update
I have been very busy as of late, and will not be able to post anymore on this blog. The reason for this, however, is very good. Simply put, I’ll be teaching English in Indonesia starting next year, and will be there for 2 years.
The previous post (Discernment on a Ferry) is the day I heard about the opportunity. Then in late July, I had an interview, and was accepted.
I will keep a blog about that experience, and have already started to write about the process here. Hence, in all the preparations, and that specific blog, it is too much to continue posting here. I will keep the blog up, because I see that some of my posts continue to get traffic. I am grateful for this journey, and those who may find peace, joy or whatever through my words and wanderings here.
Peace to all who find this space.
Discernment on a Ferry
I am currently in the midst of an exciting albeit stressful journey of discernment. My previous posts about travel as a spiritual practice are dancing around my head and I may soon be putting it all into further practice. Though current instability in place as well as sleep disturbances have taken a toll on my writing. These days I have backed away from the more intense sharing, but it seems those soul-bearing posts are what continually attract attention to this blog. However, I also see the value in using this as means to communicate travel/journey as a way of discernment and spiritual practice.
Not yet ready for a big reveal on what I’m doing, I can share this photo and say that even when I cannot travel far away to experience change of scenery and welcome dis-orientation, I am blessed to reside, for the time being, in Seattle, where I can get on a boat and travel across water to another city.
This photo was taken on a ferry between Seattle and Bainbridge Island. I walked the observation deck, to and fro, taking in the magnificent scenery of water and mountains, thinking about the months ahead and decisions before me.
Recent
Many times I have wanted to write a post, but I haven’t quite been able to pull one together. The thoughts come, fleeting, and leave my brain by the time I am ready. Or never seem to materialize by the time I am focused. Nevertheless, life goes on. One trip of three this spring/summer already taken…so there’s still plenty of adventure. Someday I’ll get my brain focused to write the exciting things on the horizon as well as the continuing thoughts on travel as spiritual practice. Until then, enjoy this recent capture from a flight out of Seattle.
Travel as a Spiritual Practice
Travel is one of my core spiritual practices. Growing up, my parents took my sister and I on at least one vacation a year. It was the 3-week family sojourn to visit friends in New Zealand when I was 8, that left an impression with me great enough to stir a desire to experience more of this world. This desire continually pesters me, calling me out of the norm and into unknown and adventure.
This spiritual practice is distinct from pilgrimage. Pilgrimage is a well-known form of soul-searching—a long journey to a significant landmark, shrine, or destination. The traveling spiritual practice that formed in me may well include pilgrimage, albeit they are not one in the same. For example, a pilgrimage of a devout believer bears a holy purpose and spiritual expectations such as the Hajj or walking the El Camino de Santiago. One who practices their spirituality through travel, on the other hand, may not be in any place of particular religious importance nor necessarily seek an audience with the divine.
For me this means travel for travel’s sake, seeing the world in an attempt to learn about cultures, grow, and change. Sometimes that is through seeing landscapes from the air or car; sometimes that is lived through conversations with strangers or visiting museums or other places of interest. God or things spiritual may or may not be in my mind or on my lips, and yet the experience as a whole feeds a spiritual hunger.
What sets this apart? People regularly take vacations or travel across country to get from one place to another. The beauty is in the eye of the beholder. When I plan a vacation, I make sure I experience life and enjoy myself as much as possible. Why spend all my time going to a place because it is “the tourist thing to do” but not what I like? Cruise ships are not my cup of tea, but I have spent a few nights on the solarium deck of a ferry floating through the Inside Passage in Alaska. Twice, I have arranged a layover in Amsterdam long enough for me to hop on the train and walk around town. I delight in sunrises and sunsets wherever I am.
In my studies in spirituality I came across a definition for contemplation that has stuck with me: a long loving look at the real. Jesuit theologian Walter Burghardt’s essay describes this definition:
The real, reality, is not reducible to some far-off, abstract, intangible God-in-the-sky. Reality is living, pulsing people; reality is fire and ice; reality is the sun setting over the Swiss Alps, a gentle doe streaking through the forest; reality is a ruddy glass of Burgundy, Beethoven’s Mass in D, a child lapping a chocolate ice-cream cone; reality is a striding woman with wind-blown hair; reality is the risen Christ.
