I am being retaught a lesson this summer. The lesson of being.
I am tempted not to write about my simple encounters with God because I will not be informing you of anything new or updating you on the people in Kay Pov or Haiti. I will simply share ordinary beauties of life, beauties that anyone who is alive can sense.
Writing this blog challenges me tremendously, to let go of my ideas of self and simply be with you.
With you,
Luisely
Showing posts with label a broken jug allows flowers to bloom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label a broken jug allows flowers to bloom. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
gray clouds
I arrived home on Friday. Since then thunder shakes our walls every afternoon, following the flashes and announcing the rain. The sky, painted of a variety of grays with highlights of blues, houses clouds who collide in the most magnificent and mighty style.
I spoke to Rose today, it's her birthday. The spectacles in the sky have overstayed their welcome in Haiti. Port-au-Prince floods as cases of Cholera rise again from the stagnant water's contamination. The overflow of rain brought with it a few deaths.
Before the floods though, before the casualties, people danced in praise for the blessing of water from above... how fragile our requests.
Still with you,
Luisely
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
... and believe.
I left mass with Mami and we sat in the car hearing the raindrops pound on the roof while some seeped through dripping on my jacket. The lightening allowed our eyes to detect the movement of the wind in the trees a few feet away. Vibrations that accompanied the thunder shook the car. Mami's ears rang. The wonder, chaos, and awesome power of the storm resembled my soul the night before.
________________________
I sat between Papi and a young lady with red pointed high heels. The mass ended, we could go in peace to love and serve and at different posts in the aisles people stood with the small dish full of ashes, smudging the dust on foreheads repeating, "Repent and believe... Repent and believe," with each marking. The lady with the red heels stood up looked at me and asked, "Is it over?" With a smile and a gesture I followed her in procession to dish full of ashes. "Repent and believe," he said. "Amen."
"Repent and believe." I interrupted the flow of the procession and headed back to the pew. I sat there in awe of the words chanted from the lips of the people with the small dishes full of ashes. I believed those words. Those words were being sung and repeated for me. Nothing else needed to be uttered. The night before, the fears, the doubts within... I am to be transformed and to simply believe. I stood up, smirked at God's clarity and precision, and cut through the people in single-filed lines without smudges and headed out to the storm.
Tornado warnings alarmed the county, the turbulence of the wind and rain halted our agendas, and with a smudge on my forehead I believe.
With you,
Luisely
Thursday, January 27, 2011
our rabbis
Their skin is softer. Maybe because the elasticity of the skin left years earlier and the crevices add a squishy texture. Their eyes may be less clear and their teeth usually model their years of exposure and usage. I look at them and do not tire at marveling at their resplendency.
We walked down the side walk, our arms linked, at a slower pace respecting the results of her stroke. The ice cream she relishingly licked found its way down her small fingers, palms, and shirt. Throughout the stroll I walked in different restaurants for more napkins to keep up with her sticky delight. Her eyes widened and her tongue savored the flavor left in the foldings of her lips as we washed her hands in the water fountain. We made our way to a bench and sat there as I listened, amazed by her memory. I questioned and she sheepishly answered, "My memory is fine, but then there are moments that I become an idiot." Her eyes avoided mine as she admitted to her loss in short term memory. "It happens to us all at moments." She smiled. "What day is it today?" It was her third time asking the question.
I ran in late to mass, a mass remembering the death and life of a friend's father. I took my seat in the back and recognized the hunched back and the fine white hair. I spoke with members of the family and through the silhouettes I spotted the familiar man with the cane patiently waiting for the conversations to subside to make his way through. I walked towards him and hugged him. Three years had passed since I last saw him. He stood elegantly, as his nearly century old muscles unwillingly shook and his gaze stayed firmly in mine. He shared his stories and there we spoke in the empty chapel, laughing, and finding the beauty in the other.
They shoved one another in order to sit in the back first. One with the older of the pair losing the discussion and sitting regally beside me in the front, I was the chauffeur. First pick of the places to go was the bookstore. As we arrived a display with the latest e-book device and an employee selling it held it towards their aged and still curious eyes. "And what might that be?" one said to the other. The employee proudly explained the apparatus and her polite response was, "I prefer the paper, but thank you." They laughed, caring one for the other, buying gifts for the other behind the other's back. I laughed and indulged in the pleasure of their humor and presence.
