More from Holden...

I woke up this morning like I always do at Holden, listening to moving water in the creek just outside my window. I'm a "2" in the kitchen today, which means I won't put an apron on until 11:00, and so I lackadaisically linger, pondering what passing events will take me through this Wednesday. I imagine a djembe and a guitar will be part of the equation. For bus arrivals and departures most people in the village gather in front of Koinonia fireside to greet or wave goodbye. Allison - from the pool hall - and I have been toting drums outside to add to these joyful and bittersweet moments, and to our delight we've had people's hips join in, jiving along to Trinidadian rhythms. Tonight will be yet another opportunity for open mic in The Lift. All kinds of talent and non-talent take the stage, and I'll most likely be somewhere in between the two while singing Jason Mraz's I'm Yours.

I leave the village a week from yesterday, and of course it seems like my time here has been all too swift. Mais, c'est la vie - but, such is life; so why lament it? Rather than fixating on the finite finish to my follies here at Holden, I've decided to hold the intention of lending myself to presence - in conversations with people, and to all that is happening around me. I hiked to 10 Mile Falls today, stopped by no particular tree with a woodpecker tapping its beak against the bark and wondered to myself, why exactly do woodpeckers do this? Other questions I've been pondering are, why don't adults push their noses up against window panes? Is it because we become too self-conscious, or, that we're thinking about the consequential smudges we would have to clean up? And, is there a way a to differentiate between glaciers and compact snow? All insights from any of my avid readers are valued and much appreciated. And with this, I bid adieu...

Alas, I write once again, this time from Holden Village, Washington. It's been nearly four months since my last entry, and I've been meaning to blog ever since I've arrived - just one week and two days ago - but have been waylaid with hikes to Holden Lake and Copper Basin, climbing around avalanche chutes on all fours, keeping up with culinary responsibilities (as a volunteer in the kitchen), playing technical Forest Gump-like ping-pong matches, and making musical melodies with all kinds of proper and impromptu instruments. Last night Sybil, Kate and I sang the Dixie Chick's "Travlin' Soldier" at open mic; and we continued the hoopla today with a rhythm jam session on four gallon buckets turned upside down.

I wanted to share a bit of personal insight from a book I'm reading, Eternal Echoes by John O'Donohue. In it, he explores our yearning to belong to someone, something or somewhere - a family or community, church group, an institution, city or country for example - in relationship with other deeply set desires we may simultaneously hold within our hearts. At times our greatest longings coalesce, and at other times we are swayed in completely opposite and even head-on clashing directions. We grapple with who or what or where we are meant to belong to, and in my case, I struggle with a logic of reason and stability which is equally if not greater met by a free and spontaneous spirit of wanderlust. I feel as though O'Donohue is speaking directly about a part of me while reading:

"The wanderer is one who gives priority to the duties of longing over belonging. No abode is fixed. No one place is allowed finally to corner or claim the wanderer. A new horizon always calls. The wanderer is committed to the adventure of seeing new places and discovering new things. New possibilities are more attractive and intoxicating than the given situation. Freedom is prized highly. The wanderer experiences time and space in a different way than the native or the neighbor who remain faithful to a place. Time is short, and there is so much yet to be experienced. While each place has its own beauty, no particular place can claim to settle the longing in the wanderer's soul. Space and distance are never a barrier. Travel is the adventure. The purpose is never directed towards a specific destination. The journey itself is the ever-changing destination."

And yet, I also feel strongly pulled to enmesh and invest myself into a continuity of time and space - to become an integral and more long-term part of something bigger than these ever-evolving whimsical fairy tales. This has been a sticking point that I've been trying to reflect upon in recent days, for I'm searching out the next step in my journey of life to begin sometime in September. The question mark dangles and looms, which both amuses and frightens me. I'm trying to stay present and trust a process of discernment, but I do get carried away with distractions, dreaming up an endless plethora of possibilities. At this moment there seem to be three potential eyelets of opportunity - one in South Korea, another in Japan, and finally, a long-term staff position here at dear Holden. Time will tell; and in the meanwhile, please stay tuned in for more village stories to come...

"When we really listen,
when we really pay attention
to the sounds of joy and suffering
in the universe,
we are not separate from them,
we become them.
Because in reality
we are not separate
from those who suffer.
We are them.
They are us.
It is our suffering
and it is our joy."