These are, of course, things that in his time, his Western culture and his way that are striking. All true, indeed—now imagine the thoughts, lives, and real contemplations of the near 7 billion people on this planet. This drives my desire to travel and experience the world.
Above all, appreciate the journey and live in the moment; see the world and take a long loving look at the real around you.
A Random Conversation with a Writer
One of my favorite spots in D.C. is a bookstore/restaurant called Kramerbooks. It’s several of my favorite things, all wrapped into one: books, beer, and food. Recently, I was there reading, and writing. I had picked up my journal and began to write about a personal matter. The words flowed out well, and as I articulated my thoughts on this matter, a white haired man sat on the stool next to me and lightly tapped my arm, “Are you a writer?” he asked.
It was one of those moments I could claim to be anything, and since I have had a small blurb published in The Lutheran Magazine a few years back, I suppose technically, yes I am a writer. I have this blog, I have my stacks of journals, but I felt particularly inclined to say yes to this man.
“Yeah, but this is just my personal journal” I replied.
He began to fill me in on his life, offering to buy me another drink. Before he showed up I had told myself I wasn’t going to buy another drink, but since he offered, and I figured I was interested enough in this random conversation, I agreed.
Turns out this man has led an interesting life, and though has loved writing his whole life, only recently has been a published author. When he first showed up I could tell he had a few drinks somewhere else first, and it became very apparent the second time he pulled out a business card and explained in the same words the subject of his book. I just smiled and took the card.
There were a few moments he asked about my life. For some reason I wasn’t sure what to say, but that was alright, because I didn’t have to say much before his tipsy mood wandered into another story from his life. I was less enthused when he wandered away from his story and onto politics.
Nuggets of wisdom were peppered into his story. “Don’t give up” was one of them. At this point in my life it is not one of my aspirations to be a published writer—someday in the future maybe, but not now, and it’s not a goal I need to work on yet. I’m content with this blog, with my photography, and my journal. Perhaps in the future I’ll write about my travels (or something else…), but what makes those interesting enough to be published? When I figure that out, I’ll go for it.
Hearing stories from people who are in a different stage in life calls me back to a reality that is grounded in this: Enjoy life now, follow my dreams, and know that there are many years ahead in this life to keep dreaming and enjoying and doing many different things.
Cheers, wherever you are. Sorry, I’m not going to be buying 5,000 copies of your book.
Dormant, not dead
Although this blog has remained without post for awhile, it is not dead. Life’s circumstances have crept in the way of consistent writing. The good news is that I have a job; the bad news, of course, is that said job has been busy enough to keep me from writing in this place.
Nevertheless, I am brimming with ideas, and I hope to post about at least one or two of them. For this job I’ve done a considerable amount of travel in a short amount of time, thus renewing my interest in writing about travel as a form of discernment.
I don’t know when that post will be published. Sometimes I question whether I should continue with this blog, and I always come back to the desire to write and not care if anyone reads these words. I do know I still receive many hits for a two and a half year old post containing a poem from Hafiz on loneliness (by far the most popular piece).
That, too, is worth blogging about again. Loneliness. Right now I’m in a season of being on my own, and working hard. Loneliness does accompany me on my work related travel, but I am most grateful for friends and family, though sometimes they are far off. The loneliness I sometimes feel now is good, because behind it, I feel loved. This lonelieness is a longing for those I hold dear and whose company I miss.
That post from 2008 highlights a time in my life when loneliness was an emptiness—and yet, as the Hafiz poem suggests, I let it cut me more deep; it fermented and seasoned me. After that post, I descended even further into a lonely and depressed place, but eventually I emerged. And here I am, full of life, and yes, still lonely and ever so aware of my need for God.
No, this blog is not dead. Even if my posts still are months from each other, and may at times be dormant, it is not dead. So long as people continue to search and read the Hafiz poem, it will be alive…
Heimweh
Heimweh: the German word for homesickness. Every so often I experience heimweh for Germany. Knowing I cannot recreate that experience, I still pine for elements of that life—the beauty of an old city, the pealing of church bells, the refreshing taste of a German hefeweisen…
I’m sure I could write an entry on what I experienced in Germany and why it’s meaningful to me, or what parts of the life live on in me. For now, I’m thrilled by the German national football team advancing to the semi-finals in the World Cup and am now feeling homesick.
