the dry, arid, and desolate Chaco—the other province of Argentina that we lived. Riding on the waves of words to faraway seas and submerging in the expanse of love, as big as the ocean, my parents had for me, was something that carried me and washed over me, but the liquid waters left me wanting to explore greater depths.

My mom’s voice, reading to us, would be slightly tired from the other acts of love she had invested in throughout the day, but she would sit next to us and read nightly, like it was her duty. And then, my mom would tuck us in, sometimes offer a goodnight kiss and let sleep take over for the night shift.

My dad contributed some to these literary evenings, although many times he was away on trips and visiting the villages of the native peoples in the region. Because this was the case, when my siblings and I were really little, he would record books for us on tape and then we could listen to his voice at night on the black Sony stereo system, the closest thing we had to a T.V. Gently, yet steadily moving the plot forward with a cadence that drew back slightly at the end of each phrase (almost like that of a rider using the reigns to control the gait of a horse), his voice provided just the right speed to get the momentum for the next phrase. Y así, his canter could carry us through the story-line of our favorite cuentos and we would imagine his presence beside us, protecting us from whatever fear, yet at the same time leaving a vastness for us to be ourselves, however we wanted to be.

And in this way we would listen to stories like Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel by Virginia Lee Burton and Tomi DePaola’s The Clown of God. It’s heart-warming to see how these traditions carry on, even though technology is certainly different now. My dad reads to my little niece, him in Indianapolis, Indiana and her in Quito, Ecuador. Her favorite story for my dad to read her is Little Bear. Through Skype, they share in the story, the rise and fall of my dad’s voice is as consistent and constant as it ever was.

And the love of my parents continued this way into my teenage years and now into adulthood…loving me at a respectable distance, never with too much touch except for sometimes a hug here and there after a long time away from each other. I feel like the core of my being, my spirit even, longed for the touch of love and the nonchalance that was provided me when a baby. And when all of a sudden I received this touch as a naïve and immature teenager, I had to learn a few lessons the hard way. And as a more mature adult, I still learned lessons on love in a way that hurt at times. But love always does. It hurts more than anything we have ever known, and it feels better than anything we have ever known. Sometimes all at once.

I think my current definition of love centers around trust. In order to really love someone I have to trust them. In order to really trust someone an emotional net has to be knitted, together, that connects me to them, and yes, this net serves as a way for me to cross from the intangible to the more tangible. From emotion to touch, from the senses to the sensual.  And this crossing develops and uncovers that my vulnerability will be valued and venerated.

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My sister and I, circa 94′ or 95′ (I believe). Enjoying one of our favorite pastimes together in a hammock strung between two trees. San Bernardo, Argentina

A cliff, a mountain, an ocean

I know this post should have been up yesterday, but I am just writing it now because I have allowed the feeling that was woven through the love-filled day to really sink in and mature just a bit.

My roommate and I have been watching Mozart in the Jungle. We like classical music, but we also really enjoy the eccentric and easy-going persona of Gael García Bernal (playing in any role, but his role as the Maestro, has us enthralled every single episode). In one particular episode he talks about trust and how it is the highest cliff one can fall from. Or in Francisco de Quevedo´s own words: “El mayor despeñadero, la confianza.” Quevedo, a Spanish poet and writer from the Siglo de Oro or the Spanish Golden Age. This particular quote stuck with me and upon meditating on it, it has come to me that it may not be, in fact, a cliff that we fall from, but a mountain that we climb. The mountain of trust that we climb by ourselves, with others, on our own two feet, being dragged, limping, whatever. And we never quite reach the top of the mountain, we are always climbing, we are always building trust, and the higher we get, the more difficult the climb becomes, but the more experienced we are. So in falling, if that were to happen on our expedition, we know what to do, we know who to turn to, we have our first-aid kit and are able to take out the supplies we need to nurse ourselves back to health. Then, we can eventually regain our footing and keep climbing.

