Life in the Barrio

Tucked away along a dirt road in the San Sebastián district of Costa Rica’s capital San José, this small barrio was my home for most of January (all except the week I spent in Nicaragua). The green door to the left is the church, Iglesia Luterana Sola Fe and behind the view to the camera to the left is the house where I lived.  These interconnected shelters constructed of scrap metal were the homes to the Nicaraguan immigrants who extended their welcome to me, sharing their lives and their faith.

What shall I say? In the short time I have been back in the United States, I have been searching for the right words to describe this place (the people, sights, sounds, and smells), a daily reality so far from the hurried and independent culture of my own country.  Life in the barrio is beautiful and difficult, simple and complex.  I was in Costa Rica for only a month, nevertheless I gained so much from that short duration.  Often embarrassed at my lack of spanish language skills, I was limited in effective communication.  However, I managed to share life, laugh, play, and gain community among the people who live there.

Every morning I ate gallo pinto (rice and beans fried together), fresh tortillas, cheese, fried plantains, bread, sometimes meat and/or eggs, and always coffee.  Costa Rican coffee is strong and earthy yet not bitter like some of the roasts I taste here in the States.  I cannot recall a day I did not have rice, beans and coffee at least once a day (sometimes rice and beans for all three meals) throughout the whole month.  These are staple foods in Central America, and it is a filling and inexpensive meal.

The door at my host family’s home was open throughout the day as friends, family, and neighborhood children were welcome to drop in. Children, out of school for the summer, ran up and down the alley.  Together we kicked a soccer ball, batted around a balloon, and chased each other to pass the time.

The roosters started cock-a-doodle-doo-ing before 5:00am, and the sun consistently rose at 6:00am.  Welcome to life near the euqator—near consistent sunrise and sunset times throughout the year.  The perpetual sunshine of January is the highlight of the dry season, and the summer break for schools. Popular North American Christian spirituality of seasonal change is ineffective in this land of wet and dry seasons.

Since a sheet of metal separated one neighbor from another, noise was all around.  It was an adjustment for this introverted gringa used to an abundance of private space.  I heard the neighbors playing their stereo early in the morning, and I heard the soft patter of the hands of my host mother making fresh tortillas downstairs.  At night I heard barking dogs, cats mating, and the distant hum of traffic  through the open air on the other side of the bookshelves that separated my bed from the rest of the room.

This is but a slice of my life in Costa Rica. I will continue to write in small chunks as I continue to process my memories and what they might mean for my life now.  There are so many little details in addition to reflections—so much can happen in 34 days.  Stay tuned.

Thoughts Upon Arrival

Under the cover of darkness, I arrived in San José late on January 1, 2010.   Tired and disoriented from a few hours of in-flight sleep my heart and mind were also racing.  Once I cleared customs and claimed my luggage, I experienced a surreal moment walking to the door.  As young college students bound for an adventure tour passed me, men stood with signs looking for their tourist visitors.  The scene gave me a moments pause.

I had little idea what to expect of the entire month that lay before me, and indeed the new year as well.  Perhaps it was providential that stress kept me from dreaming up expectations about what my life would be in Costa Rica. However, I knew I wasn’t a tourist, so as I stood waiting for my deaconess sister, I had to ask…am I ready for this?  There’s no going back.  Yes, I’m ready, I thought.

Winding through the dark streets of  San José, I tried to get my bearings, which proved to be useless.  So I just observed.  As we turned onto the dirt road toward the shantytown that would be my home, I prayed to live in the moment.  Happy New Year.  From that moment on, I was free of the burdens of 2009 and free to re-claim an identity that had been lost in the depression—an identity of being a compassionate listener, spiritual director, and deaconess.

It was difficult to arrive so late at night, because I was not able to see my surroundings.  The houses in this small barrio are constructed of mostly scrap metal.  I lay in bed that night listening to the noise of traffic and dogs barking.  Bookshelves and a hanging bedsheet blocked off my private space.  However, the other side of the room was open to the air.  I lay there disoriented, yet thankful for a bed and the roof over my head, ready to sleep off a long day and begin a new life with a new community.

Below is the picture I took on my first morning in Costa Rica.  It looks out to the rest of the barrio and the mountains above San José; behind me are the bookshelves and my space.

