returning...

It was about two weeks ago now that I boarded the plane to fly back to Minnesota. As, usual, departure was awfully early, but the airport process went smoothly, Chepe and Eliett came all the way out to bid farewell and with Joao's incredibly positive demeanor accompanying me, I even made it through the good-byes without many tears.

But airplanes still seem strange to me. To begin, I simply don't get the physics of it; but beyond that, it's just always a sort of surreal experience. It's as if we can teleport from one reality to another (with a few hours of cramped legs and bad/overpriced food along the way) - moving through space and time in way that isn't at all natural.

I scored an exit row all to myself and a few minutes after taking off decided to open my window. The first time I flew I remember being fascinated by every aspect of it, but lately I'm usually asleep by the time the wheels leave the ground. Perhaps I was more nostalgic than normal this time. I wasn't just leaving for a quick vacation, or another round with a new group of students. This time I was flying home to family, flying home to start setting up life again in the midwest.

And out my window were the most picturesque clouds, and aren't clouds an incredible thing? These were those kind-of storybook clouds, the type of clouds I saw so often surrounding God's throne in Sunday school class, or at least saw surrounding Homer as he debated with the Big Guy on the Simpsons. I smiled to myself about these being the first two images that came to mind, but was also somehow comforted by these clouds, painting for me such an unreal backdrop to this terrifying and beautiful moment as I was being hurled away from a place I love toward another place I love.

How blessed am I? To have found various places to call home and to have seen the passion of so many people, so willing to share their stories. To have walked the streets of Managua daily and learned to see them for what they are in their raw, chaotic beauty. To have lived in a place that never let me forget that people are suffering all of the time and that I have an enormous responsibility to them and myself. To be in love and to be so loved so well, to be healthy and able to travel and work and to still believe in change.

Certainly, I returned home grateful. I've talked often about perspective, and hopping on a plane and flying from a place like Managua to place like Minneapolis will give one more than a healthy dose of it. Of course this transition is never easy, or entirely smooth, but it probably shouldn't be. I continue looking for a job and missing the people I care about in other places and working through anger that swells up in response to big and little things that are 'different' than how I think they should/could be. Those 'clashes' or moments of heightened perspective motivate me, and although I'm in a city that may look a little more 'refined' there is plenty of work to be done. It's comforting to sit here in Northfield and still feel within me the desire to keep on as part of that struggle. I'm beyond blessed and so grateful to be here.

much has happened...

I have been terrible about blogging this spring! To all of you who continue to check in despite my inexcusable absence - thanks for being persistent.

Since I last wrote much has happened:
- Our semester students partied hard, said their goodbyes and headed home (all but one - who is still in rural Nica)
- A lovely 'may-term' group arrived from Furman University and brightened up our May with their enthusiasm, laughter and kindness
- I woke up one rainy night terrified, and convinced that I was being electrocuted...until Joao convinced me that my hand had just fallen asleep :)
- I got to see sloths (with their babies), a paca, howler monkeys and all sorts of colorful birds in their natural habitat on a tour of a sustainable farm near Matagalpa
- Chepe and Eliett got married and I was honored to be a witness in their civil wedding!!!

And now, my time here in Nicaragua (and Central America, for that matter) is nearly over. I write, during a short break from packing up my room here at the CGE house as I prepare to vacate and make space for a large travel delegation that arrives on Thursday. I'll be crashing at my boss's house until my departure and in this last week and a half plan to spend a weekend at the beach with Joao and time here around Managua saying goodbyes.

It's unbelievable to me that I'll be in Minnesota so soon and even more unreal that I've spent nearly two years in Central America. I've been debating about what to do with my blog when I return to the Twin Cities. Perhaps I'll continue, perhaps I'll let it rest peacefully at the close of my time here. Although, as I continue on my path, I'm certain that my transition to home will bring with it a whole plethora of new observations and reflections...so I would guess that I'll keep writing. Thank you again for being such faithful readers. Hope everyone is enjoying spring - wherever they may be, and for those of you in the Midwest - I'll get to enjoy it with you soon!

