I promised two ladies in my parish back home I would share this story, so although it may appear to be a random entry, it is the story about the ‘beginning’ of my journey here.
I think that October of 2009 is a good place to start. I came back from Joa~o Pessoa, Brazil almost a year ago, July 2009. I left Brazil because I could not extend my visa any longer. I imagined God knew why. The first week of August I began an Earth Literacy program in Genesis Farm in Blairstown, New Jersey. My plan was to stay after the program as an intern for at least nine months. The program augmented and took my relationship with the Divine, and consequently the world, to an even more intimate level. By October, I saw that my time at Genesis Farm should come to an end for now and following my grandmother's death I headed back to Florida. The months that followed were intense. My plans to study in India were changed due to the lack of communication from the institution near Nepal. So there I was, living at home (something I hadn’t done since I was 17) for an indefinite time without a plan. In the meantime, I lived. Exploring the present, starting projects (finishing some and abandoning others), dancing, singing, accompanying my family and those around me in their journey, while being accompanied in mine. The months were rich, as all are.
In the beginning of November or the end of October, I started looking for opportunities that spoke to me. I looked into different Catholic Workers, applied to continue my master’s in California, and searched for other mission opportunities. I was open. Three days after I had explored CRS’s website checking what they had to offer, I received an email from a friend, telling me about a position at CRS that could be perfect for me, if I wanted it. I decided after a week that sending my resume and applying was a good idea. As I sent the application I told God, “If it is not for me, take it from me, give it to someone else.” By December 31st, 2009 I knew I received the job as Area Relationship Manager for the SE region office of CRS US Operations. The position and the people working with me were phenomenal. The position asked for a person with 10 years experience and there I was, an employee that 10 years ago was only 13. The respect and the dignity they treated me with showed that the way CRS treated their employees was true to what they preached about the Catholic Social Teachings.
In me, however, there was an air of inquietude, to say the least. I decided to push that aside, saying, “Luisely, it’s your first salary paying job; of course you may not feel thrilled at first.” Something I had already learned was dangerous.
I immediately started traveling. The second day on the job, I was already in a conference in Orlando, where I was soon to move. Apartment searching was in the agenda, among other simple errands to that effect. After the first day of the conference, after a delightful and genuine meal with a coworker and a friend, I went to my hotel room and received a call from a dear friend. His simple, “Happy new year! How’s the new job going?” was followed by silence. “Oh, you’re going to start bawling aren’t you?” He was right. The tears started strolling down. I didn’t expect the phone call to head this direction, or my night, or my life for that matter. “I don’t feel peace,” I began. Explanations and tears and questions and confusion followed. He listened and asked, “What do you want? What do you see yourself doing?” The first thing that came to my mind was Haiti and it shocked me. “Haiti,” I said, “I see myself in Haiti with the Colombian nuns.” And there it began.
After hanging up with him, I called my Papi; a combination of the time (it was around one in the morning), my stuffed nose, and lack of breath from the crying I’m sure he strained on the other line to understand my sobs. His advice was to take one day at a time, to give the job at least a week, and then to speak with someone in the job about my worries. Papi helped me calm down a bit and realize that at that time I wasn’t necessarily going to resolve much, especially since I had to work in the morning. I hung up and had a few words with our Genius Creator, “Look Diosito, from the very beginning I told you to take the job away from me if it wasn’t for me and now I feel this. This tremendous inquietude. Make it clear. You were the one who got me into this. Make it clear to me before I head to Atlanta what You want me to do.” I closed my swollen eyes, opened my mouth to breath, and went to sleep.
God decorated the following days with transparent signs that Haiti was where I was supposed to be. Three days later little doubt was left in me. CRS, as amazing, and as perfect as it seemed to be for me was to be left for Haiti. The day before flying to the SE office in Atlanta to speak with my boss and coworkers about my decision, I described to a friend on the phone the events of the past week and the clear signs provided for me. When I hung up the phone, I felt it. I felt what I imagine Elizabeth felt when her cousin walked in (I’ve never been pregnant so I know it’s a stretch, but that’s what I felt) I felt the a jump of joy in me. The certitude of the Holy Spirit. I felt peace.
The next day was a Tuesday. I arrived to the SE office, shared lunch with my coworkers and asked my boss for a talk. There I sat in front of her tender eyes explaining, my call to another place, leaving her with a position left open after months of searching for the right person and so much more. She listened and expressed her side. She respected me, admiring me for following the Holy Spirit in the way that I did, and saying, “the works of the Spirit are works of the Spirit.” I was ready for her to spit and curse at me, calling me an immature college graduate that did not know what she wanted. The conversation culminated with a prayer and out I went to explain the story to my new coworkers. They listened in shock with slight sadness and disappointment on their faces, while saying that they understood that where God leads, one must follow. My boss went to her office to call the headquarters in Baltimore to see what steps to take while I went to speak with another coworker. After a little time, my boss came out saying, “How’s your French?” Feeling guilty and wanting to help in any way I could, I answered, “I’ll translate anything you need.” “No, they’re offering you another job.” I laughed. “They are willing to transfer you to Haiti to be head of HIV/AIDS in Haiti." I didn’t understand. “What God! Make up Your mind. What shenanigans is this!”