¿Which language hablo ich, eigentlich?

Or: Why I didn’t learn to speak spanish in Costa Rica

While I spent a month in Central America, I can not yet speak spanish.  Learning by immersion is the best way to absorb and speak a language.  However, there are several reasons for my stunted skills en español.  The first one being lack of time to study before I left—less than six months between the time plans were made and departure date.

My feeble attempt to teach myself with a few audio resources, a dictionary and a workbook failed to produce adequate results.  Added to an already stressful personal life, I also ran two full marathons and moved across town all in a matter of seven days in the fall.  An amazing accomplishment for sure, but it set me backwards from learning another language.

In Costa Rica, aside from the fact that I fulfilled many roles but was not enrolled in a language course, there were two major stumbling blocks to learning and understanding Spanish: the loss of hearing in my right ear and…..German.  Yes, that’s right, that pesky harsh sounding language impeded my learning process.  Ach!

I was aware that the tumor around my right ear canal would hinder my ability to understand people.  Some days it is difficult to hear spoken english, so of course a foreign tongue would be even worse.  Background noise made it near impossible at times to hear what was being said.  I only wish I were clever enough to learn the words, “I don’t hear very well”.

However, I somehow managed to emerge understanding a fair amount of words and conversations.  Although I was not able to participate or respond, I often had a basic idea of what was said.  The process was tiring, because I strained to hear words I knew, then tried to figure out the meaning of words I didn’t know given the context, thus creating a delay between the time something was spoken to the time I decided I understood or not.

Anyway, the funnier of my stumbling blocks was my proficiency in the German language.  Because my brain is used to switching readily between German and English that is where my instincts instantly jumped.  It messed with my memory and occasionally I uttered half German half Spanish sentences that probably made no sense to my host family.  At least we were able to gesture and smile a lot.

My favorite mishaps were these:

Counting to five became difficult when I said to myself, “uno, dos, tres, cuatro…cuatro…fünf.  With my hand spread out I looked at it puzzled.  No, it’s not fünf.  You know, that number that comes after cuatro….After 10 seconds the data was finally accessed and I was able to say with gusto, “ahhh, cinco!”  Seriously, I’ve known how to count to 10 in spanish for a long time, but the wires continually got crossed.

I also said “nee, nee” (pronounced nay)  all the time, another way to say no in German, when “no” is one of those words that English and Spanish share.  Really.

The mixed prhases were fun too:  ”Una hora ist genug”, “Ja, aber muy consado”, and just last week I responded to someone who had asked how long I’d been in Costa Rica with, “treinta Tages”, knowing with certainty that “dias” are days.

While the explanation seems funny, my perfectionist personality was at times frustrated and embarrassed.  It is a difficult thing to attempt to communicate and fail, for I did not want to appear less intelligent that I know I am to be.  I was afraid because too many people in the States assume that picking up the nuances of another culture and language are so easy that they impose this belief on foreigners and hold it against them when they lack the finesse of a native speaker.  This attitude is magnified in Eastern Washington state where I grew up, where people write letters to the editor advocating to cease teaching Spanish in schools and that Spanish shouldn’t be spoken in “America”.  Sigh.

Nevertheless, I have the skills for a solid base.  When I am able to speak Spanish, the skills I picked up in Costa Rica will be valuable in the future, especially if a situation ever calls for a translator.

An alternative perspective of America.

I wish I were better at writing about events as they happen. Well, I do write, it is just more difficult to transcribe my journal to blog in short spans of time. So this is to introduce what is to come…a series of accounts and reflections about the month I spent in Central America.

In all, I spent 34 days in Central America, mostly in Costa Rica from January 1st to February 4th 2010.  I lived among Nicaraguan immigrants in Costa Rica in the San Sebastián district of San José, barrio San Martin.

Now I have spent enough time indoors and the light on this fine February afternoon in Seattle will soon be gone.  I promise more entries to follow — especially after tomorrow’s (7 February 2010) presidential election in Costa Rica.

A Story from Nicaragua

I want to share a story with you from my time here.  When the earthquake struck Haiti, I was in a remote part of Nicaragua, on the island of Ometepe accompanying a group of college students from Pennsylvania.  Ometepe is an island in the middle of lake Nicaragua (a lake probably the size of Lake Michigan in North America).  The students were staying at an orphanage.  I helped them work on a new building for the orphanage and at a medical clinic on the island.  At the medical clinics, even distribution of vitamins is needed among the people.  Below is a photo from Ometepe with one of the two volcanos on the island in the background, called Conception.