They enrich us with stories, laughter, and wisdom. They help us remember to not take ourselves that seriously. They remind us of the past and what will come to us in the future, to better live in the present.
May we remember to walk slowly, forget ourselves in the gusto of an ice cream cone, look the other in the eye, share stories with one another, ask questions without shame, and speak honestly in the same manner. May we remember them, delight in their presence and give of ourselves to them.
With you,
Luisely
We walked down the side walk, our arms linked, at a slower pace respecting the results of her stroke. The ice cream she relishingly licked found its way down her small fingers, palms, and shirt. Throughout the stroll I walked in different restaurants for more napkins to keep up with her sticky delight. Her eyes widened and her tongue savored the flavor left in the foldings of her lips as we washed her hands in the water fountain. We made our way to a bench and sat there as I listened, amazed by her memory. I questioned and she sheepishly answered, "My memory is fine, but then there are moments that I become an idiot." Her eyes avoided mine as she admitted to her loss in short term memory. "It happens to us all at moments." She smiled. "What day is it today?" It was her third time asking the question.
I ran in late to mass, a mass remembering the death and life of a friend's father. I took my seat in the back and recognized the hunched back and the fine white hair. I spoke with members of the family and through the silhouettes I spotted the familiar man with the cane patiently waiting for the conversations to subside to make his way through. I walked towards him and hugged him. Three years had passed since I last saw him. He stood elegantly, as his nearly century old muscles unwillingly shook and his gaze stayed firmly in mine. He shared his stories and there we spoke in the empty chapel, laughing, and finding the beauty in the other.
They shoved one another in order to sit in the back first. One with the older of the pair losing the discussion and sitting regally beside me in the front, I was the chauffeur. First pick of the places to go was the bookstore. As we arrived a display with the latest e-book device and an employee selling it held it towards their aged and still curious eyes. "And what might that be?" one said to the other. The employee proudly explained the apparatus and her polite response was, "I prefer the paper, but thank you." They laughed, caring one for the other, buying gifts for the other behind the other's back. I laughed and indulged in the pleasure of their humor and presence.
They enrich us with stories, laughter, and wisdom. They help us remember to not take ourselves that seriously. They remind us of the past and what will come to us in the future, to better live in the present.
May we remember to walk slowly, forget ourselves in the gusto of an ice cream cone, look the other in the eye, share stories with one another, ask questions without shame, and speak honestly in the same manner. May we remember them, delight in their presence and give of ourselves to them.
With you,
Luisely
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday...
Elections were on Sunday, confusion was on Monday, I spoke with Yvka today, results are due December 5th.
Around 50 of the over 1,000 election posts pulsed with tension, Jean Rabel being one of them. The cholera, the corruption, the lack of infrastructure intensified by the earthquake all lead to leaning on some leaning on pure faith for betterment.
Part of Kay Pov’s roof flew away with Thomas, but they are eating each day and Yvka and the other ladies continue tending to them. Dr. Geralda took samples to test all of them for Cholera and Malaria last Wednesday. I fell into Mami’s arms after hearing that our loved ones in Kay Pov eat daily, I sobbed and sobbed humbled to be used as an instrument and without words to express my gratitude for being used.
On Sunday I went to mass. As I listened to the readings I imagined the different groups in Akadyen and Kolet acting out the gospel. The merging of the two worlds, the air conditioned vast church with fluffy kneelers contrasting with the four incomplete and crumbling walls and dirt floor with chickens occasionally joining us, seemed more eloquent than I could possibly imagine. I lifted my head and saw a lady who has been following the blog (like you) and keeping me and all those in Haiti in her prayers. She was in Haiti with me the way Yvka, Fabio, Rose, and Sylvani are with me here. Feeling my heart at rest I allowed the tears to flow. I felt Papi’s hand rub my back and sat back to lean into his chest and while I lay there soothing myself by the beat of his heart and the waves of his breathing I felt myself in the arms of Walter months back. I am grateful. My soul feels a deep peace and deep happiness, not in a pompous or grandiose way, but in a humble and silent way. I am at home, not because of my physical location, but because of my soul. I feel myself in the arms of Home, of Love, no matter where my feet stand. What a gift. What a humbling gift.