I laughed a little more and she asked me if she should send the resume to them for the job opening in Haiti. I looked at the coworker I had been conversing with who reminded me, “Luisely, it still won’t be mission, it still is CRS. I would pray.” My boss looked at me and asked, “You want to go to the cathedral and pray?” Any getaway to spend a little time with this exciting God of ours was more than welcome. She called a friend that worked in the cathedral and walked me over to the side doors which were opened for me to go into the seemingly empty edifice. There I sat, laughed, danced, and spoke out loud. There I was, quitting an outstanding job because I felt a deep and sudden call to Haiti, and there they were, asking for my resume to transfer me instead of my letter of resignation. I decided to not worry and just let the one who got me into all of this to guide me. A coworker picked me up from the cathedral and drove me to her home where she welcomed me for the remainder of my time in Atlanta. As we sat by her chimney sipping tea recounting the direct signs and how clear Haiti was in my heart, I received a text from a friend saying, “Pray for Haiti.” I asked her if we could turn on the news, and to our dismay saw the catastrophe. The earthquake had shook Haiti on our drive home from the cathedral.
An array of emotions hard to describe ran through me as I heard the news anchors trying to make out headlines from the unknown. That night I slept little and prayed much. The next day, the CRS office hummed with commotion. The telephones rang incessantly, the news stations visited for interviews, each one of us with a task to inform the dioceses in all the South East US about how and where to direct aid and CRS’s role in all of that. Following lunch, I deciphered it an appropriate time if ever, to approach my angelic and overwhelmed boss. I walked into her office between phone calls and asked if I should write my letter of resignation. She looked at me and said, “Luisely, dear, we haven’t contacted all our employees in Haiti and we are no longer looking to fill that position. Now, we are looking for people with at least one year experience in disaster relief.” I held her hand, thanked her and left. By 6pm, I was back in Florida.
The welcome home was full of confusion. I left a week earlier with a steady, well-paying job, with benefits, that went perfectly with what I had studied, my experience, and my passions, and in less than a week was back at home, again, without a set plan and without knowing for how long. I dedicated myself to listen to God in everything and to live. Submersed in the present. I danced, took voice lessons, did cross fit, deepened relationships, practiced my French, went on retreats and searched to find where God wanted me in Haiti. All the while accompanying my family and those around me in their journey, while being accompanied in mine. The months were rich, as all are.
So that’s the story. That’s how I knew. That seems to be the way God is, at least with me. Guiding me in every step in creative and treacherously delightful ways.
With you,
Luisely
Monday, July 19, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
in the eyes of the other
Wednesday before heading out to Kolet, I sat in our little chapel for a little conversation with the most creative of creators and said I was open to whatever creations needed collaborations. The idea of Theater of the Gospel came to us after performing a little skit one Sunday in one of the services. Out of all the people who attended, maybe 5 knew how to read and in other posts where we go for Sunday services less. People thirst to know more about the man they know as their God, Jesus. With many not accustomed to sit in a classroom and listen attentively for an hour or two straight, services and mass consist more of singing and praying what rout memorization has taught them. Thus, theater of the Gospel began.
We read the stories of the gospel, the Good Samaratine, Martha and Mary, but to all who were gathered they were unknown. Seeing the stories slowly being understood and then coming to life in them with bliss and curiosity moves me. A liberation occurs and I witness it. They go from repeating and mimicing to making the story their own, and discussing what the parable means in their own reality. I think this is what was intended with the Gospel. For the parables to be shared and embraced with the reality of those listening, allowing it to be genuine "good news."
In each place before going into the reading I started off with an excercise where each one of us chooses a partner, introduces him/herself and locks eyes with the other. Words, gestures, nor movement are needed. This excercise challenges participants no matter what culture, but some face a greater challenge than others. Haiti is one of those cultures. The education system for numerous years taught students not to look into the teachers eyes, other systems in the country encouraged the same behavior. We rotated partners after approximately a minute. Within that minute though miracles and mysteries occur. While locking eyes with another without intention to convey anything love occurs. I'm not sure if it is because we enter into the depths of the other, or because we see ourselves in the other, perhaps we see the whole world in the other.
I start this excercise by paraphrasing Jesus, "what you do to the other, you do to me," the eyes you stare into are the eyes of God.
In Kolet two men and one woman held back tears while we fixed eyes, in Akadyn a man and a woman did the same, and a child could not hold back hers. Oh the depths of our eyes. Gazing into one man's eyes I was overwhelmed with beauty. Beauty was before me, looking straight at me and I at Beauty. I gazed and saw Pain, I gazed in another and saw Jesus, I gazed in a wrinkled man and saw a child, I gazed and saw the world, I gazed and saw all Divine.