"My hope is that the youth would return to the streets to make history."

-Fernando Cardenal

on racial profiling here and there...

Girls from the United States have a reputation here in Latin America. Whether we're here spring break-ing, studying or doing non-profit work, people often assume that we're 'liberal'. And I don't mean that they assume we're all democrats, but rather they think we're all easy - as if being 'liberal' (educated and empowered about sexual rights) means that we all enjoy sleeping around.

And yes, as a white girl from Minnesota this is pretty much the extent of my negative 'racial profiling' experience. Does it matter if people here assume I'm a slut when they see the color of my hair? Not really, they can't do anything other than approach me and quickly find out they're mistaken. But does it piss me off? Every single time, yes.

I'm certain that my annoyance in such situations pales in comparison to the anger Latinos must feel in the face of the blatant racism and stereotyping they confront in the states. Certainly Latinos aren't the only ones who face racial-profiling - but this new law seems to me as much like an insult as it does a negation of people's human rights. Not only are they legalizing racism, they're doing it in a way that exposes their belief that Latinos are a powerless demographic.

Thank heavens people are proving them wrong; and god bless solidarity. As enraging as the words and actions of many legislators in the south west have been, it's been encouraging to see such an organization of people against it. It's about time we start talking about immigration. I guess I spoke too soon in my last post; turns out there are things that will get people into the streets at home too.

to the streets...

Last week while we were in the country I commented to Suyen that this semester felt different. Usually as we drive into Managua we also enter a world of political unrest - of alleged electoral fraud or shady changes to the constitution or enormous manifestations -both for and against the current leadership - and it seems that el famoso Daniel Ortega is always at the middle of it all.

This time things felt strangely calm.

And then this week, in the oppressive heat of Managua, it all exploded. Really the issue started a few months back, when Ortega (the president) issued a decree that would allow the current 'magistrados' (like supreme court judges) to stay in power longer. A few of those judges put his decree (or "decretazo") to the test last week and refused to turn in their robes. Fighting and name-calling and all sorts of anger ensued between the magistrados themselves last week and then this week, in Nicaraguan style, the people took to the streets.

As the opposing legislators attempted to come together on Tuesday to address the issue, they encountered mobs with mortars at the national assembly and then later the make-shift assembly was hunted down at the Holiday Inn. The police kept the people from getting in, but didn't do much else to control the situation. The news scenes of protesters (or 'gangster like thugs' as they are being referred to in many US news articles/channels), of cars being set on fire, and the background noise of mortars being fired in the distance are all too familiar. And continued yesterday and continue today as I write.

It's hard to write about details because it's so hard to fully understand what's going on - even being here and watching the news and talking to people and knowing a bit of background - I don't really get it. Reading articles from the North American perspective generally upset me, to talk about it all you have to simplify it and truly it's anything but simple. What do you do with a guy like Ortega in the context of Nicaragua? Does this count as democracy, when the people feel the need to take to the streets every few months? Is this democracy embodied? People making their desires and needs known?

I'm reading Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States" right now and the current situation here and that of the states in the late 1800's seem to have some powerful commonalities - people were organizing and unionizing and marching up to capital hill with demands and guns and fire in their bellies year after year. And honestly, I'm not sure why we've become so docile.

Obviously it's not easy to live in a place with so much unrest. Many Nicaraguans I've spoken with this week are upset by the protests, the traffic, the violence; they sigh and say "we just want to work". There are lots of accusations about who is financing these protests, who's really behind them, it's complex. There's no way I can write adequately about it. However, I do like that Nicaragua never lets one stop thinking about these issues, it's raw, it's pulsing and you can't avoid really thinking about the nature of power and corruption, of government and society.

to live now...

"The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory."

- Howard Zinn

on nicas and nationality...

New week, new country. I guess that happens a lot in this job. Although I'm not sure why it was such a bizarre sensation to me this time around - the idea that life, almost entirely, could be so different just a few days later. The rhythm changes, staff changes, climate changes (goodness it's hot here) and the political landscape changes.