This experience is from Sunday, January 10, 2010.

Instead of attending church with the rest of the students, I went with Heidi and Hannia (Heidi is a sister deaconess and Hannia a Costa Rican who was helping us) to a community in the other side of the island called El Corrozal.  I sat in on a meeting with a few of the community members.

Since I understand a little spanish and speak even less, I wasn’t able to participate much, except to listen as much as I could.  We were consulting with the community about potential projects for other students groups.  In other words, asking the community what they most need.  The drive to El Corrozal took over an hour, not because it was far away, but because the roads were so bad.  There is one main road around the island and other dirt roads that lead to small communities.

45% of Nicaraguans live on less than $1 a day.  It is a land where some only recently have electricity, horses are common for transport, food is cooked on wood stoves, machetes are used to cut grass, and the water gives people parasites and fungal infections.

This particular community received electricity from the government only a short while ago.  The meeting took place in a school, that is vacant for summer vacation (dry season = summer here).  Among the Nicaraguans present was a deacon at the local evangelical church and a man who grows coffee and exports it through an organization on Bainbridge Island, WA (near my home in Seattle!).

After the meeting we were invited to a home for lunch.  It was an experience of God’s grace for me, because this family served us out of what they had, which isn’t much at all.  The small house had dirt floor and fire for cooking outside.  We ate rice, beans, eggs and plantains—a staple meal in Costa Rica and Nicaragua.

Even though I did not speak the language, I was welcomed and fed.  It is a day I will not soon forget…I re-enforced my belief that relationships are vitally important to helping others and that hospitality is a blessed gift.  I know people in North America are prone to become excited with foreign mission to help some poor people, but please take note that going over the border to Tiajuana isn’t necessarily going to help people.  There should be a mutuality of sharing and learning, and through that bond Christ is present.  This experience calls me to compassion, prayer, and action.  I ask myself and others:  How can I know my neighbor and how can we grow together?

From Costa Rica

This brief post is only to say that I am well and enjoying my time in Central America.  I have some stories to share, so stay tuned.  Here’s a photo of one of the places I’ve been.  It is the island of Ometepe in Nicaragua.  It is in the middle of Lake Nicaragua, which is probably the size of Lake Michigan in North America.  The Island has 2 volcanoes.  I was there with university students from Pennsylvania, and they set up a medical clinic and worked at an orphanage.  The ferry boat is the only way to/from the island, and as you can see, it isn’t very big.  The name of the volcano in the background is Conception.  More to come…

A New Year, Another Adventure

There is another adventure on the horizon.  On January 1st, 2010 I will kick off the new year by boarding a plane and flying away for the whole month, bound this time for Costa Rica (and Nicaragua).  As I did with India, I intend to post some, perhaps this time while I’m in the country.

One reason for my Costa Rica trip is to experience something new and away from the familiar in Seattle.  Lately I have been in a stuck pattern, in need of change but unsure how to make it happen.  Well, here it is happening, almost all at once.  Coinciding with this 34-day trip is the end to my work at a bookstore I have een employed at through graduate school and beyond, for 5 years.  It is time to move on, and this is my chance.

Another reason is that I have an opportunity to engage in ministry work with another deaconess.  This is exciting, and has potential to open more doors.  When I ask myself what it is I most desire in work, I have often returned to direct service.  A ministry with people, listening to them, learning from them, and helping where needed.  When I am in Costa Rica I will mostly be listening, learning, and absorbing.

I also really need a sabbatical.  This is a perfect way to combine something that engages my heart and mind, as well as being refreshing for the body.  I will leave Seattle in the grayest period of the year for Central America where it is warm, dry, and exceedingly beautiful to step into a new culture, learn a new language, and hear stories of brothers and sisters in Central America.

Expect more updates on my adventure, stories of those I meet, and of course pictures.

Winter Pilgrim

I was first introduced to Annie Dillard’s work in a high school english class on creative writing.  We were assigned to pick an author, read multiple books by that author and assemble a report on said author’s life and work.  Dillard was suggested to me by my teacher; at the time, I had no previous knowledge of her work.