With you,
Luisely
Monday, July 5, 2010
the entangled pair
Where there is life there is death. This is an obvious concept which some choose to see as a paradox. Some societies try what they may to segregate the two, keeping death out of sight, smell, and touch. Other societies carry on not attempting to conceal the intricate connection between the two, either by choice or by lack of alternative.
Louise, one of the few literate members of the church community in Kolet, gave birth to her sixth, two days ago. The grandmothers chose the baby´s name.
Bethlev’s mother and father buried their 11 year old son a week and a half ago, and yesterday buried another. A month earlier they were the two Rose, feared suffered most of starvation from the family. Their teeth and jaw bones were the most protruding; their cheeks were the most meager. The first death occurred suddenly. The eleven-year-old’s temperature rose rapidly, by the time the mother found a way to reach the nearest nurse the advice was to get him to the nearest hospital as soon as possible. Upon arriving to the hospital, not a doctor could be found. The child died waiting. Since the boy died in the hospital the mother was not permitted to take her son’s body home to bury. The corpse needed to be left in the morgue, which meant paying money they did not have for a service they did not receive and another they did not want.
The father, prior to the boy’s illness, lacked health himself and thus the income of the family starved alongside the members. The payment of the morgue and the transportation to the hospital meant more money taken away from the little needed to feed the remaining family. A week and a half later, their eldest, a boy of 16, died in the same manner. This time there was no money for the transportation to the hospital. The extra expense failed to save the other, nor did it help those still alive.
The house the family, who used to be of seven, resides in is smaller than the room Jara and I use. They divided it in two. Yesterday, as neighbors, family, and friends gathered outside the house Rose walked into the first of the two rooms where she found her friend, the mother, holding a wooden post with both hands, swaying her body side to side, eyes blank, searching for nothing. In the neighboring room the body lay. Alongside the corpse sat his siblings, one of whom, Bethlev, the seven-year-old girl with a leg and foot impediment, with a rising fever.
The cycle continues.
On our way to visit the mourning family we passed by to visit two families, celebrating the three new lives received in Kolet. The mother of the newborn twins lay on her side with one of the babe’s suckling fervently on her breast while the mother trembled with her eyes rolling back, seemingly coming in and out of consciousness. The grandmother tended to the other infant while calmly explaining that her daughter’s fever had not descended in three days. The doctor prescribed medicine. “What medicine?” Jara questioned. No one knew. “What does she have? What did the doctor say?” No one knew, no one asked. Here a visit to the hospital consists of sitting in front of the doctor, allowing him or her to inspect you, taking some tests not knowing and not asking which ones, and receiving a prescription before receiving the results of the exams- of course, paying for all the procedures.
“The breast milk,” Jara cried, “she’s drugging them with whatever she’s taking.” “If they don’t drink that, then what Jara? What else are they going to survive off of?”
“Bethlev has a fever. The disease, if it is a disease, could be infecting all of the family. They all need to be checked. They need an autopsy.” “Jara autopsies don’t exist here. Using money on a corpse that could be feeding those alive? With what money are they going to be examined Jara?”
“We can pay for the exams.” “There are some who already believe that the family is being cursed because they have received so much attention from the white foreigners since Bethlev’s leg operation was covered by us. The family may see this as a punishment from God or a curse from jealous others.”
The cycles continue.
The boy was buried yesterday evening. A nurse visited the two younger siblings today do some testing.
The twins’ legs tucked in and out, both new lives apparently full of health.
Louise’s baby wore a pink bonnet held together by a pin.
With you through these cycles,
Luisely
Louise, one of the few literate members of the church community in Kolet, gave birth to her sixth, two days ago. The grandmothers chose the baby´s name.
Bethlev’s mother and father buried their 11 year old son a week and a half ago, and yesterday buried another. A month earlier they were the two Rose, feared suffered most of starvation from the family. Their teeth and jaw bones were the most protruding; their cheeks were the most meager. The first death occurred suddenly. The eleven-year-old’s temperature rose rapidly, by the time the mother found a way to reach the nearest nurse the advice was to get him to the nearest hospital as soon as possible. Upon arriving to the hospital, not a doctor could be found. The child died waiting. Since the boy died in the hospital the mother was not permitted to take her son’s body home to bury. The corpse needed to be left in the morgue, which meant paying money they did not have for a service they did not receive and another they did not want.
The father, prior to the boy’s illness, lacked health himself and thus the income of the family starved alongside the members. The payment of the morgue and the transportation to the hospital meant more money taken away from the little needed to feed the remaining family. A week and a half later, their eldest, a boy of 16, died in the same manner. This time there was no money for the transportation to the hospital. The extra expense failed to save the other, nor did it help those still alive.