Nicaragua is distinct from the other two countries for lots of reasons, but especially due to its unique history: a Revolution that triumphed and a counter-revolution that ravaged the country. Earthquakes and hurricanes and leaders that seem to take advantage of the people rather than build them up, have left Nicaragua in tough shape economically. It's the largest country in Central America, rich in resources, but the second poorest in the hemisphere, after Haiti.

This economic situation means that lots of people immigrate. However, while hundreds of Salvadorans are going to the States every day, people in Nicaragua are filling the jobs left behind in Honduras, Guatemala and Salvador...and most commonly, attempting to cross the border into Costa Rica, where there are better jobs with better wages. It's created quite the contempt filled relationship between these neighboring nations; one similar to that between Mexico and the United States. On Tuesday, Joao brought me to the national theater to see 'El Nica'; a monologue in which a Nicaraguan immigrant talks about his faith, life, journey, challenges, rage, hope and pride.

It was incredibly moving to see an immigrant's resilience depicted with such humor and honesty, and painful to see how humans treat each other based on border and class. However, for me, the most powerful moment was the end, when the whole theater stood up and applauded their flag, so many with tears in their eyes for their people and enormous pride in their country. I stood there and applauded as well - feeling somewhat out of place - having one of those moments where I wonder 'How did I end up here? A gringa in Nicaragua, caring so much about immigration to Costa Rica? How is it that life/my decisions brought me here? Why haven't I ever clapped for my flag with tears in my eyes?' And all of the sudden I felt so saddened by the fact that I'm not proud of where I'm from. I was so envious of all of those people who tell you where they're from with that sure smile on their face like nothing anyone could say about their homeland would make them any less proud of it. And me, I'm not proud of it, just ridiculously privileged because of it - life is so strange.

And in the midst of this little question-session going on in my head, the actor began to wind together the Costa Rican and Nicaraguan flag, and the applause swelled. And with that symbolic action I started to feel part of what was going on again, because then I felt part of a movement. So I don't sing to stars and stripes - and that doesn't mean I'm ashamed of where I'm from - I'm just also not boasting about what my nationality so often stands for in places like Latin America. I'd rather identify with this group of people, with people in general that also want borders to mean less and people to mean more. I want so much of who I am to be about learning and educating in order to move closer to treating people like humans regardless of nationality.

Back in real life, turns out I don't get to turn my passport in for one to some 'nationless utopia' where everyone is equal. Hm. Which means I'm reminded, again and again, that being born in Iowa rather than Managua means that I was also born with a responsibility to use my privilege to love better, to be generous, and to work for changes that validate the idea that people are more than their nationality.

marching for Romero and peace...

Our time in El Salvador always flies by. We only spend four weeks there to begin with, and to add to the chaos, we spend every weekend in a different community observing the ways they have decided to live out Liberation Theology.

This time around, the students begged to stay one day longer than usual. The march commemorating the 30 year anniversary of Monsenor Romero's assassination was held on Saturday (our scheduled day of departure) and the students wanted to be there. After a month of hearing about this man - revered as a prophet by many and a as saint by others - they wanted to be there and to march in solidarity. And I'm so glad that we did.

It was a moving day for a lot of reasons. Despite the fact that I've only spent a total of 4 months in El Salvador over the course of the past 2 years, we ran into so many people that I've met along the way: members of christian base communities, local youth, other foreigners working for social justice. There was a sense of community that was touching. A sense that those of us who truly long for things to be different aren't alone in that desire. And in the few years since I've dedicated myself to this path, this path of attempting to live serving and loving others - I've realized that those moments of feeling deep solidarity and hope in a collective people are fewer than I'd like them to be. And therefore they must be appreciated, savored even.

The march began with a victorious feel, and we've definitely got to celebrate victories! Romero is celebrated every year, but this was the first year that the government officially joined the people in this celebration and publicly apologized for his murder. President Funes came to the march and declared that Romero was the greatest patriot El Salvador has ever seen and that the current government would measure their work for a better society according to how it is measuring up to Romero's vision for El Salvador. If you know the history of politics in El Salvador (too lengthy and complex to get into here), this is truly incredible.