By Bernie Glassman

Having thrown ourselves into a number of new places, meeting an assortment of people - from tranquilo fishermen to zealous Jehovah witnesses, shade-grown coffee producers to Albanian tourists - Lloyd and I decided to re-visit two Nicaraguan spots I´ve especially enjoyed - Ometepe Island and San Juan del Sur. The first is a playground of sorts 276 kilometers square in the middle of sweet water, with cycling, hiking, kayaking and swimming galore; the second is a surf gem, non-stop dance party with triple espresso brownies from El Gato Negro - The Black Cat - my favorite café.

I was so excited to end the trip indulging nostalgic dreams - a return to Zopilote, the permaculture organic farm I volunteered at about a month ago, and then a few final beachy days to secure that golden glow before my return to pale Minnesota. Lloyd had heard me mention Ometepe and San Juan at least a hundred times in the midst of re-telling memorable moments and was also looking forward to it all. ¨It would be easy¨, we thought to ourselves - we knew where we going, how to get there, where to stay and what we wanted to do. There would be no fuss, no muss - plenty of stone-fired pizza, iced banana batidos and Eskimo ice cream. We knew how to access everything; it would be perfect - or so we thought.

We first had to deviate from the original plan upon arrival to Zopilote: ¨lo siento, estamos completamente lleno¨ ¨I´m sorry, we´re completely booked¨, said Cristiano. ¨What?! No!¨, I fumed behind a forced smile. It literally felt like I´d gone home and my parents had rented out my room. As the sun was setting I left Lloyd with the luggage, trudged downhill twenty minutes and tried Little Morgan´s, where the wide-screen television was booming and everyone stood holding a bottle of Pilsen or Imperial brew in one hand, with a chalked pool stick in the other. The scene was exactly opposite to what I´d hoped our experience on Ometepe would be, but nevertheless, I secured a casita for a pretty penny and hurried back up the hill at dusk to tell Lloyd. In haste we hussled down to Little Morgan´s together, toting bulky backpacks, handbags and the djembe drum. We had to be quick; our bellies were bellowing and there was no way we were missing Zopilote´s pizzería night.

I chose Doble Vegetales - Lloyd The Bismarck, and we waited eagerly on stone steps with elbows on our knees and chins on our hands. Pizzas were slid in and out the piping hot oven on elongated spatulas as tall as myself, and some time later we were finally served ours on wooden cutting boards. ¨Bliss¨, I thought as I took my first steamy bite - but ¨Ewe, gross!¨, was the immediate and quite opposite response. Whoever had made mine had dumped a least a bulb of minced garlic on it, masking the savory fresh basil and oregano tomato sauce my taste buds remembered. Too tired and hungry to complain I ate my pizza anyway. As soon as we finished we fastened our head lamps and started the trek back to Little Morgan´s, where the adventure would take its next twist.

¨The drum is gone¨ said Lloyd. He´d left it on our breezy porch to continue drying out the goat skin. After hours and hours of filing and sanding, tugging to tighten knots, and shaving the skin with a miniature blade the djembe was nearly ready to be played. Our joint project had directed the rhythm of our days - with multiple trips to welders to adjust metal rings, then carpenters to prepare the drum head surface, and finally, to a slew of butchers before we found exactly what we were looking for. So there we stood perplexed with growing frustration when I spotted the djembe - just 10 feet away from where we´d left it. It didn´t take long to figure out how it got there; Morgan´s two lingering Labradors gave us our clue.

Luckily, the drum was still more or less intact. There were only a few scratches on the head and chew marks around the edges. "It'll just give it character", I said to myself. I don't think Lloyd agreed at first. A rising melodic furl of strange syllables filled the air; my German language skills are next to none, but one doesn't need a translator to tell when another is totally pissed off. It was too late to deal with this latest catastrophe and somehow I convinced Lloyd we'd problem-solve the following morning. More than ready for rest and tightly tucked under the mosquito net staring up into darkness I heard Lloyd murmur, "today was a bit tough, hey?" "Yes...it certainly was", I whispered, and with that I sauntered off.

The rest of our time on Ometepe was more or less a continuation of the same story. And, we ended up staying on the island for a few days longer than we'd initially expected and really wanted to; whipping winds and white-capped waves docked ferries for three consecutive days so we didn't even have enough time to go to San Juan del Sur. While this may all sound to be more than a bit of a drag - it really wasn't, actually. It was different to how I'd imagined we'd taper off our travels, and at times definitely trying, but the change of events allowed us to let go of expectations and yield to possibilities of the present.