I was mystified from the very beginning of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.  Seemingly in one breath she describes intricate details about the minute life of insects, the vastness of the solar system, and ties it to the Divine.  When I read her writing, even though I do not share her passion for stalking insects, I feel akin to her.

For example, in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, she writes:  ”I have often noticed that these things, which obsess me, neither bother nor impress other people even slightly.  I am horribly apt to approach some innocent at a gathering and, like the ancient mariner, fix him with a wild, glitt’ring eye and say, ‘Do you know that in the head of the caterpillar of the ordinary goat moth there are two hundred twenty-eight separate muscles?’  The poor wretch flees.  I am not making chatter; I meant to change his life.  I seem to posses an organ that others lack, a sort of trivia machine.”

I, too, spit out random facts, that sometimes are timely, and other times quite random and more than the other person really wanted to know.  It’s a quirk, and I absorb knowledge of all sorts, that for some reason or another are stored away until something in the present triggers the memory.

A page later in that same chapter (“Intricacy”), she writes:

The creation is not a study, a roughed-in sketch; it is supremely, meticulously created, created abundantly, extravagantly, and in fine.  Along with intricacy, there is another aspect of creation that has impressed me in the course of my wanderings.  Look again at the horsehair worm, a yard long and thin as a thread, whipping through the duck pond…look at the fruit of an Osage orange tree, big as grapefruit, green convoluted as any human brain…Look, in short, at practically anything—the coot’s feet, the mantis’s face, a banana, the human ear—and see that not only did the creator create everything but that he is apt to create anything.  He’ll stop at nothing.

Here is a woman, living in the present  and extremely fascinated and in touch with the earth around her.  The winter solstice has now come, and in the great Northwestern United States it is a cold and dark season.  I contemplate an intricate world teeming with life and infinite possibilities…even to be found in this winter time.

damp appreciation

Drip drop
goes the rain
hitting the ground
streaming down the drain.

It’s not raining today, but it has rained enough recently in Seattle to force my still hooked on summer attitude to shift toward darkness and dampness—and how to appreciate them.  My heart and soul have barely emerged from the dark night, and now the weather patterns emulate the cold dark feeling I thought I’d left behind.  Time to enter a seasonal appreciation for the night and for the rain…

what i’ve been up to

i seem to have patterns of writing and dormancy for this blog.  most of my energy has been focused on another blog—a project worthy of such effort.  depression has left and i am alive and in wonder.  i’ve been running a lot, and slowly emerging from the fog.  perhaps when the marathon extravaganza is over i shall return to writing here, this blog of my spiritual wanderings.  until then, find me here, at run megs run, and read why i am running two marathons within 7 days of each other.  it’s inspiring, i guarantee it.

Prodigal Wanderings, Returning Home

I left home quite some time ago. Here, I do not write of the leaving home I did at age 19. No, I mean that over a year ago I left the holy sanctuary of God’s surrounding love and squandered away some of my blessed life.

Leaving home…is a denial of the spiritual reality that I belong to God with every part of my being, that God holds me safe in an eternal embrace, that I am indeed carved in the palm of God’s hands and hidden in their shadows…Leaving home is living as though I do not yet have a home and must look far and wide to find one.
(Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son, 37)

Henri Nouwen so beautifully writes his journey home from depths and dark places in The Return of the Prodigal Son. Long ago acquainted with Nouwen’s work, this is one I missed—until now. His writing and life bring hope to me in an otherwise heartbreaking period in my life. Years of balance, strength, and peace have met their demise in the wake of rage and resentment. I am broken, shattered by a series of events in my own life, the choices I have made; and swallowed by similar downfalls in my family. Oh, what have I become that I obsess and rage instead of listen and pray?

In this moment of night I find myself emerging from melancholy to feel the embrace of God, rejoicing in another day, and thankful for shelter and food. I want it to linger, so I keep awake long into the night.

Nouwen says of home:

Home is the center of my being where I can hear the voice that says, “You are my Beloved, on you my favor rests.”—the same voice that gave life to the first Adam and spoke to Jesus…the same voice that speaks to all the children of God and sets them free to live in the midst of a dark world while remaining in the light. (37)

I have so many places, physical and emotion that have been “home”. Nouwen introduces the home that only a loving God can bring, and this home, I believe is expansive enough to encompass all places and times of being at home. These are “home” because I am loved by God.

