I haven't been making the time to write - instead, I've been mixing banana pineapple smoothies with a three foot hand-held blender in five gallon buckets, learning "One Voice" by the Wailin' Jennys on guitar, snowshoeing, skiing and snowboarding every chance I get, jamming on the djembe with an impromptu reggae band, eating an assortment of truffles, and attending Paul Hinderlie's culinary art classes - last night we had salmon fillet poached in white wine, dressed with a buttery fish sauce, and garnished with fresh parsley alongside a Napoleonic burger. Paul said if Napoleon would have actually eaten foods like Napoleonic burgers, he might not have died of stomach cancer.
I've got five more massages to gift, four more inches to knit on my woolen hat, three more shifts in the kitchen, two more yoga sessions to lead, and one partridge and a pear tree to find before I leave Holden a week from today. This is quite a full schedule for the next seven days, but I welcome with busyness with a peaceful heart.
On the 6th of January I fly to Nicaragua, and through the end of February I'll mostly be on my yoga mat moving in and out of bendy postures with other yogins enrolled in SchoolYoga Institute's teacher training course. During this time, I plan to intentionally stay away from the Internet as much as possible - and I'm also not quite sure what access we'll have either - so this will be my last entry until the beginning of March, when I'll return to Alaska and divulge all anecdotal instances which make life so incredibly interesting. Thanks for your readership, and wishing you a Happy New Year coming into 2010! This is Elise, signing out from Holden Village.
11 December 2009
Excerpts from Holden...
At Holden there is always something going on – a concert, workshop, presentation, discussion, documentary, coffeehouse live music night, talent show, dance party, and, on the schedule for tonight is hot chocolate and a village-wide cookie decorating extravaganza. Sweets have been on the docket everyday, actually, so we are full swing into spirited holiday mode. Yesterday I made pumpkin bars, and the day before that we had caramel rolls – with extra caramel sauce. But then, there were also the chocolate chip cookies thematically decked out with Christmas swedish fish, a panoply of blueberry, apple and rhubarb pies, oh, and I mustn't forget to mention Paul Hinderlie's homemade rum egg nog. That was a jolly good night – of sobriety, of course. The rum was only added to taste.
During December, David, a Luther College campus minister, and Karla, a professor at the same university, along with their two children – Dawit and Meheret – are visiting the Village on teaching staff. David is Guatemalan (and now an American too after marrying Karla – from Minnesota); he was raised Jewish, and then came to the States when he was 19 to attend seminary. His research interests focus on reading scripture – at the moment, the book of Esther – through the lens of an immigrant, and he's taking this year on sabbatical to travel to several communities in the U.S. with high Hispanic populations to study the ways in which immigrants understand the text, and how their belief systems impact their reactions to it. Most recently, David read Esther with a group of Hispanic women in Postville; you may remember hearing about this small town in Iowa which made national headlines for an immigration raid in May of 2008. Some of the undocumented women in David's study were affected by the raid. The Washington Post's full story is available online at: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/05/17/AR2008051702474.html should you be interested.
This is my first time sifting through Esther – which David describes, is a parody of fictitious history. In other words, the story of King Ahasuerus and Esther may be more representative about a specific time and context versus an actual series of events. After two sessions with David, I find I'm surprised – first, by how much I'm enjoying the experience; I'm starting to read the Bible with enthusiasm for the first time. I don't believe it is an infallible source, but I'm starting to believe it is a literary masterpiece with many truths. Second, I'm surprised by how a story can meaningfully travel through time, where today we are still grappling with similar issues – power constructs, role expectations, and our own agency within these overarching institutions.
Then, Karla was born blue-eyed, blond-haired and from a Finnish background. She grew up in Moorhead, Minnesota just blocks away from where my Grandpa and Grandma Lyseng lived, and her research passions concentrate on the increasingly complex and pluralistic forms of identity we are seeing within society as well as within ourselves. She sights her family as one example, with her Midwest background, David's upbringing in Guatemala, and their two adopted children – Dawit and Meheret – from Ethiopia.