I handed over the elections with faith, delighted in hearing Yvka’s laughter again, and am surrendered to the present.
With you,
Luisely
written on November 30, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
the crumbling chapel, the steadfast people
The clouds hovered over Akadyen altering the color of the ocean who usually wears turquoise. A lady smeared oil on a young teenager´s freshly braided weave, while children ran stomping their bare feet in the dirt under the single tree, a woman paced by balancing a basin of fish covered with a banana leaf to protect it from the sun as she walked to the market to sell them. Past the weave, the tree, the children, the woman, and the fish stood the crumbling chapel.
“We´re missing Jesus, the girl who represents the people who come from the west and the lady who represents the people from the south,” Vincent explained, with a hint of disappointment, “There´s a Madame in the South who is sick, they went to visit her.” “Do you think you can remember Jesus´ lines?” I asked filled with tenderness witnessing his concern. “Bat pou nou antre nan pót ki jis la, paske m ap di nou, gen anpil moun k ap chéche pou yo antre, men yo p pap kapab.” He memorized all the lines.
Mondays I travel about an hour with a doctor, Geralda (whom you already know), to Akadyen. She tends to the sick and I head to the chapel to tend to the hungry of spirit with theater. They come, from all ages to listen to the stories of the gospel of the following Sunday. None can read, and all ask me to reread the story at least three times. After the numerous reading I ask them what sense the story made to them, what they got out of it. Some stare back with blank faces, others smile, and suddenly one breaks the ice. “I don´t understand Jesus, he says the last shall be first, but I don´t see that.” The discussion starts. The blank faces come to life, the smiles open up to express what lies beneath them. I sit elated in the utter presence of the Divine.
Following the discussion we begin to bring the story to life with our bodies. One decides to be Jesus, the other the questioner, the other the one who knocks at the door, the other who eats at the table. I reread the story and we go acting it out, their reality as a people isolated and forgotten by most three hours away by foot from the market where they make their living shines through their portrayal of the stories. Jesus´ parables come to life in Kreyol, in the Haitian people in 2010.
Vincent must have been repeating the gospel story in his head all week in order to remember the gospel, “Luke 13: 22-30” he remembered. We walked into the chapel and with the children, women, and men who already gathered for the service, we read the gospel and practiced acting out the gospel with new people. Slowly the humble chapel filled with life, the uneven, cracked benches wobbled as people smushed to sit.
The winds took the clouds, the people sang and listened. At the time of the gospel reading, their eyes opened with curiosity, they leaned in and became part of the story. The homily was a discussion between us; what we understood, what Jesus´ told us with the story. A man asked a question and a woman would answer, even a young girl added her thoughts. “And you Se Luisely, what do you think?” they asked.
The crumbling chapel, the exhausted lady carrying the fish, the barefoot children- the illiterate, the hungry, the “last”- looking slightly beyond the surface of that picture richness exists-the cultured with their songs, those full of faith, the “first.”
With you,
Luisely
“We´re missing Jesus, the girl who represents the people who come from the west and the lady who represents the people from the south,” Vincent explained, with a hint of disappointment, “There´s a Madame in the South who is sick, they went to visit her.” “Do you think you can remember Jesus´ lines?” I asked filled with tenderness witnessing his concern. “Bat pou nou antre nan pót ki jis la, paske m ap di nou, gen anpil moun k ap chéche pou yo antre, men yo p pap kapab.” He memorized all the lines.
Mondays I travel about an hour with a doctor, Geralda (whom you already know), to Akadyen. She tends to the sick and I head to the chapel to tend to the hungry of spirit with theater. They come, from all ages to listen to the stories of the gospel of the following Sunday. None can read, and all ask me to reread the story at least three times. After the numerous reading I ask them what sense the story made to them, what they got out of it. Some stare back with blank faces, others smile, and suddenly one breaks the ice. “I don´t understand Jesus, he says the last shall be first, but I don´t see that.” The discussion starts. The blank faces come to life, the smiles open up to express what lies beneath them. I sit elated in the utter presence of the Divine.