I think this idea of trust has much to do with how we cultivate and engage in love. And for me, the idea of trust via getting out of your comfort zone is one of the qualities of love. Below is a rough sketch of some of my ideas on love, including another nature metaphor.

 

Love

Is all-consuming

An energy that fills us and depletes us.

Like the very air we breathe.

We pour our energy into loving others and this energy sometimes leaves us saturated and heavy.

Or empty and incomplete.

We are filled, we are depleted, and the cycle begins again.

It is unpredictable and sometimes unrequited

It makes me think about the last time I was in love

Six months ago,

With someone that enjoyed his own company more than my own.

And then that love dissipated, although the love lesson remained.

Love

Is simple

A thoughtful hug from a friend that cares about us

A call from a loved one that makes us feel like we matter

A smile from a stranger in the middle of winter

on the first day in a while that feels like spring.

Love is a student as well as a teacher.

We teach ourselves how to love and we have to teach others

What we need, what we want, what we don’t yet know.

It is a curious force that takes us out of our comfort zone

And plops us down outside of our zone of proximal development

And then we must sink into it or swim back to safety.

I want to sink into love and uncover its infinite depths

One meter of ocean at a time.

 

Love is many things…and sometimes dichotomous things. A poem by Quevedo, in Spanish, that is entitled Definición del amor also alludes to the yin and yang of love. Maybe you’ll enjoy this poem too. I won’t try my hand at translating it because it is a Petrarchan sonnet and I don’t want to screw up the rhyme scheme or meter.

Much love to you all!

 

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My hike up to the peak of el Rucu Pichincha en Quito, Ecuador this January 2017.
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View of Cotopaxi, a volcano, on the hike up to Pichincha.
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On the way up. View of the top of Pichincha.

Immigrant stories Part II

Today on my way to yoga I was listening to a Radio Ambulante podcast that happened to report a story on Oakland International High School. A school I never worked with, but her sister school in San Francisco is one that I am very familiar with because I worked them and many unaccompanied youth that attended there.

I felt somewhat uncomfortable listening to the story because it felt like an invasion of privacy. This radio journalist was gathering stories of Central American youth who had come across the border in some way or another, but she only wanted to report those stories of youth who had come on their own. Because of their age and many of them not having family back in their home countries, many youth were able to stay in the U.S., and I am assuming that they are now in the process of filing refugee or asylum paperwork or some other kind of visa that will get them citizenship here. The story mentioned youths’ names and I winced each time a last name was said. I remembered what it was like to work with immigrant youth. My first job out of college was in San Francisco working with homeless and many immigrant youth. I worked at this organization for four years and everything about these years has impacted my life and work trajectory (for good).

One of the things I most dreaded while working with this particular population was the intake we had to do when someone new first came through our doors. There were many things that were lacking in terms of hospitality at this particular organization so I just took this issue with the intake forms as par for the course.

On countless occasions I would welcome youth from El Salvador, Honduras, Mexico, Guatemala, and others, and after saying hello and welcome I would have to ask all about their personal information including their education, health, family, etc. It felt like I was really invading their privacy and I felt bad each and every time. Even more culturally significant is that I am a woman and most of the intakes I did were with adolescent Latinos. After taking intakes for a while I realized that it was just a matter of how I approached the form and the situation. I am mostly a friendly and kind person so I was just very nonchalant about the whole process and I made sure the youth felt comfortable with me (this is something that comes naturally but you have to learn to quickly cultivate initial trust too) and that they knew they could divulge as little or as much as they wanted…we could fill in the blanks later more accurately.

“Just tell me what’s on your mind now, because I know it is awkward to tell me some of these very personal things having just met me.”