We met amazing people; I especially remember two. One was Carlos - a local artist, papaya farmer and political pundit. Our conversation was randomly wonderful, beginning with discussion about his landscape oil paintings of Ometepe, which somehow morphed into a woman's decision to "maquillarse" - paint their faces; Carlos said he'd thought of lipstick when he saw my papaya stained lips, and that he loved when his wife wore make-up. While we were chatting another Carlos came to visit. The discussion turned towards politics; the two said they were both strong Sandinista party supporters and that the FSLN candidate in recent mayoral elections had also been a "Carlos".

Sean - from Vancouver - is another person I'll never forget. A year and a half ago he graduated from university with a degree in Management wondering what to do next in life. It was then that he came up with a most awesome idea - to spend 12 months working a different job every week! The logistics were sorted out on a website; he explained his project, media hopped on the story, and soon he had offers pouring in from all over Canada and the United States. He spent a week in Hawaii at an astronomical monitoring station, and another as a fashion buyer in New York; he was also a yoga instructor, fire fighter and forest ranger to name a few more. Sean just sent a manuscript to an editor in December which will eventually be published for the public at large; he said a documentary is also in the works - I'd love to see it.

This is my last written entry for awhile, but I do hope to post photos soon - either here or on my flickr site: www.flickr.com/photos/emspofford. Thanks much for reading a bit of random banter from Costa Rica, Nicaragua and El Salvador...

With a bit of hesitancy yesterday I hopped on yet another Ticabus coach - this time bound for El Salvador. While a part of me was eager to explore somewhere new, the other part was quite content and at home in Nicaragua - with gallo pinto for breakfast, Eskimo ice cream in the afternoon, and a return to favorite restaurants in León, El Sauce, on Ometepe Island and in San Juan del Sur at night. This particular tug-of-war feeling is one we all know well; life presents us with a fork in the road where we must choose to take a familiar route or that of the unknown. The first is secure and elicits an air of confidence; the latter could either be incredible or disastrous, and requires a hop, jump or possibly even a full fledged leap of faith. There is no absolute directive to guide our choices. As we all live within our own contexts, so too will our decisions be different. For me, on this journey I am trying to take Robert Frost´s ¨road less traveled¨, and like him I´m also finding it has made ¨all the difference¨.

My good friend, Lloyd, has joined me for my last few weeks. After flying from Conakry, Guinea to Paris, and then to San Jose, Costa Rica, he caught an 11 hour bus ride to Managua where we finally met and hugged - just after he put down the hand-carved Lenke wooden drum he lugged all the way from his original port of embarkation. It´s still unfinished, so we´ve been visiting welders, carpenters and most recently a butcher for goat skin. It was fresh so we salted and stashed it in a plastic bag. Crossing into Honduras and then El Salvador I was slightly concerned our odd package might raise eyebrows, but we got lucky and only received a ¨Bienvenidos¨ - ¨Welcome¨, from border officials.

In the first twenty-four hours what has made the greatest impression on me in El Salvador is the genuine kindness we´ve been shown. Getting off the bus in San Miguel, Christian - an El Salvadorean guy about my age teaching in San Salvador handed me a slip of paper with his phone number and said: ¨por cualquiera cosa¨, for anything. He wasn´t trying to strike a deal or pick me up; the simple gesture was honestly friendly and meant a lot to me. Having helpful contacts in any new place is always advantageous. Then, minutes later while Lloyd and I were fumbling through the Lonely Planet to find a map of San Miguel a middle-aged man approached us with a toothy grin and asked ¨May I help you?¨ His English was impeccable. He was a private driver and offered to take us all the way to Playa Las Flores, our final destination. We explained we were traveling with a tight budget; he nodded, said ¨no problem¨, and then told us how to find the bus terminal. We strapped our backpacks on and started walking drum in hand down a main street, two blocks later a patrol car slowed with two policemen inside. My initial reaction was one of worry - I wondered ¨had we done something wrong?¨ - but I soon realized the officers´ intentions were just like the others´, only to be helpful to two gringo tourists. We were personally escorted to the bus station and had great conversation along the way.

Lloyd and I have now found our niche in golden sunrays on Playa Las Flores. We´ve rented a little hut for the week - with ceramic tiles over our heads and a pine-scented door opening up to what is practically our own private beach. On our patio is a woven hammock, sturdy clothesline and picnic table for two. A string of colorful little fishing boats belonging to locals stand parked out front, all with their own name - ¨Karla Vanesa¨, ¨Queiri¨, ¨Cristal¨, and ¨Isabelita¨. Our days are not organized around a clock, rather, we time our trips into town at low tide because the alternative route is twice as long. It´s lovely.

And with that, I sign off for now. It´s papaya smoothie time; wishing you sweet -