Following the discussion we begin to bring the story to life with our bodies. One decides to be Jesus, the other the questioner, the other the one who knocks at the door, the other who eats at the table. I reread the story and we go acting it out, their reality as a people isolated and forgotten by most three hours away by foot from the market where they make their living shines through their portrayal of the stories. Jesus´ parables come to life in Kreyol, in the Haitian people in 2010.
Vincent must have been repeating the gospel story in his head all week in order to remember the gospel, “Luke 13: 22-30” he remembered. We walked into the chapel and with the children, women, and men who already gathered for the service, we read the gospel and practiced acting out the gospel with new people. Slowly the humble chapel filled with life, the uneven, cracked benches wobbled as people smushed to sit.
The winds took the clouds, the people sang and listened. At the time of the gospel reading, their eyes opened with curiosity, they leaned in and became part of the story. The homily was a discussion between us; what we understood, what Jesus´ told us with the story. A man asked a question and a woman would answer, even a young girl added her thoughts. “And you Se Luisely, what do you think?” they asked.
The crumbling chapel, the exhausted lady carrying the fish, the barefoot children- the illiterate, the hungry, the “last”- looking slightly beyond the surface of that picture richness exists-the cultured with their songs, those full of faith, the “first.”
With you,
Luisely
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Literal Siblings
Did you see the moon last night? AAAA... it was sooo magnificent!
As you can see I’m having difficulty understanding that a blog is not a novel. So please let me know if you prefer short and simple or lengthy and detailed entries. If not, I’ll try to find a happy medium.
O and another thing before we begin… I decided (with Mami’s help) that out of respect to the dignity of the people who I include in my writings I will replace their real names with, hopefully, equally lovely names. (Unless, I've asked for permission.) It’s a bit on the late side over here and I want to think of worthy names so for now, I have left letters to replace the names. I hope it does not make the stories less personal, if it helps, you can make up the name as you read.
Tuesday, I woke up with bags under my eyes and not as peppy as usual. There was smoke in the air which played with the sun’s rays flowing down to tickle my nose and rub my eyes. I’m not sure if it was my drowsiness or not knowing how to interpret the awe of being in the presence of such wise women, but doubt of my worth in being here crept up on me. I wrote an email to Mami, unlike my blogs, short and sweet (or bittersweet), telling her to pray, because I knew I was where God wants me to be, but I lacked joy. After sending the email I decided to finish with my pity party and go out and be present to the now, and love, love, love and simply be me.
From there I went walking to Kay Pob - I spelt it wrong last time, Kay is house, Pob means poor- where Zaloa’s preparations for manicures and pedicures awaited. We squatted on rocks under a tree who loves us tenderly with her branches, creating shade and singing a duet with her leaves and the wind. Tending to the hands, feet, and especially the nails of A, D (her husband), T (the woman who may be schizophrenic), the paraplegic, and S humbled and filled us with such empathy and love. While Zaloa tended to D’s feet who feel the surface of the earth all day, his hands with his broken finger, and his bare-fleshed sores, I pampered A. A’s cataract eyes, light blue in appearance, looked up at the sky, her strong cheek bones seemed even more dominant with her peaceful grin. What she did not know was that I was cleaning feces deeply seeded in the bed of her nails. The great length of time since her nails had received attention allowed her skin to develop some type of parasite. My eyes would constantly glance up at A to see any reaction to pain, and there was pure beauty. The end of her lips trying to reach her cheekbones. What beauty.
After their pedicures and manicures we would rub their backs and massage them a bit. Songs of joy were sung once again: W, a man who speaks English quite well started singing, “I feel good,” D sung Alleluia, and A simply hummed with me. Following A’s request to lie down, we walked in each other’s arms to her room, guiding her to her cot. Before lying down we embraced one another and after many deep breaths and sharing of heartbeats I separated for a kiss and saw that her eyes were filled with tears. She pulled me back to her, letting me know that it had not been time to let go. We stayed interlocked until her legs were too weak to stand and she lay.
T and Zaloa developed a rough and sacred relationship. T allows Zaloa to bathe her and allowed her to clean her hands, feet, and nails. Seeing the two react is seeing the art of love. In one of T’s fits when she went running off in a crazed laughter with my chair, I saw something magical. T’s laughter reminded me of Daniela one of my students in Brazil and her laughter. I realized that the term “sisters and brothers” is literal. We are literally one another’s siblings; we just decide to forget sometimes.