And then we marched. We marched for a few hours from one of the richer parts of San Salvador right down into the center, to the national cathedral. It was downhill, and as we worked our way closer to the cathedral, the buildings were more and more run down, the street vendors more desperate to sell, the smell far less appealing, a downright stench, in fact. Poverty isn't pretty. It seemed beautifully appropriate to me in that moment that there was such an unpleasant contrast from where we started and where we were finishing.

Romero didn't plan to become the advocate he became. He could have easily stayed in his comfortable position of power and chosen not to walk into the pain and suffering, and ultimately the death, of the poor and repressed. But he did. And if we look at the paths that people in power generally take, that's a pretty miraculous act. Romero inspired a thirst for justice and empowered a battered people to use their faith for fuel - not only to claim their rights but to fuel them into living out their faith through relationships. The month in El Salvador always reminds me, in new ways, that this 'revolutionary' stuff is really about relationships and that my faith is really what fuels my desire for revolution, my desire for genuine peace.

A few words from Romero:

"Do you want to know if your Christianity is genuine? Here is the touchstone: Whom do you get along with? Who are those who criticize you? who are those who do not accept you? Who are those who flatter you?"

"Peace is not the product of terror or fear. Peace is not the silence of cemeteries. Peace is not the silent result of violent repression. Peace is the generous, tranquil contribution of all to the good of all. Peace is dynamism. Peace is generosity. It is right and it is duty."

no tengo miedo a la muerte...

Ya no tengo miedo a la muerte,
conozco muy bien
su corredor oscuro y frío
que conduce a la vida.

I am no longer afraid of death,
I know well
its dark and cold corridors
leading to life.

Tengo miedo de esa vida
que no surge de la muerte,
que acalambra las manos
y entorpece nuestra marcha.

I am afraid rather of that life
which does not come out of death,
which cramps our hands
and slows our march.

Tengo miedo de mi miedo,
y aún más del miedo de los otros,
que no saben a donde van
y se siguen aferrando
a algo que creen que es la vida
y nosotros sabemos que es la muerte!

I am afraid of my fear
And even more of the fear of others,
who do not know where they are going,
Who continue clinging
to what they think is life
Which we know to be death!

Vivo cada día para matar la muerte,
muero cada día para parir la vida,
y en esta muerte de la muerte,
muero mil veces
y resucito otras tantas,
desde el amor que alimenta
de mi Pueblo,
la esperanza!

I live each day to kill death;
I die each day to give birth to life,
and in this death of death,
I die a thousand times
and am reborn another thousand
through that love
from my People,
which nourishes hope!

-by: julia esquivel

at our doorstep...

Now, I don't generally agree with much of what Reagan said or did, but I thought this quote offered some perspective:

"San Salvador is closer to Houston, Texas, than Houston is to Washington, D.C. Central America is America; it's at our doorstep."

-televised national address on May 9th, 1984

You know, we're really not that far away down here, and if that's the case, why doesn't life here matter to the majority in the United States? Things just shouldn't be as they are. If a family member moves from Minnesota to Washington for a promotion, we applaud them for taking economic strides. If an El Salvadoran moves from San Salvador to San Antonio, they're immediately considered a criminal.

While this argument was used by Reagan to defend killing hundreds of thousands in a war against communism, today I hope it might inspire a little grace and empathy for those who fall outside of the arbitrary borders that decide who is worthy of opportunity and who isn't. It's worth thinking about the lines we draw to differentiate one human's worth from that of another.

dying in El Salvador...

I'm not even sure how to write about El Salvador. So I've been putting it off; which is a shame, because it's a fascinating place.

I look forward to our arrival here and the process of learning and analysis that students begin in their Liberation Theology course. In Guatemala they learn a skill, they learn to speak Spanish. Here in El Salvador, they learn about a reality that hardly seems possible, and one that certainly hasn't created ideal conditions for hope. They have the opportunity to hear people's testimonies and they are challenged both in conversation and in readings to 'take people down from their crosses'.