Fearful of failure, I forge on. This is not the first time I have been at these crossroads, nor will it be the last. I should hope, however, that I am through one horrible cycle of self-destruction. The fear in me waits to fall again, and it says to me in a hurried tone: this time you may be on your own, even if you break through the darkness. Enter the image of the prodigal son—broken and shamed, he is embraced by his father. It is at the same time comforting and heartbreaking, as I prepare to welcome God’s embrace, and yet still have broken family and relations that are unresolved.

Faith keeps me going. “Faith,” Nouwen writes, “is the radical trust that home has always been there and always will be there.” Come what may with family, community, job, finances, health this radical trust believes I am home.

Annie Dillard writes of running from this love, too. In her book, Teaching a Stone to Talk, she writes:

Even now I wonder: if I meet God, will he take and hold my bare hand in his, and focus his eye on my palm, and kindle that spot and let me burn? But no. It is I who misunderstood everything and let everybody down. Miss White, God, I am sorry I ran from you. I am still running, running from that knowledge, that eye, that love from which there is no refuge. For you meant only love, and love, and I felt only fear, and pain. Sone once in Isarel love came to us incarnate, stood in the doorway between two worlds, and we were all afraid. (p. 141)

So here I am. Unsure of what lies ahead. But, for the time being, safely held by God.

Writing over Anger with Love

This poem reflects something I need to give and receive in my life now…something I’ve lost beneath blinding rage. It isn’t pretty and I need to release it and grasp on tightly to the love of God.  The poem is a critique of church rules and right ways of doing things. However, the silly lies of anger are written on my walls.  I’ve been here before, recently even.  Something clicked tonight at church, and I breathed in the life-giving breath of God.  I hope love is written on my heart, and that this time it lasts—that God’s graffiti will paint over the anger permanently—I don’t want to sink back into that angry place.

God’s Graffiti

We’ve splashed our rules
all over the sanctuary walls…
so many rules we don’t have time
for dancing…
our graffiti
defiling the house of God.
God’s graffiti is different:
God writes LOVE
upon our hearts.
Some night, let’s sneak in the sanctuary
and paint over the rules
and write God’s graffiti
all over the walls…
LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE

– Ann Weems

Rest

I need lots of rest—mind, body, soul.  I read this poem differently now than I have in previous years.  It is from a book of poems given to me seven years ago.  The “journey” spoken of is the journey to the cross through the season of lent.  At a time when foundations have been shaken, my relations with self and others out of sort, this is where I want to be: resting in God…

Come Unto Me

When the journey gets too hard,
when we feel depleted,
when our compassion
turns to complaining,
when our efforts toward
justice and mercy
seem to get us nowhere,
it’s time to remember
the humility part—
that it is God who has made us
and not we ourselves;
that the saving of the world
or even one part of it
is not on our shoulders.
It is then we can come unto him,
and he will give us rest.
With rest we’ll remember
what it is we are about.

— Ann Weems

March Journeys

Quite the adventurer, I have traveled many places in my life, and aspire to continue my worldwide wanderings as long as I am able.  These pictures below are from two adventures during March, the first a semester break trip to Greece in early March 2002 (the 2-month semester break also included travels in Italy, Sweden and Norway) during the year I studied in Germany; the second, a wandering through the UK in March 2007—the picture is from the top of Mt. Snowdon in Wales.

March often is the beginning, or at least the middle of the Christian season of Lent, the 40 days leading to Easter…a time for reflection, discipline, and a whole heap of other traditions.  For me, this lent—these 40 days before I proclaim the resurrection of Christ, are about clearing house, de-cluttering mind and living space.  I am not able to wander as in previous years, but this cleansing is necessary.

Light within the Darkness

A case of being in the right place at the right time with the right camera.  This picture captures how I have felt as of late…light shining through darkness, beauty, hope. (taken on 31 December 2008 at the Agra Fort in Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India)

A Walk in Lodhi Gardens

28 December 2008

The distinct odor of exhaust and pollution hangs in the air.  It covers the visibility of the sky above and sticks to my lungs.  High above black Kites soar in circular patterns over the city.  There isn’t a place nearby for a vantage on my two feet, although I’m not sure there’s much to see.  It is warm, or at least to my perspective 50F degrees is warm.  In the gray Seattle mist, 50F can be chilling.  This sunny 50F in Delhi feels pleasant and welcome, considering I had left my normally rainy home with a foot of snow on the ground.  So even when the overnight temperature in Delhi dropped to 40F, and Delhi wallahs were cold, I felt fine.  No thank you, I don’t need an extra sweater.