The house the family, who used to be of seven, resides in is smaller than the room Jara and I use. They divided it in two. Yesterday, as neighbors, family, and friends gathered outside the house Rose walked into the first of the two rooms where she found her friend, the mother, holding a wooden post with both hands, swaying her body side to side, eyes blank, searching for nothing. In the neighboring room the body lay. Alongside the corpse sat his siblings, one of whom, Bethlev, the seven-year-old girl with a leg and foot impediment, with a rising fever.
The cycle continues.
On our way to visit the mourning family we passed by to visit two families, celebrating the three new lives received in Kolet. The mother of the newborn twins lay on her side with one of the babe’s suckling fervently on her breast while the mother trembled with her eyes rolling back, seemingly coming in and out of consciousness. The grandmother tended to the other infant while calmly explaining that her daughter’s fever had not descended in three days. The doctor prescribed medicine. “What medicine?” Jara questioned. No one knew. “What does she have? What did the doctor say?” No one knew, no one asked. Here a visit to the hospital consists of sitting in front of the doctor, allowing him or her to inspect you, taking some tests not knowing and not asking which ones, and receiving a prescription before receiving the results of the exams- of course, paying for all the procedures.
“The breast milk,” Jara cried, “she’s drugging them with whatever she’s taking.” “If they don’t drink that, then what Jara? What else are they going to survive off of?”
“Bethlev has a fever. The disease, if it is a disease, could be infecting all of the family. They all need to be checked. They need an autopsy.” “Jara autopsies don’t exist here. Using money on a corpse that could be feeding those alive? With what money are they going to be examined Jara?”
“We can pay for the exams.” “There are some who already believe that the family is being cursed because they have received so much attention from the white foreigners since Bethlev’s leg operation was covered by us. The family may see this as a punishment from God or a curse from jealous others.”
The cycles continue.
The boy was buried yesterday evening. A nurse visited the two younger siblings today do some testing.
The twins’ legs tucked in and out, both new lives apparently full of health.
Louise’s baby wore a pink bonnet held together by a pin.
With you through these cycles,
Luisely
Monday, June 28, 2010
Ms. Magnificient Mango Tree
Yesterday Rose, Jara and I decided to take the day as a retreat day. We all went our separate ways after breakfast. My destination for the day was a magnificent mango tree that stands royally behind the house. I took my little sack filled it with a water bottle, a few books, my notebook, a pencil and nail clipper. Off I went. I took off my shoes, left my red sack in a nook created by the offset of three main branches and climbed. I listened to the tree, massaged her trunk and branches with my feet as I explored her beauties. Early on in my climb I noticed that some of her seemingly healthy branches were rotten, so my level of concentration as I ascended into new heights arose. I found a comfy spot and gazed into the horizon, setting eye on mountains, hills, and sights never before seen (to my eyes at least :). After marinating in that beauty I decided to explore other heights and branches in the mango tree. I descended and ascended, calculating my steps, attentive and willing to venture off more. At the time for the sun to set I found a perfect nook way high in the branches where I could see the sun snuggle into mountain's crevices at a distance. The wind swayed the high branches rocking me to sleep. I noticed the danger in falling asleep as such heights so decided it may be time for me to say farewell to my treasured friend.On my way down, my level of concentration lessened because I decided that if I got down in time I could take a little walk with Jara before nightfall. Half way down one of the branches I relied on snapped. I don't know what happened next, but when I opened my eyes next I was laying face down on a few rocks around the tree. Following my recognition that I was neither dead nor paralyzed I stood up and started walking around, checking for any broken bones. I could walk. I went up stairs and started washing up when Jara found me. I told her I was fine, but the scratches and blood told her otherwise. Confusion flushed Jara, "How can you be radiating when you are all torn up?" I beamed with joy, I was alive and well. I could move, and I had shared such moments of peace in the mango tree. She helped bathe me (I didn't have much range of motion on my right shoulder), disinfected and bandaged my wounds, and dressed me. Today we are off to the hospital to see if we can see a doctor. The body is AMAZING! The way it knows how to heal you and what to do and what not to do. This morning I woke up and could brush my teeth with my right hand. I am fine, just a bit bruised up, but I am fine.
I'll let you know what the doctor says. Ooo, the pictures, well there are three as you can tell. The one to the left is Ms. Magnificent Mango Tree. The middle one is where I landed (notice the cement well right beside where I landed, I tell you it wasn't my time to die). The one to the right is showing the height of a coconut tree that neighbors the mango tree which I climbed above. During my retreat in Ms. Magnificent I talked to God saying, "if today is my day to go I feel peace, I feel I am exactly where I am supposed to be." Uff, what a lesson of humility.