This photo is what happens in Germany when they win. I took this immediately following the Germany 1-0 win over South Korea in the semi-final match (They lost the final to Brazil) in 2002. Chaos. And this is in a relatively small town. With the complex past of WWII in their recent memory, the German people aren’t so big on flag-waving patriotism—unless it is about the world cup. This deep love and pride is something not yet experienced in the US for our soccer team.
German media reports that 400,000 people gathered in Berlin to publicly watch the most recent world cup game (4-0 win over Argentina), and they partied all day. Since I don’t have time to scan this photo properly, I took a picture of the original print. Sometimes I am homesick for this….
More on changing faith
To continue my thoughts on ‘changing faith’: this reflection was initially a letter, written in early 2008 to someone who asked why I stayed at Church of the Apostles. I have since added and revised to reflect my current thoughts, not changing the main premise: I stay because of community.
I was raised Lutheran and felt quite comfortable in the Lutheran denomination and theology. Fresh in Seattle in Sept. 2004, it was my first time alone, outside of college, with the responsibility to find a church community. I found a progressive Lutheran church that I attended for awhile. There was however, something missing from this experience. Friendly for worship, I hungered for deeper connections with my church community. This might surprise you, but they were, in a way, too liberal. And by that, I mean no negativity at all, rather I was worshiping with folk whose theological issues left me a bit out of the loop. I’d consider myself liberal, but I approached church differently. Their issues were about not using “he” for God, which wasn’t an issue for me. Sure, it excited me to explore varying names and expressions for God and be a part of a thriving social justice ministry, but the worship life, although musical and liturgical, seemed stagnant. This isn’t due to lack of variety, there was a hunger for community.
Read more…
An Awakening: How I Found Myself in Tübingen
I wrote the following on ‘changing faith’ four years ago, reflecting on the year I studied at Eberhard Karls Universität Tübingen, in southwestern Germany. A piece of this was published in the May 2006 issue of The Lutheran, a magazine publication of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (the full text appeared online and I moderated a forum discussion about changing faith). Another post reflecting about what has changed since 2006 and where my faith life is presently will be posted here sometime soon. Until then, enjoy this piece…
An Awakening: How I Found Myself in Tübingen
14 October 2001
I picked up a leaf and started walking. I noticed the leaves as they fell, how some fell straight down to the ground, others fell on top of branches and bushes, and yet still more floated gracefully and gently to the earth. Every leaf that fell to the ground covered the ground and would someday become a part of the earth. This is a cycle, this is a season. My life has changed seasons…It was a beautiful autumn day when I wrote the leaf meditation–almost two months after I had moved to Tübingen, Germany. Indeed, the entire 11-month journey was a seasonal change in my young adult life and defies any simple description. I could fill pages with stories of travel, study, and culture—but often untold is how Tübingen changed my faith.
As an undergraduate, my dream to study meteorology ended with a failure in calculus. Overwhelmed and depressed, I abandoned meteorology for German and applied to study in Tübingen the following year (2001-2002). With the guidance of a mentor, I began the process of discerning what, if not meteorology, was my vocational calling.
In Tübingen, I attended classes in German and imbibed on local culture. I wrote to family and friends about travel adventures, German culture, and living through September 11 in Germany. Untold, however, are the stories of spiritual soul-searching.
Every day began with several Psalms. Centering myself with breath prayer, I meditated on Scripture and wrote my deepest thoughts in journals. My worship life flourished not inside, but rather outside church walls. I prayerfully walked along the Neckar river and through the forest. The physical act of running became prayer as I visualized Jesus running with me.
This intimate relationship with God (and with myself) nurtured my soul, and cultivated an intense discernment process where I wrestled with a call into ministry. My life had more in common with the mystics than I am often willing to acknowledge. It was truly an awakening.
Reflecting back, I don’t think I would have been as open to deep soul-searching had I not painfully struggled with calculus. Neither would I have had such an intense faith journey without someone to mentor me through.
This journey–now four years ago–lives in me, ever guiding and sustaining my spirit. It has helped me be a light for others as I have engaged in more public forms of faith sharing and ministry. Now a city-dweller in Seattle, my faith is changing again. And I look forward to what this second seasonal change will bring.