In El Salvador crosses and suffering aren't figurative. People are dying at incredibly saddening rates. According to the blog Voices on the Border, there were 440 reported murders in the first 5 weeks of 2010. Keep in mind that this is a tiny country - with a total population about equal to that of New York City. To put that number into perspective, New York City only reported 419 murders for the entirety of 2009. It's a problem that keeps getting worse - and people don't really know why. The majority of the victims are gang members, and are young males. However, many have been bus drivers or "political activists, presumably killed for their opinions and public pronouncements".

It's incredible that in a "post-war" country, people can't leave their houses at night. This situation of such extreme violence has brought the military back to the streets to attempt to protect civilians. During the war, the United States sent an average of 1.5 million dollars a day to support the government's attempt to wipe out the 'communists'. The Truth Commission after the war reported that the guerrillas were responsible for approximately 5% of the war crimes. In a conflict that took about 70,000 lives, that means the 'bad guys' the US was paying so much to fight were responsible for about 3,500 deaths...over the course of 12 years.

If murder rates keep up their current rate - El Salvador will loose 4,576 people to violence this year alone. Last year 4,365 were killed.

What is the US sending now? USAID is working on some development projects, and non-profits are doing what they can; but mostly, the US is sending trade agreements that favor the powerful and deporting poor Salvadorans back to a place where there aren't any jobs, and there's a whole lot of death. It sure isn't sending 1.5 million a day. Of course, a million a day wouldn't be the answer (would it?). I don't know what the answer is, but this tiny country's current plight deserves to be heard.

In our religion class we're encouraged not only to ask ourselves about 'taking people down from their crosses' but also "How am I complicit in building crosses?" As a citizen of one of the most powerful nations in the world, living in a reality like El Salvador's, this question haunts me daily.

(pictures: sketches of salvadoran torture victims - rendition of the stations of the cross from the UCA chapel in San Salvador)

humbling perspective...

Last week, during our rural stay in a tiny Guatemalan, mountain community I was fortunate enough to stay with the same family that received me and Chepe back in September. I arrived exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and on the eve of my 27th birthday. My two little 'host-sisters' ran out to greet me: "Seno Rebekah!" And I was so honored that these gorgeous little ladies remembered me fondly. It strangely felt something like a homecoming. Throughout the course of the week, the entire family continuously awed me with their enthusiasm and open love, their heartbreaking generosity and their gratitude. Over and over, their ability to put things in perspective humbled me and my often, all too enormous lack of perspective.

We spent meal times together, in their cozy kitchen, around their table chatting, the girls drifting off to sleep on my lap. I thought often about what I've heard many say in response to such beautiful displays of humanity in a new or different culture - "Look, they're poor, but they're happy." And I'd agree; they are poor and they are - for the most part - happy.

But if that's true, it's because they've chosen to be happy. They have plenty of reason not to be: the smoke from that 'cozy' wood-burning stove is killing their Grandma. She can hardly talk and her lungs are as black as the walls. Mama Alba has a debt so large, due to mistakes not her own, that she fears losing their house and land. The kids study without pencils or paper and work tilling the land by hand and chew their food on painfully rotted out teeth, but they smile when they dance and they get excited about garbanzo beans for dessert and they cuddle up with each other, finding the happiness to be found in simple situations and each other. My host mom landed a 'temp' job of sorts while I was staying there. It would only be a few weeks of work - but opportunity is so scarce that this was a huge victory. She just beamed and I ached. I want so deeply for them to have opportunity.

And what amazed me is that it seemed clear to me that they choose to get up every day and live out of a deep perspective; appreciating the things that can bring light rather than passively watching the darkness envelop them. So good for them that they are 'happy' - and good for people for recognizing the beauty of that - as long as it isn't used as an excuse not to do anything. In really seeing the miracle in their ability to live with less and choose happiness I was challenged, and hope others would feel the same, to do more to serve, live with less and still be 'happy'. Their ability to have perspective and find joy doesn't negate my responsibility to ALSO live with deep perspective, as if their happiness somehow justifies their daily injustices.