With you,
Luisely
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Reminders
The breeze weaves through my freshly twisted hair, seizing the heat of the day and fading voices of the choir. The atmosphere shifts from the excitement and chaos of the festival of St. John the Baptist and Brazil’s game in the World Cup this morning to a more tranquil Friday evening. The week passing, leaving numerous joys along the way:
The women from the salsa class performed for a group of school directors, a seldom, if ever, event for them. Mothers, widows, daughters, grandmothers, all elegantly striding at the beat of the drums and swaying their hips to the rhythm of a Beatles song made Salsa. The spectators applauded, they received the recognition. The once students assisted in giving classes of their newly acquired talent to the group of directors. The humble confidence the ladies slowly gave light to during the lessons these past two months blazed.
Ingrid and I lay on her stunted twin-sized bed, Mauza sat snugly next to us enjoying her lollypop, in Ingrid’s poorly lit, poorly ventilated compartment as we laughed sharing the joys of attaining the water in Kay Pov. The women’s eyes engaged with mine in a way unknown to us as I retold the process of attaining the water, their faces came to life hearing the influence the women acquired by joining together. “Solidarity,” Ingrid said. Silence and goose-bumps followed. Ingrid’s curiosity to see Kay Pov and meet the people there seems to be superseding her implicit confinement. Our friendship mutually liberates us, in our own needed way.
I glorified in the amazing creations that emerge out of Love. All the marvels that come to life because of our attraction to beauty, to Love: the vivid colors and texture of a painting, the delicate melody of a song, the faultless rhythm of a poem.
We tumbled through a 3 hour drive on a white-cloudy, windswept Sunday to visit friends in Gros Moune. Where we joined in watching Brazil defeat Cote D’Ivoire and witnessed outrageous expressions of ecstasy in the crowd with each goal. (Haitians, from what I’ve seen, root devoutly for one of two teams, Argentina or Brazil.) Following the excitement I took a swim in the river right below the gathering. As I lay allowing myself to float along, the rustle of the leaves intensified, the clouds darkened, and thunder joined the leaves in their song. The delicate shapes formed as the rain plunged into the river’s surface perplexed me, the gracefulness produced out of such an instant, overpowering encounter. I allowed the rain to cascade over me as my toes fastened on to the pebbles below trying to resist the current. During the downpour’s intermission as sprinkles replaced the droplets, a faint rainbow outlined a mountain’s peak which tried to show itself through the weighty clouds. Soon after the raindrops returned bringing with them lightning and thunder. A masterpiece sent to finish off the evening.
On the 24th, the feast of Jean-Rabel’s patron saint, Jara and I thanked God for the 6 o’clock mass in the morning because it was the first moment of silence since the night before around 9pm. Our hours of supposed slumber were joined by a concert next door that blasted its Compa and Rara beats the whole night through. We hadn’t been wise and joined the party; instead we stayed tossing in bed. The mass was sent from heaven, it granted us a few hours of deep, drool-coming-out-of-the-mouth sleep. The 9 o’clock mass is the spectacle the town does not miss. Relatives from Miami, camera people from Port-au-Prince, and all the regulars of Jean-Rabel’s streets gather to celebrate the feast. God graced Jara and I with seats in the back corner where the opening for the window and the open doors of the church collaborated generating superb cross ventilation for our section of overpopulated pews. After three and a half hours of singing, sitting, standing, and dancing we left the church with the multitude and tried to see the parades passing by playing music in the blazing sun. The sun eventually gave way to heavy rain which Jara and I thrilled in. As others looked for shelter, Jara and I skipped palm-sized seeds on the newly formed puddle s aspiring to be lakes, splashed around in the mud, laughing and acting our age. Walking down rows of banana trees by the river yesterday we saw the change in the landscape the thunderstorm provoked.
The moon’s brilliance allowed us to see the majesty of Jean-Rabel’s hours of darkness.
Lydia, Yvka, and I crammed our way into a “cinema” across the street. This cinema is responsible for filling our rooms with Shakira’s voice belting out “Oh Africa,” and the rest of the World Cup music repeatedly even before the church bells have a chance of waking us up. The music goes on until the games begin at 6:30am, competing with the priest’s voice and the women’s enthusiastic hymns. The cinema consists of three 16-inch flat screen TVs not too conveniently placed and two walls with the game projected on them. Part of the excitement of game-watching is trying to get a view of the game. More than 300 of us stuff ourselves in the cement structure without windows and with chairs for only a third of us. I found new yoga positions trying to see the Portuguese-speaking players run at least through one fifth of the field, where I would have to find another position to finish seeing the play. The experience improved my flexibility, allowed me to be with the people of Jean-Rabel in a different atmosphere, while all the while being fanned by the first ceiling fans I’ve seen while in Jean-Rabel.
The performance, the visit, the painting, the raindrops diving in the river, the silence, the moon, the game, remind me of what I am here to do, find love in every moment, in every creature.