Karla is most interested in religious pluralism; she observes, people today are less likely to fit into a religious category – e. g. Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu. Rather, people are gravitating towards meaningful customs and traditions which draw from a span of spiritualities. This is reflected within my own spiritual path. I grew up Catholic, having a close connection with the Franciscan Sisters of Little Falls. In college, I was a soul searching irregular church-goer, and when I moved to Japan I became more interested in Buddhism and Shinto. During graduate studies in England, I found myself in Catholic, Methodist and Protestant circles, and now, here I am at Holden Village – a liberal Lutheran retreat center in Washington State's Cascade mountains.
In our first session with Karla, The Life of Pi by Yann Martel entered discussion. The main character, “Pi”, has many questions – and many about religion. At one point his mother says to him: “Listen, my darling, if you're going to be religious, you must either be a Hindu, a Christian or a Muslim”. And Pi responds with: “I don't see why I can't be all three...Mamaji has two passports. He's Indian and French. Why can't I be a Hindu, a Christian, and a Muslim?” I've often wondered this myself.
Right now I'm reading Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thick Nhat Hanh's Living Buddha, Living Christ, and I think he presents a similar philosophy to Pi's. Here's a short section called "More Than One Root"...
“If a Buddhist woman wants to marry a Christian man (or vice versa), should we encourage them? The woman will have to learn and practice her husband's tradition, and the man will have to learn and practice his wife's tradition. Then, instead of having just one spiritual root, they will have two. But can a person have two spiritual roots at the same time? Can both of them learn Christianity and Buddhism and practice both traditions? We know that when someone does not have any root, he or she will suffer tremendously. But what about the question of having more than one root?
Before I met Christianity, my only spiritual ancestor was the Buddha. But when I met beautiful men and women who were Christians, I came to know Jesus as a great teacher. Since that day, Jesus Christ has become one of my spiritual ancestors. As I have mentioned, on the altar of my hermitage in France, I have statues of Buddhas and bodhisattvas and also an image of Jesus Christ. I do not feel any conflict within me. Instead I feel stronger because I have more than one root.
Can we allow young people of different traditions to marry each other freely, with our benediction? Can we encourage them to practice both traditions and enrich each other?”
This is Elise, signing out from Holden Village.
During December, David, a Luther College campus minister, and Karla, a professor at the same university, along with their two children – Dawit and Meheret – are visiting the Village on teaching staff. David is Guatemalan (and now an American too after marrying Karla – from Minnesota); he was raised Jewish, and then came to the States when he was 19 to attend seminary. His research interests focus on reading scripture – at the moment, the book of Esther – through the lens of an immigrant, and he's taking this year on sabbatical to travel to several communities in the U.S. with high Hispanic populations to study the ways in which immigrants understand the text, and how their belief systems impact their reactions to it. Most recently, David read Esther with a group of Hispanic women in Postville; you may remember hearing about this small town in Iowa which made national headlines for an immigration raid in May of 2008. Some of the undocumented women in David's study were affected by the raid. The Washington Post's full story is available online at: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/05/17/AR2008051702474.html should you be interested.
This is my first time sifting through Esther – which David describes, is a parody of fictitious history. In other words, the story of King Ahasuerus and Esther may be more representative about a specific time and context versus an actual series of events. After two sessions with David, I find I'm surprised – first, by how much I'm enjoying the experience; I'm starting to read the Bible with enthusiasm for the first time. I don't believe it is an infallible source, but I'm starting to believe it is a literary masterpiece with many truths. Second, I'm surprised by how a story can meaningfully travel through time, where today we are still grappling with similar issues – power constructs, role expectations, and our own agency within these overarching institutions.
Then, Karla was born blue-eyed, blond-haired and from a Finnish background. She grew up in Moorhead, Minnesota just blocks away from where my Grandpa and Grandma Lyseng lived, and her research passions concentrate on the increasingly complex and pluralistic forms of identity we are seeing within society as well as within ourselves. She sights her family as one example, with her Midwest background, David's upbringing in Guatemala, and their two adopted children – Dawit and Meheret – from Ethiopia.