After these intakes, getting to know each of the individual youth I worked with was my favorite part of the job. They would sometimes tell me stories, but really I just liked chatting with them about whatever it was that was going on in their lives at the moment. They probably had plenty of other people that were asking about their personal stories, so I didn’t want to intrude. Now, looking back, I wonder if I did the right thing or not…just letting them tell me the things that came to their mind. Of course, this is the beauty of being an educator, is that there are many different tools you can pull from for students to share information and for them to get things off their chest. Tapping into these different methods was really important in being able to read, relate to, and react to each youth’s story. Some youth expressed themselves via art or music or writing or silence or dance…etc. Other youth still hadn’t found their voices and were in search of how best to relate to the world around them.

I feel like sometimes, in the U.S., we are very intrusive and we like to know everything about someone, especially if they are an immigrant or if they have some kind of cross to bare, so to speak. To everyone else, we could care less, but when you have a grueling, or harrowing, or simply, just interesting story, we want to hear it. What do we do with these stories in return? Where do they go? Do they exist with us for shock value? Or do we actually get to know someone, a people, a culture, a history, as part of the process?

Immigrant stories

I don’t really have much to say today…except for the fact that I didn’t write all of January so my new intention for the month of February is to write daily.

Today, I listened to Junot Díaz reading a short story by Edwidge Danticat entitled “Seven”. Both these individuals, Junot from the Dominican Republic and Edwidge from Haiti write about their and their families experiences as immigrants and are a couple of my favorite writers because they are able to pin-point a feeling, a situation, a time in history that resonates with the social worker, educator, and writer in me.

Junot, before reading the story remarks that in this country the immigrant has been recently portrayed as a “menacing and dangerous figure” and the only softening of this blow is when he relates that it is only by stories that writers like Junot and Edwidge have told, do these menacing and dangerous people are able to be seen in their real light.

That’s all I have for today. Go read or listen to or ask someone about their immigrant story…and become closer to the American we are today and the one that we always have been.

 

 

On the path

It always takes me forever to put pen to paper. I read other people’s work and feel a tinge of imposter syndrome. I think about how the process of getting to a finished and polished product and it makes me buckle at the knees and the knuckles of my fingers fold under the computer keys, complacent to possibilities that are both clear and murky. That’s what creating is like when you feel less than. When you feel that your ideas don’t matter. When you feel that you don’t know how to say what it really is you are feeling. You say to yourself, “This is going to take a hell of a long time before I figure out how to materialize this.” Then, I think about all the negative aspects first and the actual writing part is delayed ten-fold. I think that the preludes to my writing (the thought process and actually getting ready to write) is always the longest, and what takes about 80% of my time. The actual writing process, in reality, is pretty short. Astoundingly short, in fact. So, here goes, pen to paper, let’s see where it takes us.

Today I listened to the Writer’s Almanac as I tend to do on the weekends if all is going calmly and with little action. Garrison talked about the life of Charles Schulz. A person of seeming fame and fortune and one who said: “My whole life has been one of rejection. Women. Dogs. Comic strips.” On this rainy Saturday afternoon, those sentences fell like heavy pings on my well-worn, century-old cottage roof.

Imagine…if someone like Charles felt this way, then, shit!

Pero da igual… I guess rejection knows no bounds. It’s worth mentioning however that I feel like in my life rejection is mostly me making movies. Haciendo películas. And by this I mean that I’ve been the one that has embodied the rejection and it has become me. In this way rejection, in whatever area of my life, is made alive in a way that it would never have had the chance if I hadn’t given it feet to walk with.

***

As some of you may know, these last few months I have been working with a coach. With her I have been doing some work to unearth the direction I want to take in terms of a career. I know this may sound perfunctory to some…Raquel is all over the place and doesn’t know what she wants so making up her mind in terms of a career direction seems like the only route she could go on. And this is true. I have been all over the place and I haven’t had much clarity on what it is I actually want to pursue. After my first job out of college, the one that brought me to the Bay Area and I worked with homeless youth for four years I realized the possibilities before me were vast and I had to try many different things out that have led me to some realizations this past month. For once in my life, in what seems like years, I know exactly what I want.