The women from the salsa class performed for a group of school directors, a seldom, if ever, event for them. Mothers, widows, daughters, grandmothers, all elegantly striding at the beat of the drums and swaying their hips to the rhythm of a Beatles song made Salsa. The spectators applauded, they received the recognition. The once students assisted in giving classes of their newly acquired talent to the group of directors. The humble confidence the ladies slowly gave light to during the lessons these past two months blazed.
Ingrid and I lay on her stunted twin-sized bed, Mauza sat snugly next to us enjoying her lollypop, in Ingrid’s poorly lit, poorly ventilated compartment as we laughed sharing the joys of attaining the water in Kay Pov. The women’s eyes engaged with mine in a way unknown to us as I retold the process of attaining the water, their faces came to life hearing the influence the women acquired by joining together. “Solidarity,” Ingrid said. Silence and goose-bumps followed. Ingrid’s curiosity to see Kay Pov and meet the people there seems to be superseding her implicit confinement. Our friendship mutually liberates us, in our own needed way.
I glorified in the amazing creations that emerge out of Love. All the marvels that come to life because of our attraction to beauty, to Love: the vivid colors and texture of a painting, the delicate melody of a song, the faultless rhythm of a poem.
We tumbled through a 3 hour drive on a white-cloudy, windswept Sunday to visit friends in Gros Moune. Where we joined in watching Brazil defeat Cote D’Ivoire and witnessed outrageous expressions of ecstasy in the crowd with each goal. (Haitians, from what I’ve seen, root devoutly for one of two teams, Argentina or Brazil.) Following the excitement I took a swim in the river right below the gathering. As I lay allowing myself to float along, the rustle of the leaves intensified, the clouds darkened, and thunder joined the leaves in their song. The delicate shapes formed as the rain plunged into the river’s surface perplexed me, the gracefulness produced out of such an instant, overpowering encounter. I allowed the rain to cascade over me as my toes fastened on to the pebbles below trying to resist the current. During the downpour’s intermission as sprinkles replaced the droplets, a faint rainbow outlined a mountain’s peak which tried to show itself through the weighty clouds. Soon after the raindrops returned bringing with them lightning and thunder. A masterpiece sent to finish off the evening.
On the 24th, the feast of Jean-Rabel’s patron saint, Jara and I thanked God for the 6 o’clock mass in the morning because it was the first moment of silence since the night before around 9pm. Our hours of supposed slumber were joined by a concert next door that blasted its Compa and Rara beats the whole night through. We hadn’t been wise and joined the party; instead we stayed tossing in bed. The mass was sent from heaven, it granted us a few hours of deep, drool-coming-out-of-the-mouth sleep. The 9 o’clock mass is the spectacle the town does not miss. Relatives from Miami, camera people from Port-au-Prince, and all the regulars of Jean-Rabel’s streets gather to celebrate the feast. God graced Jara and I with seats in the back corner where the opening for the window and the open doors of the church collaborated generating superb cross ventilation for our section of overpopulated pews. After three and a half hours of singing, sitting, standing, and dancing we left the church with the multitude and tried to see the parades passing by playing music in the blazing sun. The sun eventually gave way to heavy rain which Jara and I thrilled in. As others looked for shelter, Jara and I skipped palm-sized seeds on the newly formed puddle s aspiring to be lakes, splashed around in the mud, laughing and acting our age. Walking down rows of banana trees by the river yesterday we saw the change in the landscape the thunderstorm provoked.
The moon’s brilliance allowed us to see the majesty of Jean-Rabel’s hours of darkness.
Lydia, Yvka, and I crammed our way into a “cinema” across the street. This cinema is responsible for filling our rooms with Shakira’s voice belting out “Oh Africa,” and the rest of the World Cup music repeatedly even before the church bells have a chance of waking us up. The music goes on until the games begin at 6:30am, competing with the priest’s voice and the women’s enthusiastic hymns. The cinema consists of three 16-inch flat screen TVs not too conveniently placed and two walls with the game projected on them. Part of the excitement of game-watching is trying to get a view of the game. More than 300 of us stuff ourselves in the cement structure without windows and with chairs for only a third of us. I found new yoga positions trying to see the Portuguese-speaking players run at least through one fifth of the field, where I would have to find another position to finish seeing the play. The experience improved my flexibility, allowed me to be with the people of Jean-Rabel in a different atmosphere, while all the while being fanned by the first ceiling fans I’ve seen while in Jean-Rabel.
The performance, the visit, the painting, the raindrops diving in the river, the silence, the moon, the game, remind me of what I am here to do, find love in every moment, in every creature.
With you,
Luisely
Luisely
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
a particular bond
There is a bond created when 2 Hydrogen molecules connect with an Oxygen molecule that is particular. The compound bends so the H-O-H is not linear as you see here. This particularity, however minor, allows water to possess the qualities to be our life source. (Okay, so maybe chemists can explain this in a much more enlightened and inspiring way, but simply put it is still amazing.) When listening to the explanation of this miracle of creation I remember feeling awestruck at God’s divine detail. We, all living creatures, have been molded to respond to this bent compound of molecules: water.We carry the water from Kay Se (where I live) to Kay Pov with a bucket over our heads. We, unlike the people living in Kay Pov, benefit from strong legs and backs, eyes without cataracts, and young age.