Karla is most interested in religious pluralism; she observes, people today are less likely to fit into a religious category – e. g. Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu. Rather, people are gravitating towards meaningful customs and traditions which draw from a span of spiritualities. This is reflected within my own spiritual path. I grew up Catholic, having a close connection with the Franciscan Sisters of Little Falls. In college, I was a soul searching irregular church-goer, and when I moved to Japan I became more interested in Buddhism and Shinto. During graduate studies in England, I found myself in Catholic, Methodist and Protestant circles, and now, here I am at Holden Village – a liberal Lutheran retreat center in Washington State's Cascade mountains.
In our first session with Karla, The Life of Pi by Yann Martel entered discussion. The main character, “Pi”, has many questions – and many about religion. At one point his mother says to him: “Listen, my darling, if you're going to be religious, you must either be a Hindu, a Christian or a Muslim”. And Pi responds with: “I don't see why I can't be all three...Mamaji has two passports. He's Indian and French. Why can't I be a Hindu, a Christian, and a Muslim?” I've often wondered this myself.
Right now I'm reading Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thick Nhat Hanh's Living Buddha, Living Christ, and I think he presents a similar philosophy to Pi's. Here's a short section called "More Than One Root"...
“If a Buddhist woman wants to marry a Christian man (or vice versa), should we encourage them? The woman will have to learn and practice her husband's tradition, and the man will have to learn and practice his wife's tradition. Then, instead of having just one spiritual root, they will have two. But can a person have two spiritual roots at the same time? Can both of them learn Christianity and Buddhism and practice both traditions? We know that when someone does not have any root, he or she will suffer tremendously. But what about the question of having more than one root?
Before I met Christianity, my only spiritual ancestor was the Buddha. But when I met beautiful men and women who were Christians, I came to know Jesus as a great teacher. Since that day, Jesus Christ has become one of my spiritual ancestors. As I have mentioned, on the altar of my hermitage in France, I have statues of Buddhas and bodhisattvas and also an image of Jesus Christ. I do not feel any conflict within me. Instead I feel stronger because I have more than one root.
Can we allow young people of different traditions to marry each other freely, with our benediction? Can we encourage them to practice both traditions and enrich each other?”
This is Elise, signing out from Holden Village.
30 November 2009
The Lord's Prayer - from the New Zealand Book of Common Prayer
Eternal Spirit,
Earth-Maker, Pain-bearer, Life-giver,
Source of all that is and that shall be,
Father and Mother of us all.
Loving God, in whom is heaven.
The hallowing of your name echoes through the universe!
The way of your justice be followed by the peoples of the earth!
Your heavenly will be done by all created beings!
Your commonwealth of peace and freedom sustain our hope and come on earth.
With the bread we need for today, feed us.
In the hurts we absorb from one another, forgive us.
In times of temptation and test, spare us.
from the grip of all that is evil, free us.
For you reign in the glory of the power that is love, now and forever.
Amen.
Earth-Maker, Pain-bearer, Life-giver,
Source of all that is and that shall be,
Father and Mother of us all.
Loving God, in whom is heaven.
The hallowing of your name echoes through the universe!
The way of your justice be followed by the peoples of the earth!
Your heavenly will be done by all created beings!
Your commonwealth of peace and freedom sustain our hope and come on earth.
With the bread we need for today, feed us.
In the hurts we absorb from one another, forgive us.
In times of temptation and test, spare us.
from the grip of all that is evil, free us.
For you reign in the glory of the power that is love, now and forever.
Amen.
26 November 2009
Giving Thanks...
A close friend, Lisa, recently gave me a card with the Confucius quote: "Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart." And at this morning's Bible study, verses 16-18 in 1 Thessalonions chapter 5 especially resonated with my heart - "Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God for you."
I've been walking around Holden today with an exuberance of gratitude - for loving relationships, my good health, a wealth of opportunities allowing me to further grow and develop, and for all that I'm encountering here in the Village. My first week has been full of impromptu delights - involving an invitation to build a dulcimer; a mysterious apricot pit found in Trevor's Indian pea and Paneer cheese curry; a discovery about my favorite childhood television show, Little House On The Prairie; and the chance to join a choir.