Viriditas
I find it difficult to think about Costa Rica when my daily tasks overflow and the biggest of tasks is to find a job. Many applications and one interview later, I have nothing. Nada. Not yet. The day with its accomplishments and wastes of time sets behind me. Although I waste some time, I proudly commit most of the time to being in the present. But during the dark nights like this one I lay in bed, not sleeping as my body would like, rather I sit awake with uncertainties pumping the heart faster and faster. So no, I haven’t thought about Costa Rica lately. And indeed I feel guilty about it.
What an amazing adventure and even more than adventure, what a journey in community. The journey is a gift waiting to be shared, but I have yet to unlock that door holding the memories captive. By the time I do, I think most of my interested family and friends will have moved on to other news. The words on this blog long-forgotten by those I know and left to the occasional stumbler from the land of the internets. I know by browsing my statistics most visits are based on word searches, more specifically relating to a poem I posted well over a year ago. Still hungering for Sufi mystic Hafiz, they come.
In the moment, my life is enriched by the greening of Seattle. OK, it’s always green here. But Springtime cues the greenest season of them all. So today, even as I felt sad and stressed, I stopped to give thanks for the rain and the new life springing from everywhere. I am job-less, word-less, but not life-less.
Hildegard of Bingen, a medieval mystic and one of my heroes, used the latin “Viriditas” (greeness) as imagery for the Divine. Here is a piece of one of her beautiful chants, with one of my recent photos of the awakening of Spring in Seattle (translated from Latin…not by me):
O viridissima virga, ave
Hail, O greenest branch,
who in the blowing gust
of the saints’ quest have come forth
when the time came
that you were in bloom along our boughs,
hail, hail to you!
for the sun’s heat sweated in you
like the fragrance of balsam.For a fair flower was flowering in you,
which gave its scent
to all the herbs
that were dryAnd these then all appeared,
full in greenness.
An Ordination
A quick story for today: One of the first experiences I had in Costa Rica was an ordination at Iglesia Luterana Sola Fe, the church I lived two doors down from. My second full day in the country was spent at two church services, one being an ordination. The ordination was one of the many unexpected moments of grace during my time there. Leonel, the ordained one, is a compassionate man who also does a prison ministry. I am grateful to have been present at this a special occasion.
Nicaragua: War, Coffee, and Fair Trade
Riding in the back of the truck bed, I stared at surrounding landscape. My grip on the top of the truck was tight as we drove over what passes for a road on Ometepe, an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. As we passed jungle, banana trees, small villages where women cook over woodsmoke, and around the island’s two volcanoes—Conception and Maderas—I suddenly wondered what life might have been like during the war. Nicaragua’s recent past tells a sad story of dictators, revolution, counter-revolution, and continued poverty. What stories are there to tell? Passing through the jungle in peacetime still brought sadness.
I’m not writing a history lesson, but it would be worth your time to reflect on the disastrous results of US foreign policy in the 1980′s that is only self-interested in abolishing whatever is deemed as a threat to US security. Small Nicaragua, poor Nicaragua—labelled this or that and a worldview was thrust upon a people already in struggle. Somehow, millions of dollars were secretly and overtly donated to a war in this country, so far from the dominating culture, the vast landmass and wealth of the USA. How many US citizens knew the life of an average Nicaraguan? What is the face of socialism/communism/capitalism? Today many of the people in Nicaragua struggle against tuberculosis, parasites, and respiratory problems (caused from open fires for cooking). Corruption in the government, and 45% live on less than $2 per day…this is a reality.
Ometepe is beautiful, and it is also a remote corner of the country. Electricity is still new to parts of the island. Though not in the central area of the war, I imagined anyway…eyes closed, I transcended time. What would it be like to be on my way to somewhere and have the constant fear of being blown away by mines, or attacked by contras? My imagination wasn’t even enough to address that terrible reality of war.
Back into the present, I held tight until the destination, an organic coffee farm. So, yes, there are good stories to tell. North Americans, when you purchase that expensive cup of fair trade coffee, know that you are effecting change. No, I’m not being trite. The fair trade concept has been out there, and perhaps you subscribe, and buy that coffee. But personal experience adds power my words, and my personal experience is this: Organic and fair trade products are not a political issue—it is a healthier way of life for all.
This good story is about a small collective called Finca Magdalena, who happen to export some of their coffee to an organization on Bainbridge Island, WA (fairly traded). If you want to read a success story, read their history.