The moment spent gazing at the soaring Kites in the afternoon haze is suddenly jarred by my reality of Delhi–a near miss with a person, animal, or vehicle of some sort.  This time it was a man on a walk.  This place isn’t crowded, I almost ran into him because I wasn’t paying attention. Wising up, I also notice there are runners.  As I breathe in shallowly, I wonder how anyone could run in this stagnant choking air.

However, for the moment, I am satisfied with this mostly unobstructed walking path.  Lodhi Gardens is one of the few places of clean open space in the densely populated city of Delhi.  The walk exercises my legs, which are desperately in need of movement after 20+ hours of travel on packed planes the previous day.

My friend’s mother is chatting, and I chat, too, all the while my senses are on high alert, recording my surroundings for future use.  Of special note are the ruins built by ruling powers of long ago.  These structures stand in contrast to the families who sit on the open grass, talking and eating.  I wonder about the families and their stories.  The old Mughal period architecture surely has stories, too—of their builders, those buried beneath the stone, and of the millions of passers-by over the years…

Arrival in Delhi

I am going to write about my travels in India. What you’ll see is a patchwork of stories as told through narration, rumination, and information that may or may not be in chronological order…I haven’t decided yet how to continue.  Today’s story is my arrival in India, and first impressions of Delhi.

Saturday 27 December 2008

After two long flights loaded with screaming children and minor incident with two drunk Russians involving a knife, we finally clear customs at Indira Gandhi International Airport.  It is nearly midnight.  Oh dear God, I think, as I try with all the concentration left in me, I am really looking forward to a warm bed.  However tired, I’m alert through adrenaline, and I scan the airport, careful not to lose sight of my friend in the chaos.  The air inside the airport is stale and smells musty, a sure combination pollution and the body odor of the thousands who have traveled through its doors.  All around me people are sitting, standing, waiting, and carrying luggage.  My stiff legs welcome the chance to dodge the piles of suitcases and the crowd of people coming and going.

Reprieve from the dry air from the plane, and stale air of the airport is not found outside in the night air, as I struggle to breathe the choking air through my nose.   A slight burning sensation fills my lungs and I gasp for air.  As we walk to meet my friend’s father, who not surprisingly, stands out amidst the sea of brown faces waiting for their passengers, beloved and stranger.  I am in a dreamlike state, nearly in disbelief that I am actually in India.  Wait.  I’m in India!

I stare at the line of a hundred men of standing against a railing, some holding signs, others staring, seemingly straight through my being.  This moment, I think to myself, is something to hold onto.  As if in a movie, a distant Indian rhythm dances in my head and my sight turns to slow motion, passing a hundred beautiful faces with curiosity.  Even the crowded airport is initially enchanting.  Back from the dream, a cacophony of conversations, rumbling engines, and shrill car horns fill my ears.  This, I would discover, is the discordant noise emanating from nearly everywhere Delhi.

The reunion with father was quick, as together the three of us strode through the crowds to the car where Francis, the driver, was waiting.  Mother, conversation, and tea were waiting to welcome us to the residence in New Delhi.

Without regard to the poor visibility at night, my eyes are drawn out the car window to the world outside.  On the road at midnight, and still there were cars and trucks crowding the road as we pass shadowy buildings.  It became evident, almost immediately, that honking in India is not merely reserved in defense or anger, as it most often is in the US, it is a signal (replacing the turn signal blinker) and used liberally.  Trucks are colorfully painted, and on the back have “Horn Please” written in English.  And the trucks have the right of way.  The rule of the road is, “might is right”.

At some point, midnight passes and it is after 1:00am on the 28th.  I note in my head that back home, 13.5 hours behind and a world away, it is only noon on the 27th.  It is 3am when my head finally hits the pillow—after a warm welcome at the house in New Delhi with my friend’s parents who served us tea, cookies, and generously handed out presents.  I quickly fall into a comfortable, yet brief sleep.  The last streaming thought before sleep was again, ” Wait.  I’m in India!”