If one good thing came out of the awful results of the election is that my desire in this world surfaced with the assuredness of a cooked gnocchi. How quickly this realization floated to the top of my being was rather exciting. Although it still feels a bit raw, and putting it into words for the universe to see is even rawer, I know that this particular morsel is ready to be sampled.

I realized that my obsession of pouring over study abroad magazines as a first-year college student stemmed from something real. I realized that my childhood spent abroad in countries and continents I barely know how to call home all mean something more. I realized that my formation as an educator, taught to facilitate learning for others, is something that I can do outside the walls of a traditional schoolhouse. I realize that I am a person that wades through the waters of ambiguity, and change and, in turn, it has prepared me and positioned me to be a person that accompanies others in these uncertain currents. I realize that my heart is ready to follow this passion of working with students and organizations on their journey outside of what they currently know into what they will eventually become. I will explore and experiment with study abroad and gap-year organizations to find a good match for myself at this point in life and to build a foundation for the autonomy in this field that I eventually want for myself.

I realize the direction I want to go in my life.

I’m going there no matter what.

The path is laid out even though I don’t really know where it is going.

I’m on it and that’s all that matters.

So here’s to the path of opportunity! Here I go. I hope to see you along the way.

As part of my coaching I have done some visualizations that my coach has helped guide me through. In one this past week I was able to visualize myself as an outsider. Something I have dealt with my whole life but haven’t really gotten to process it completely. It’s always interesting growing up in a culture that is not your parents. Then, moving to a culture that is, in fact, your parents, you are rejected by society because you don’t know how to fit in. At this point in my life I tried my hardest to fit in and after a few years I realized that I didn’t like the person that I was becoming—it wasn’t me but a part of me that I teased out to appease society. Then I tried to become “myself” again. This whole process of identity formation, in general, is one of soul-searching, trying out new things, testing the waters for what makes sense and what doesn’t. From this time in my life I was holding on to some baggage that hasn’t been helpful in my current journey.

While talking to my coach I visualized myself walking down a path hauling a ginormous suitcase on wheels. The seams of the grey luggage are frayed and the zippers barely close around the bulk of the contents inside. I drag the valise along with considerable effort and I hunch over so as to get enough momentum to move forward. While a walk along in this manner I realize that this suitcase I am carrying is the part of me that feels like an outsider. It’s the part of me that speaks to me in hushed tones and addresses me with negativity and low expectations. However pertinent these feelings may seem at the time I realize now that this baggage is no longer conducive to moving forward on my path and doesn’t allow room for the excitement I feel for the new direction my life is taking.

I’m asked how I want to leave the baggage behind and I say that I’d like to put a cardboard sign on the suitcase that says, in all caps and black sharpie, “Free (take what you need and leave what you don’t behind)”. And so I do just that and I leave the sign and the grey bulk behind, without even looking inside first. I’d rather not know what the hell is jam-packed in there.

And with my first step on the path without the wheels of worry and resentment at my heels, I feel an enormous sense of relief and of freedom. And in the new stance I stand tall and in my new cadence I find my rhythm, I have room to claim what it is that I want since I have shed the unnecessary things from my life.

I let go of all the negative self-talk and low expectations of myself and I embark on a path that I am not totally certain of where it will lead.

I claim a path towards my passion.

On my journey I embrace an easeful approach with excitement, wonder, and anticipation.

I will embody these qualities during the onset, the process, and the conclusion of an experience.

I encourage lightness of being and taking things in stride.

I will take things in and breathe them out—letting go of them when I no longer have use for them—I will create a cyclical process mirroring what nature has intended for me.

I will take what I need and give away what I don’t need for re-use.

I am aware that on this path there might be barriers or challenges that come along, and people that I come across, so I will embrace compassion and caring for myself and others and try to be mindful of these circumstances along the way.

I will capture a sense of trust in the energy that I’m putting out into the world.

I will cultivate trust in myself and other forces that I can’t explain.

Because it is only by moving forward, sometimes blindly, that we are able to finally see where we are going based on the feeling we get—that feeling in my gut that makes me realize I am doing the right thing.