Below is a photo from my tour at Finca Magdalena.
Derailed
The intent to write descriptive essays about my month in Costa Rica has been temporarily derailed. Though I may not fully recover the beautiful thoughts and questioning mind of a month ago, I think now I am in a better space to continue on with my plan.
You see, the day after my last post—a spirit-driven morning walk with my camera—I was mugged when returning home at 9pm. Off in my own world, reflecting about a book I was reading and briskly walking to get in out of the cool night, I was trapped by two men, just a block and a half from my house. No stranger to urban life, I was caught unaware of my surroundings, snapped out of my safe-and-almost-home mentality. Perhaps I would have been on alert had I been 10 blocks west or south, where the known drug activity happens. But on my street?
I let them have my bag; they let me run away shaken, but unharmed.
So. The following week I took care of the details when one loses bank card, license, phone, library card, and sense of security. Two weeks have passed. The healing goes on.
Blessed with caring community and friends, I have been on with life. Still submitting resumes…still no leads.
Oh, and we have invaders in the house. Wasps. What might typically be met with some anxiety to have wasps flying high in a bathroom skylight, became magnified into daily terror. My sense of safety was threatened on the street and in my home. Too much to handle. Thankfully, I’m regaining that safety and ready to battle the unwanted insects.
Soon, I hope to be in the state of mind to remember those lovely thoughts and experiences of Costa Rica to continue writing about them. Thankfully, my journal was not stolen, and in my mind in the less than one minute attack, I even thought about my journal…I just may have had enough courage to grab that from my bag, had it been in there.
Morning Stillness
This is an intermission between the written record of my Costa Rican journey to bring you this photo from earlier this morning. I awoke promptly at 7:00am for no reason other than the light emitting through my window. A quick glance through the curtain revealed a mystical world shrouded in white and gray. Another foggy morning in Seattle. This time, I saw the beauty and gasped in wonder rather than moaning in displeasure. Having little else to do, I grabbed my camera, put on some shoes and bound out the door into the foggy morning. Quietly passing dark houses, I walked down a tree-lined trail to Lake Washington. Still as I have ever seen it, the large lake was reduced to a matter of the short distance I could see ahead before all faded to gray. It is February, yet even with this blanket of clouds and stream of wet dreary days, there are signs of life. I climbed back up the hill and home, thankful that cherry trees are blossoming, daffodils are rising, and the fog gently rolls in and out, reminding me that for the climate here in the north, new life leads winter into spring.
Waterfall Adventure
One of the few tourist-type adventures of my month in Costa Rica was spent at a waterfall (the name escapes me, and I am too lazy to google research to find out). In the great Pacific Northwest US, there are many mountains, high snow-covered volcanoes, a rain forest, and waterfalls. So in a manner of speaking, this waterfall was not new to me. It was however, incredibly beautiful.
The visiting students from Susquehanna University immersion group were on their way to Nicaragua, and I along with them. On January 7th we left the sprawling city of San Jose and moved along the Pan-American highway. We traveled by bus down a steep dirt road and then walked a mile or so to get to the two waterfalls. Although it is possible to swim all the way under the falls, I opted to bring my camera, and she ain’t waterproof.
Not wanting to play it safe on the shore because I enjoy a good adventure, I carefully waded through knee-deep rushing water and large boulders to position myself as close as possible to the stream of fresh water cascading from high above. My 8-year old Teva sandals are barely in tact, but held together for my risky aqua-adventure.
Water sprayed on my lens as I quickly framed and punched off some shots, day-dreaming that maybe someday I’d crouch for hours in a similar place on assignment for National Geographic. Back in reality, I snapped a group photo and hid my camera under the protection of my shirt to spy another prime location for a photo.
Accustomed to hiking with my camera slung over my shoulder, I easily scrambled up a boulder on the side of the waterfall without shelter from the misty spray water everywhere. No one else was near me, but that didn’t matter. I set the aperture and shutter speed to what I approximated to be a good setting and I held out the camera to shoot one of myself with waterfall in the backdrop. I had to take 2 or 3 shots, but the final turned out rather well, if I do say so myself. I also captured a lovely shot of the mist hanging in the hot afternoon air with sun shining through the trees.
Amazing. Costa Rica…¡pura vida!
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