During the evening’s reflection with Nazareth, Rose, and Zaloa God answered the email I sent to Mami in the morning. The song filled our ears with encouragement, telling God, “we limit ourselves and You lift up our heads.” The reflection was on the story of the jug with a hole in it (if you can, look it up). It is a story about how flowers grow from our lack of perfection or our shortcomings. Aaaa... I love how God loves me. As we reflected lightening bugs fluttered around us flashing their life in the dark, around the four wise, worthy women filled with holes.
With you,
Luisely
As you can see I’m having difficulty understanding that a blog is not a novel. So please let me know if you prefer short and simple or lengthy and detailed entries. If not, I’ll try to find a happy medium.
O and another thing before we begin… I decided (with Mami’s help) that out of respect to the dignity of the people who I include in my writings I will replace their real names with, hopefully, equally lovely names. (Unless, I've asked for permission.) It’s a bit on the late side over here and I want to think of worthy names so for now, I have left letters to replace the names. I hope it does not make the stories less personal, if it helps, you can make up the name as you read.
Tuesday, I woke up with bags under my eyes and not as peppy as usual. There was smoke in the air which played with the sun’s rays flowing down to tickle my nose and rub my eyes. I’m not sure if it was my drowsiness or not knowing how to interpret the awe of being in the presence of such wise women, but doubt of my worth in being here crept up on me. I wrote an email to Mami, unlike my blogs, short and sweet (or bittersweet), telling her to pray, because I knew I was where God wants me to be, but I lacked joy. After sending the email I decided to finish with my pity party and go out and be present to the now, and love, love, love and simply be me.
From there I went walking to Kay Pob - I spelt it wrong last time, Kay is house, Pob means poor- where Zaloa’s preparations for manicures and pedicures awaited. We squatted on rocks under a tree who loves us tenderly with her branches, creating shade and singing a duet with her leaves and the wind. Tending to the hands, feet, and especially the nails of A, D (her husband), T (the woman who may be schizophrenic), the paraplegic, and S humbled and filled us with such empathy and love. While Zaloa tended to D’s feet who feel the surface of the earth all day, his hands with his broken finger, and his bare-fleshed sores, I pampered A. A’s cataract eyes, light blue in appearance, looked up at the sky, her strong cheek bones seemed even more dominant with her peaceful grin. What she did not know was that I was cleaning feces deeply seeded in the bed of her nails. The great length of time since her nails had received attention allowed her skin to develop some type of parasite. My eyes would constantly glance up at A to see any reaction to pain, and there was pure beauty. The end of her lips trying to reach her cheekbones. What beauty.
After their pedicures and manicures we would rub their backs and massage them a bit. Songs of joy were sung once again: W, a man who speaks English quite well started singing, “I feel good,” D sung Alleluia, and A simply hummed with me. Following A’s request to lie down, we walked in each other’s arms to her room, guiding her to her cot. Before lying down we embraced one another and after many deep breaths and sharing of heartbeats I separated for a kiss and saw that her eyes were filled with tears. She pulled me back to her, letting me know that it had not been time to let go. We stayed interlocked until her legs were too weak to stand and she lay.
T and Zaloa developed a rough and sacred relationship. T allows Zaloa to bathe her and allowed her to clean her hands, feet, and nails. Seeing the two react is seeing the art of love. In one of T’s fits when she went running off in a crazed laughter with my chair, I saw something magical. T’s laughter reminded me of Daniela one of my students in Brazil and her laughter. I realized that the term “sisters and brothers” is literal. We are literally one another’s siblings; we just decide to forget sometimes.
During the evening’s reflection with Nazareth, Rose, and Zaloa God answered the email I sent to Mami in the morning. The song filled our ears with encouragement, telling God, “we limit ourselves and You lift up our heads.” The reflection was on the story of the jug with a hole in it (if you can, look it up). It is a story about how flowers grow from our lack of perfection or our shortcomings. Aaaa... I love how God loves me. As we reflected lightening bugs fluttered around us flashing their life in the dark, around the four wise, worthy women filled with holes.
With you,
Luisely
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