Noah asked me about the dulcimer, but after we opened up the box and realized just how extensive the process would be, we decided to play ping pong instead. Upon inquiring about the bamboozling pit, we unanimously came to the conclusion that the harvester had eaten an apricot and spit the seed in his or her pea pods. Because of its size, it didn't sift through the strainer; hence, we find "the little treasure" in our food.
Then, through a conversation with Tom, I found out the General Store that Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote about is the exact same location Holden directors Paul and Carol Hinderlie opened their restaurant - The Harbor View Cafe in Pepin, Wisconsin. And here is an interesting extension to the story...apparently, there are bullet holes in the ceiling of the cafe; it was also once a bar, where a traveling man who cheated in a card game met an unlucky fate. The town sheriff did nothing; he figured the guy had it coming. And finally, for the first time in a long time I joined a chorale for Thanksgiving. We sang John Rutter's rendition of For The Beauty Of The Earth this evening after dinner. It was lovely, and I think I hit most of the alto harmonies. Thank you, Momma, for always harmonizing! I've learned so much from you.
Still, with all of this joyful abundance I must also admit I'm a bit homesick tonight. Perhaps this is why I'm listening to Alan Jackson's Remember When; country music has a way of bringing me back to Little Falls, Minnesota in a heart beat. Ooh, pumpkin pie was served twelve minutes ago, and so I must scamper off to secure a piece before it vanishes. It is, after all, my highlight in a Thanksgiving meal. Blessings to you and your families. This is Elise, signing out from Holden Village.
I've been walking around Holden today with an exuberance of gratitude - for loving relationships, my good health, a wealth of opportunities allowing me to further grow and develop, and for all that I'm encountering here in the Village. My first week has been full of impromptu delights - involving an invitation to build a dulcimer; a mysterious apricot pit found in Trevor's Indian pea and Paneer cheese curry; a discovery about my favorite childhood television show, Little House On The Prairie; and the chance to join a choir.
Noah asked me about the dulcimer, but after we opened up the box and realized just how extensive the process would be, we decided to play ping pong instead. Upon inquiring about the bamboozling pit, we unanimously came to the conclusion that the harvester had eaten an apricot and spit the seed in his or her pea pods. Because of its size, it didn't sift through the strainer; hence, we find "the little treasure" in our food.
Then, through a conversation with Tom, I found out the General Store that Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote about is the exact same location Holden directors Paul and Carol Hinderlie opened their restaurant - The Harbor View Cafe in Pepin, Wisconsin. And here is an interesting extension to the story...apparently, there are bullet holes in the ceiling of the cafe; it was also once a bar, where a traveling man who cheated in a card game met an unlucky fate. The town sheriff did nothing; he figured the guy had it coming. And finally, for the first time in a long time I joined a chorale for Thanksgiving. We sang John Rutter's rendition of For The Beauty Of The Earth this evening after dinner. It was lovely, and I think I hit most of the alto harmonies. Thank you, Momma, for always harmonizing! I've learned so much from you.
Still, with all of this joyful abundance I must also admit I'm a bit homesick tonight. Perhaps this is why I'm listening to Alan Jackson's Remember When; country music has a way of bringing me back to Little Falls, Minnesota in a heart beat. Ooh, pumpkin pie was served twelve minutes ago, and so I must scamper off to secure a piece before it vanishes. It is, after all, my highlight in a Thanksgiving meal. Blessings to you and your families. This is Elise, signing out from Holden Village.
21 November 2009
Holden...
is white! I rode up the mountain in yellow school bus Jubilee yesterday, and by the time we got to the Village some of the banks were almost six feet high. During the month of November Holden has been inundated with snow - another 32 inches to the 72 that are already on the ground would set a record! Glancing out a window pane, it's looking quite possible. Yesterday the mavericks were shoveling snow off of the rooftops, cross country skiers were tracking trails, and I figured I'd best gear up for this winter wonderland. I rummaged through gaiters in the Hike Haus but only managed to find a mismatched pair - which will definitely suffice. (Note: I didn't have time to pick up some of my own in Vancouver at MEC.)