I came down from that mountain full of their light and burdened by the deep aching, the gut feeling that they deserve so much more. I felt burdened by the responsibility that beginning to learn how to love a people so oppressed entails and yet happier than I have in a long while.

multiply by three...

During my time here in Central America I've thought a great deal about life in post-war countries. About what war does to the infrastructure and the economy of a nation; but more so, what it does to the psyche of a people.

Guatemala survived 36 years of war. Thirty-six years of 'internal conflict' affects the way a country acts internally, obviously. It affects the way that people treat each other and talk to each other and the decisions they make. One of our speakers mentioned a sociological study that claims a country needs 3 times the number of years spent in war in order to leave behind the culture of fear and distrust that it generates. Which would mean Guatemala is looking at 108 years...and they're only 14 year in, with 94 to go.

That's a pretty dismal panorama...but in the face of that idea, we still see organization. And perhaps more than in certain communities in peaceful countries. It's pretty incredible when communities - whether out of necessities or ideals - rise out of such an extreme culture of fear to organize and help/support each other. Both post-war and peaceful countries need our encouragement in doing so, it seem. So here's to organizing, and here's to breaking down barriers constructed by fear, and here's to healing.


(mural from PLQ with a quote from Pablo Neruda: 'Podrán cortar las flores, pero no podrán detener la primavera.'/'They can cut down the flowers, but they can't stop spring.')

constant change...

We've been in Guatemala for four weeks now and we're headed out to Santa Anita - a community of ex-guerrillas that have 'traded in the smell of gunpowder for the smell of coffee'. They work together as a cooperative to produce coffee and we get to spend the weekend hearing their story and touring their gorgeous property (and drinking lots of coffee!). After that we'll spend a week in the countryside learning about rural life in Guatemala.

Things are wrapping up here, is what I'm trying to say, I guess. And that's happened three other times, but this week, it's likely the last time. I'll often complain about certain parts of the semester but I've grown quite fond of Xela and I will miss lots about it.

There's something incredible about the way that knowing you're leaving a place changes perspective. For me it heightens things - food tastes better, people seem more interesting, music more nostalgic, mountains more grandiose, sunsets more beautiful. Maybe that's why I've turned into this strange breed of transition-junkie. Constant change doesn't let you get used to much or take much for granted.

I don't think my post has a 'point' today really. I suppose I'm just more conscious of the emotions surrounding coming and going this time through. I hope that you're all well and surviving the snow at home :) I miss you.

acknowledgment...

We're a few weeks into our time here in Guatemala and things are moving along quite nicely. Students have, thus far, averted extreme/bizarre illnesses (no Scarlet Fever this time around - thank God). And despite the group being small, they are good to each other and have displayed an impressive level of interest and appreciation for our speakers.

I've been reading more than normal and going to bed early, probably part of the reason I haven't been writing here as much as I'd like to. But I have been thinking much about solitude and presence and why we're/I'm here in Central America.

On Saturday we went to a small indigenous community where we heard the story of a group of widows. Before we make the hike down to their houses Fidel always teaches us some words in Quiche and reminds us that by attempting to speak their language, by listening to their story, and by sharing a meal with them - we show them that we value who they are. This has been a recurring theme during my time here: that with your presence alone, you can show someone you value them.

I'm reading a wonderful novel in which a dying Reverend writes a long letter to his boy in hopes of telling him the things that might not ever be told otherwise. He speaks about baptism and the act of blessing something.

"There is a reality in blessing...It doesn't enhance sacredness, but acknowledges it, and there is power in that. I have felt it pass through me, so to speak. the sensation of really knowing a creature, I mean really feeling its mysterious life and your own mysterious life at the same time."

It's pretty unlikely that I'll ever baptize anyone, but my hope would be that through our presence and our solidarity with these communities, we would bless them - and acknowledge the sacredness within them. Certainly I am always blessed by them.

right relationships...

We're lucky enough, at the beginning of each semester, to meet with a political science professor from the capital who updates us on the 'current situation' here in Guatemala. I have started to look forward to this talk because rather than numbers and names of presidents and congressmen, etc...he pulls us into a process of critical analysis while painting a picture of Guatemala in relation to other countries around the globe.