After nearly two months of pleading with the mayor’s office and pressuring Pe Nehemiah, my birthday wish came true. The day after, on June 10th we decided enough excuses had been heard. The group of women to whom I teach salsa (Lydia, Tutti, Frances, Yvka, Lisnei, Nelly included) and I organized. We gathered and prepared for a sit-in in the mayor’s office with the PVCs and all the material for the installation of the water pipes. Down the street we walked, united with the long tubes above our shoulders, listening to the people’s comments along the way. When we arrived to the county office we laid the PVC pipes along the entrance of the office and walked in. As we entered one by one into the mayor’s office, he stood up noticing the lack of room for all of us in his office; he invited us to a larger office. We went together, all the women and I, and spoke. He listened while men from the office went to find more chairs for the women standing and sitting on each other’s laps in the office. We explained that we planned on waiting peacefully there until the installation began.
The mayor picked up his phone, spoke firmly to a man, Durval, on the other line and hung up. As I sat in the crowded office listening to the mayor’s deep Kreyol, I turned my gaze to the faces of the women beside me. Women of different ages used to the oppression towards their gender, all in need themselves, who united gained the courage to stand up for the rights of the marginalized and have their voices heard. Their faces held strong and determined were paradoxically balanced with an undertone of tenderness, of love. This act of solidarity, of power in numbers, blossomed from the love they felt either for each other, for those in Kay Pov, for me, for justice or for all of those reasons combined, but it blossomed from love. Hanging up the phone, the mayor looked at the array of resolute women and explained that we could leave the material in the office and leave confident that the work would begin the same day. Ugh, I was so sick of being thrown from one place to another and not seeing the water in Kay Pov. We listened and explained assertively that we would take the material to Durval’s office and sit until he walked up to Kay Pov with us to begin; and that’s exactly what we did.
With the sweat rolling down our faces we walked alternating the tubes from one shoulder to the other to his office. On the way, God gave us an unexpected and welcomed gift as we spotted Durval walking down the street towards us. By midday two men had begun the ditches needed for the placement of the pipes. The power of organized, unyielding women united for justice moved not only the mayor, Pe Nehemiah, and Durval, but all of us. The women radiated as they heard the songs of gratitude being sung to them by the residents of Kay Pov, because of our willpower and God’s grace, their standard of living was being raised to a more humane state, and with that, their dignity. Since we are all one body, their benefit is our benefit.
We left with our hearts lifted, our heads high, and our voices rejoicing, singing, “Mesi Jesu-O, Mesi Gran Se mwen, mesi pou tet ou kan manm nen mamn nen ou. Thank you Jesus, Thank you Grand sister of mine, thank you for keeping your hand in mine.” We’ve had a few setbacks (to say the least) since June 10th, but 5 days later the water flowed through the pipes, out of the faucet and into the hands of our beloved ones in Kay Pov. Changes are happening: two women now are in charge of washing their clothes and leaving them to dry before six other women rotate days to tend to them. Today they had meat in their daily meal. The Alex, Fabio, and Walter, and Fabien are starting to use the bucket I brought to throw their trash in rather than littering their abode. And…there is water in Kay Pov!
There is a bond created when 2 Hydrogen molecules connect with an Oxygen molecule that is particular. The compound bends so the H-O-H is not linear as you see here. This particularity, however minor, allows water to possess the qualities to be our life source… We, all living creatures, have been molded to respond to this bent compound of molecules: water.
With you,
Luisely
Luisely
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Miracles in Stillness
I know, I know, I´ve been slacking. It´s been over 10 days since I´ve written anything, so before telling you my many stories I would like ask for your forgiveness and let you know that I´m not planning on making this the norm.
So now, let the stories begin…
It seems God knew I needed to spend a little bit more time learning the lesson of simply being in the present. Of not preoccupying myself with all the plans I had, but with embracing what is happening now. On Sunday (the 30th), after assuming the recuperation process was at it´s end, my health started going downhill again. By nightfall my fever had risen and my body weakened. The following day I planned on working in Kay Pov with Dianne and Frances, the two ladies who I had planned could accompany me on Monday s to bathe the people of Kay Pov and to wash their abode. Monday morning putting my hair in a ponytail left me out of breath, so I simply prayed and waited. Frances came. I explained their preferences and nuances, gave her the bucket for the water, the lotion, the soap, the mop and blessings, blessings, blessings. Diane did not show and Frances and I knew the task at hand should be done with another. So I asked another friend, Tutti. She explained that if she did not finish making a certain amount of cards for her work she would be behind and then not receive her pay. She looked at me and smiled saying, I can go to work early tomorrow and catch up. I kissed her, blessed them both, and praised God for the miracle. As they washed our loved ones in Kay Pov, cleaned their home, massaged their bodies, I lay in bed and prayed, sending my blessing and love to the two women caring for those in Kay Pov.