Holden is full of tradition, and Friday evenings are open mic nights. Anyone with a talent or non-talent is welcome to take the stage for a captive and encouraging audience! Highlights from last night's performances were Kate and Anna's harp and flute duet, Noah's rhythmical typewriter composition, Tom's makeover to the tune of Wicked's "Popular", and the bottle band who played "Mary Had A Little Lamb". I was lucky enough to play a part in the last act with Suz and Johanna, and we're thinking about trying out two bottles each for next Friday's gig! That way we'd have almost at octave to work with - oh, and I'd really like to play "chopsticks". Though I guess we'd need to find yet another bottle and pair of lips to make that happen.
A Saturday custom at Holden is homemade pizza, and I've just spent the last two hours whirling basil and oregano dough in the air for hand-tossed crusts. Most of mine were lopsided versus round - but, I didn't drop a single one! My stomach is now growling, and well, it's only 3:54 so I've got another hour and six minutes to wait. This is Elise, signing out from Holden Village.
Holden is full of tradition, and Friday evenings are open mic nights. Anyone with a talent or non-talent is welcome to take the stage for a captive and encouraging audience! Highlights from last night's performances were Kate and Anna's harp and flute duet, Noah's rhythmical typewriter composition, Tom's makeover to the tune of Wicked's "Popular", and the bottle band who played "Mary Had A Little Lamb". I was lucky enough to play a part in the last act with Suz and Johanna, and we're thinking about trying out two bottles each for next Friday's gig! That way we'd have almost at octave to work with - oh, and I'd really like to play "chopsticks". Though I guess we'd need to find yet another bottle and pair of lips to make that happen.
A Saturday custom at Holden is homemade pizza, and I've just spent the last two hours whirling basil and oregano dough in the air for hand-tossed crusts. Most of mine were lopsided versus round - but, I didn't drop a single one! My stomach is now growling, and well, it's only 3:54 so I've got another hour and six minutes to wait. This is Elise, signing out from Holden Village.
18 November 2009
Oregon is...
outstanding! It's been full of surprises – beginning with an impromptu dental cleaning in Portland on my friend, Eric's sofa. His girlfriend, Leslie, is a dental hygienist; we traded tit-for-tat – a cleaning for a massage. The second surprise was a 14 mile hike along Eagle Creek to a waterfall I was actually able to walk behind. The experience was more than remarkable – moving through mist with cascades just an arm's reach away. The third was a change in routine; I've been going to bed at 8 and waking up at 4, so to make it to the pool by 5 for lap swim. The fourth was an anatomy class with Jason at Tillamook Bay Community College; I'm learning all about synovial fluid inside diarthroses. And the fifth and final – so far – happened at the Shell station this morning; I wasn't allowed to pump my own gas! A freckled face in a jumpsuit took my Visa, and I waited inside, warm instead.
Tomorrow I'll make my way north to Wenatchee, Washington – aboard a Greyhound Bus for nine straight hours. It's kind of ironic, actually, I bought my ticket the same day I read Bob Cushman's column detailing a less-than-glossy Greyhound road trip he took with his wife from Minnesota to New York. His chief complaints were lack of space and raucous noise. And it's true, the average Greyhound passenger can be quite eccentric. Although, I've only got one other trip to compare tomorrow's to. During that ride, I met a self-acclaimed up-and-coming talented gymnast, two men with scraggly beards who weren't quite sure when they got on or when they were going to get off, and most likely, an illegal alien from Mexico. I've never liked this term, “illegal alien”. To me, it conjures up little green figures half our size, with horned beaks, multiple sets of eyes and webbed appendages – which really, makes no comparison at all to the nice gentleman who sat by my side. I think he told me his name was Edgar and that he was from Guanajuato; he was going to visit his sister and her children for the first time in five years.
On Friday I'll return to Holden Village! I look forward to familiar and not-so-familiar faces greeting the bus with wild waves, having another Holden lunch – of soup, salad with green goddess dressing and homemade bread – then retiring for a cat nap before lacing up my runners for an afternoon jaunt. I can almost picture it all – seeing everyone's smiles, feeling a cold Cascade nip kiss my cheek, smelling savory aromas from steamy tureens, tasting honey whole wheat toast, and listening to sounds of the Village at work, at play, and anyway...as I slip into sleepy Zzzzz. This is Elise, signing out from Pacific City, Oregon.