India

Awakened by the stirring of mind and body, I reflect on my recent world travel.  As my senses were overwhelmed each day that I was in India, my mind is overwhelmed at the observations and memories.  Bewildered and unsure of where to begin, I think I will free write this entry.  More entries will follow with narratives of my experiences.  Until then, streams of consciousness…

India defies simple explanation.  While India’s borders occupy one-third the landmass of the United States, its population is more than tripple the US population.  The subcontinent is extremely diverse in landscape, climate, culture, religion, and language.  The north borders with Tibet and the Himalayas, and to the south lies a subropical paradise where spices grow and have been traded for centuries.  Christianity was introduced to the subcontinent in the first century by St. Thomas.

I left a snowy Seattle depressed, and in need of renwal.  Knowing that traversing India was not going to be quiet, I was prepared to be shocked.  The first step outside into the Delhi night were oppressive–while marveling at the thousands of people passing through and waiting at Indira Ghandi International Airport, I was also chocking on the smog. I let the chaos wash over me, noting the hundreds of faces lined up waiting for their person to walk through the door.  Even in the middle of the night, Delhi’s roads are noisy.  My senses became full of streaming observation and I forgot my depression.

This morning, I am faced with what was my life, what it became, and what now am I to do with myself, the same person yet changed forever by India…

Am Neckar: The River as Soul’s Companion

As I have recently found a spirit guide in the Great Blue Heron (see previous entry), water has long been an elemental spiritual presence for me.  Waters are symbolic of baptism, of cleansing and renewal.  I have been a long time away from water, too.  The following is a meditation I wrote while living in Germany back in February of 2002.  I would walk along the banks of the Neckar River in Tuebingen.  The water became a place of comfort, a friend to me at a time when I was walking a lonely path with many questions on my heart…

O still river, how long it ha been since I have seen your waters gently flow by.  How good it feels to sit here next to you, observing your nature.  The long days have made me weary and you are at present my only friend.  You understand me and speak to me in ways that others cannot.  I see my true self through the reflection from your waters.  You sustain me, you guide me and you give me life.  And today, when the life has been sucked away from me, I come to you to be renewed.  I come to sit at your banks and wash away the dirt from my face.  As still as you are right now, I feel the power within your soul; I feel the power within my soul.  And when our time together comes to an end, I take with me the images I see before me, so I can return to them in my dreams.  Forever you will flow, forever you will be and forever I will be in you.  O River of Life, I fall on my knees…I remember my baptism in your waters and I ask forgiveness.  I leave your presence, a Child of God, renewed and cleansed.  I look forward to the next time we shall meet.  It may be here or in another place far off, but your waters are eternal and will never change.

My Friend and Guide, the Heron

Tonight I became convinced that the Great Blue Heron is my animal spirit guide.  I have seen the Blue Heron many times this year, and each time has been a spiritual encounter.  I saw one at Discovery Park and multiple times at the Ballard Locks.  I haven’t been to those places lately, and I miss the walks I used to take.  Lucky me that Herons inhabit near my home.  The following is my winter encounter with the Blue Heron, and has awakened my spirit to her guidance of me…

Tonight I met a friend—or should I say, tonight a friend met me.  Her sudden appearance was a welcome sight along a dark road on a cold night.   Head bowed, body tense, I walked along a path next to the canal, lost inside my wandering mind.  With a deep breath of chilly December air, I looked up and saw the silhouette of her body atop a rock against the lights across the canal.   Silently and still, she stood, as if she, too, were in contemplation.  My feet stopped and body paused.  I called out to her.  “Oh friend!  I see you.  Where have you been?”  And I realized that I too, have been absent from these waters where we used to meet.  I called out again, “Oh me!  Where have I been?  Too long has it been since I saw you last.  Let us stand here and know each other.”  I stood there, breathless, recalling past encounters with my friend, the Heron.   Each time she stood in water, off at a distance, but the essence of her presence near to me.  Each encounter was mostly silent, though rich with meaning.  When it was time for me to go, I said goodbye and strode down the path.   Oh Blue Heron, watcher over my life, protect me and guide me through this cold winter night!