When he asked the students how they would guess he responded to an invitation to join the guerrilla movement when he was just 21, one responded "I bet you said 'no'; you don't seem like a violent person". He chuckled and explained that he's not - that he has never killed anyone, doesn't know how to use weapons - but he believed that it was his 'deber' (duty) to join a movement that he felt was really struggling for the people and change. And then, and this is my favorite part, he talked at length about how someone can't really be revolutionary or encourage change if they aren't living in right relationships: with their kids, their neighbors, their classmates, their friends. If we can't figure out how to live in community - if we don't discuss political issues in a loving way with the people close to us, why would we expect our politicians to push through bi-partisan bills? If we don't treat the people in our house well - why would we expect people to make sacrifices for strangers?

It all starts with right relationships. And that's do-able. Poco a poco.

suerte del gato negro...

A cat fell through the roof of my room this morning.

I arrived here in Guatemala late last night after a sweet good-bye in Managua and a short plane ride into the capital. The hostel is empty; students don't arrive until tomorrow and my trusty companero Chepe won't be with me for parts of the semester, this being one of them.

So I got to bed kind of late and in the midst of strange dreams, around 5:45 am, I hear a loud crash and quick movement on the other side of the room. Entirely disoriented (not being able to remember exactly where I was) I tried to figure out what had happened and noticed a hole in the ceiling...right above my computer. I walked over to that side of the room, in the dark and reached across the bed to unplug my laptop when something hissed at me and I, naturally, screamed, waking up the house staff. It was a bit of an ordeal, street cats aren't friendly when they're scared and they certainly aren't something you want hanging out in your luggage. But we got it out, moved my luggage and I went back to sleep for another hour.

Some may consider a black cat falling from the sky, the morning before students' arrival to be a negative omen. However, a black cat in the audience the opening night in theater is also considered to foreshadow a successful play. Choosing to be optimistic, I'll opt for the latter and take it as a sign that the group on it's way here will be fabulous.

longing in the new year...

Well, it's a new year and a new semester, and with slight hesitation, I'd like to renew a commitment to write here more often. Being home for break was lovely and seeing people that I care about so deeply, that love me so well, is always life giving. It also reminds me of the stark differences between my world here and my world there, reminding me how important it is to write from time to time. To relay pieces of a different reality. If nothing else, to share a different perspective. To all who vocalized appreciation for these little musings I post, thank you; it's incredible encouragement.

Today was also a day of commitment for my brother and sister-in-law as they, with family present, participated in Noah's dedication at their home church. (Noah is 6 months old now and as adorable as ever - see 'proud-aunt-picture' to side.) I'm back in Nicaragua, so I obviously couldn't be there but I haven't stopped thinking about him, and his amazing parents, all day. I love my work and feel that this is where I should be; but I just hate being so far away on days like today.

I asked myself, in an email to my mom "How does one prioritize such important things like this? And will they still know how much I love them all...although I wasn't there for that specific moment?" She answered (in her never-ending wisdom and consistently speedy response time) with a blessing encouraging my longing. My longing to be in more than one place at once, my longing to help create spaces for change, my longing to belong to a circle of friends, a movement, to show family how crucial they are to who I am and how I move through this world.

So I thought I'd pass along her blessing, holding this sentiment for my little nephew as well as all of you reading this. Happy new year.


For Longing
by John O'Donohue

Blessed be the longing that brought you here
And quickens your soul with wonder.

May you have the courage to listen to the voice of desire
That disturbs you when you have settled for something safe.

May you have the wisdom to enter generously into your own unease
To discover the new direction your longing wants you to take.

May the forms of your belonging - in love, creativity, and friendship -
Be equal to the grandeur and the call of your soul.

May the one you long for long for you.

May your dreams gradually reveal the destination of your desire.

May a secret Providence guide your thought and nurture your feeling.

May your mind inhabit your life with the sureness with which your body inhabits the world.

May your heart never be haunted by ghost-structures of old damage.

May you come to accept your longing as divine urgency.

May you know the urgency with which God longs for you.