Tomorrow I'll make my way north to Wenatchee, Washington – aboard a Greyhound Bus for nine straight hours. It's kind of ironic, actually, I bought my ticket the same day I read Bob Cushman's column detailing a less-than-glossy Greyhound road trip he took with his wife from Minnesota to New York. His chief complaints were lack of space and raucous noise. And it's true, the average Greyhound passenger can be quite eccentric. Although, I've only got one other trip to compare tomorrow's to. During that ride, I met a self-acclaimed up-and-coming talented gymnast, two men with scraggly beards who weren't quite sure when they got on or when they were going to get off, and most likely, an illegal alien from Mexico. I've never liked this term, “illegal alien”. To me, it conjures up little green figures half our size, with horned beaks, multiple sets of eyes and webbed appendages – which really, makes no comparison at all to the nice gentleman who sat by my side. I think he told me his name was Edgar and that he was from Guanajuato; he was going to visit his sister and her children for the first time in five years.
On Friday I'll return to Holden Village! I look forward to familiar and not-so-familiar faces greeting the bus with wild waves, having another Holden lunch – of soup, salad with green goddess dressing and homemade bread – then retiring for a cat nap before lacing up my runners for an afternoon jaunt. I can almost picture it all – seeing everyone's smiles, feeling a cold Cascade nip kiss my cheek, smelling savory aromas from steamy tureens, tasting honey whole wheat toast, and listening to sounds of the Village at work, at play, and anyway...as I slip into sleepy Zzzzz. This is Elise, signing out from Pacific City, Oregon.
12 November 2009
Last night -
I was all smiles! There we sat, the five of us – Ariel, Elaine and Mike, Francois and myself – inside a cozy Squamish eatery after a full snow day at Garibaldi Provincial Park. Pints were brought, wetting appetites for yam fries, halibut, greek salad, a hamburger with all the fixings, and my three bean vegetarian chili. Mine was the first dish to arrive – decoratively complete with a cornbread muffin in its center, and topped with a dollop of sour cream; and Ariel's fries came last. We concluded it was because the yams had come straight from the garden – dug up, dusted off, and then tossed into the fryer.
I spent most of yesterday strapped into snowshoes tromping through a winter wonderland. We hiked up to red heather – or was it red feather – and then further up to Paul's Ridge, where the skiers took off their skins and zoomed away. Mike and I were without skis or snowboards, but we moon-walked our way down deep powder drifts, and (un)luckily, I only got tripped up and stuck inside a self-made snow trap once. It was then that I made an imaginary note to self: “short cuts may not always be shorter!” It felt like I was in quick sand, where every effort not only seemed futile, but to bury me a bit more. I was getting less amused and more frustrated with the entire debacle when two poles extended from above to tug me out. Thank goodness for random acts of kindness.
I'm in the middle of a three week gallivant around the Pacific Northwest. I spent a few days in Seattle with good friends on N. Linden Avenue, then took the Victoria Clipper – to Swartz Bay, Vancouver to meet up with dear friends, Vincent and Maggie. We had five days together on Salt Spring Island – catching up over bowls of soup and cups of SSI coffee; it was fantastic. Today I'm running around – through Elizabeth Park, to the laundry mat and Canadian Post, and finally, to MEC to search out some gaiters. This afternoon Francois and I will commence a road trip – crossing the border to stay with Anni in Bellingham tonight. Tomorrow we go to Seattle for jazz, and Saturday to Portland, Oregon for...well, who knows, but it'll be good fun to see Eric again. This is Elise, signing out from Vancouver, B.C.