With each passing day my health stayed in the same state, as my hopes ascended to levels new to me in Haiti. The opportunity for these miracles to flourish would have vanished if I would have had perfect health. I would have continued being able to go to Kay Pov, visit the women who work at the club. I would have continued as the healthy, foreigner who helps, rather than being seen as a human receiving love and help from others. Lydia would not have administered the flow of people willing to help in Kay Pov on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturday s. Antwanet would have not related to the prostitutes as a fellow mother, as she did when she saw the joy as they read the letter I sent to them out loud wishing them a joyous mother´s day (28th of May here).The conversation I shared with those around me, those who visited me, would not have occurred, conversations where true sentiments flowed out of our hearts and into the other’s open hearts. I bound myself with the other. Relationships are all turning aright: the community of Jean Rabel with Kay Pov, women of status with the prostitutes, me with our sisters and brothers here in Haiti, slowly becoming right-relationships. The week where I physically did less, where I was the recipient of attention, I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to. My inability to go forth allowed others to become the protagonists in the story, in their community – my true desire. The people in Kay Pov received manicures, pedicures, haircuts, shaving, hairstyling, bathing, clean clothes, and love in actions, love in deeds. The women tending them rejoice from seeing the happiness and gratitude of the people in Kay Pov. Exultations flow out of us all.
I’m in better health now, and I am seeing the fruits of God´s work through us. As the people of Jean-Rabel turn their eyes, their heart, and their hands to Kay Pov, with the daily food, the accessible water (in the works), the willing and dedicated hands and ears, the time for my hands to tend to other forgotten ones may come sooner than I thought. As our Love continuously reminds me, it´s better when I am not in control and I just follow the Spirit one minute at a time.
There's more to share, I'll write soon.
With you,
Luisely
So now, let the stories begin…
It seems God knew I needed to spend a little bit more time learning the lesson of simply being in the present. Of not preoccupying myself with all the plans I had, but with embracing what is happening now. On Sunday (the 30th), after assuming the recuperation process was at it´s end, my health started going downhill again. By nightfall my fever had risen and my body weakened. The following day I planned on working in Kay Pov with Dianne and Frances, the two ladies who I had planned could accompany me on Monday s to bathe the people of Kay Pov and to wash their abode. Monday morning putting my hair in a ponytail left me out of breath, so I simply prayed and waited. Frances came. I explained their preferences and nuances, gave her the bucket for the water, the lotion, the soap, the mop and blessings, blessings, blessings. Diane did not show and Frances and I knew the task at hand should be done with another. So I asked another friend, Tutti. She explained that if she did not finish making a certain amount of cards for her work she would be behind and then not receive her pay. She looked at me and smiled saying, I can go to work early tomorrow and catch up. I kissed her, blessed them both, and praised God for the miracle. As they washed our loved ones in Kay Pov, cleaned their home, massaged their bodies, I lay in bed and prayed, sending my blessing and love to the two women caring for those in Kay Pov.
With each passing day my health stayed in the same state, as my hopes ascended to levels new to me in Haiti. The opportunity for these miracles to flourish would have vanished if I would have had perfect health. I would have continued being able to go to Kay Pov, visit the women who work at the club. I would have continued as the healthy, foreigner who helps, rather than being seen as a human receiving love and help from others. Lydia would not have administered the flow of people willing to help in Kay Pov on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturday s. Antwanet would have not related to the prostitutes as a fellow mother, as she did when she saw the joy as they read the letter I sent to them out loud wishing them a joyous mother´s day (28th of May here).The conversation I shared with those around me, those who visited me, would not have occurred, conversations where true sentiments flowed out of our hearts and into the other’s open hearts. I bound myself with the other. Relationships are all turning aright: the community of Jean Rabel with Kay Pov, women of status with the prostitutes, me with our sisters and brothers here in Haiti, slowly becoming right-relationships. The week where I physically did less, where I was the recipient of attention, I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to. My inability to go forth allowed others to become the protagonists in the story, in their community – my true desire. The people in Kay Pov received manicures, pedicures, haircuts, shaving, hairstyling, bathing, clean clothes, and love in actions, love in deeds. The women tending them rejoice from seeing the happiness and gratitude of the people in Kay Pov. Exultations flow out of us all.
I’m in better health now, and I am seeing the fruits of God´s work through us. As the people of Jean-Rabel turn their eyes, their heart, and their hands to Kay Pov, with the daily food, the accessible water (in the works), the willing and dedicated hands and ears, the time for my hands to tend to other forgotten ones may come sooner than I thought. As our Love continuously reminds me, it´s better when I am not in control and I just follow the Spirit one minute at a time.
There's more to share, I'll write soon.
With you,
Luisely
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