I spent most of yesterday strapped into snowshoes tromping through a winter wonderland. We hiked up to red heather – or was it red feather – and then further up to Paul's Ridge, where the skiers took off their skins and zoomed away. Mike and I were without skis or snowboards, but we moon-walked our way down deep powder drifts, and (un)luckily, I only got tripped up and stuck inside a self-made snow trap once. It was then that I made an imaginary note to self: “short cuts may not always be shorter!” It felt like I was in quick sand, where every effort not only seemed futile, but to bury me a bit more. I was getting less amused and more frustrated with the entire debacle when two poles extended from above to tug me out. Thank goodness for random acts of kindness.
I'm in the middle of a three week gallivant around the Pacific Northwest. I spent a few days in Seattle with good friends on N. Linden Avenue, then took the Victoria Clipper – to Swartz Bay, Vancouver to meet up with dear friends, Vincent and Maggie. We had five days together on Salt Spring Island – catching up over bowls of soup and cups of SSI coffee; it was fantastic. Today I'm running around – through Elizabeth Park, to the laundry mat and Canadian Post, and finally, to MEC to search out some gaiters. This afternoon Francois and I will commence a road trip – crossing the border to stay with Anni in Bellingham tonight. Tomorrow we go to Seattle for jazz, and Saturday to Portland, Oregon for...well, who knows, but it'll be good fun to see Eric again. This is Elise, signing out from Vancouver, B.C.
01 November 2009
Zzwripp -
six weeks have slingshot by me. This is what I was thinking when Treyton produced his slingshot for show-and-tell last week. I wasn't sure initially, now to respond to this situation, but I realized rather quickly that my little guy had no intention to harm anyone; he was just really excited to share a special present from his grandfather. And so, I allowed "the weapon" into the classroom, and it generated quite an interesting discussion about safety, actually.
I was going to dedicate this entire entry to my first Alaskan mi'kmaq - steam - experience, and how preparing the sauna re-ignited some insecurities I have about my (in)abilities with fire-building, but I lost the motivational flame for this topic after singing "Down By The Bay" with my neighbors: Hannah, Molly and Ryan - who, respectively, are in grades 5th, 2nd and a year shy of kindergarten. For those who are not familiar with this rhyming song, it's all about imagining animals with uncharacteristic behaviors. There was mention of "llamas in pajamas", "snails and nails", and when it came time for Ryan's turn...after a most lengthy pause his eyes lit up and he said, "have you ever seen a bear...eating grass?!" "Down By The Bay..." Everyone guffawed.
Speaking of outbursts, I was driving along Lake Road the other night and almost ran into two huge horn-less moose! It was the highlight of my evening - maybe even week; I felt like a child seeing the ocean for the first time. I was awestruck, and wished someone else would also delight in my enthusiasm. No one did, but I suppose when you "live by the ocean" - or among moose - your whole life it might not be as exciting.
For me, this spark of enthusiasm is one of the allures of travel - tapping into a wondrous spirit of curiosity for cultures, and interactively learning as I weave my way through conversations and connections. I've delighted in the discoveries, as well as gained a greater appreciation for places and people I call "home". Tomorrow I leave Dillingham to commence a three week road trip around the Pacific Northwest; I fly into Seattle, and will be in British Columbia, Washington and Oregon until the 20th of November, when I will return to Holden Village to sous chef my way through the holidays. This is Elise signing out - for the time being - from Dillingham, Alaska.
I was going to dedicate this entire entry to my first Alaskan mi'kmaq - steam - experience, and how preparing the sauna re-ignited some insecurities I have about my (in)abilities with fire-building, but I lost the motivational flame for this topic after singing "Down By The Bay" with my neighbors: Hannah, Molly and Ryan - who, respectively, are in grades 5th, 2nd and a year shy of kindergarten. For those who are not familiar with this rhyming song, it's all about imagining animals with uncharacteristic behaviors. There was mention of "llamas in pajamas", "snails and nails", and when it came time for Ryan's turn...after a most lengthy pause his eyes lit up and he said, "have you ever seen a bear...eating grass?!" "Down By The Bay..." Everyone guffawed.
Speaking of outbursts, I was driving along Lake Road the other night and almost ran into two huge horn-less moose! It was the highlight of my evening - maybe even week; I felt like a child seeing the ocean for the first time. I was awestruck, and wished someone else would also delight in my enthusiasm. No one did, but I suppose when you "live by the ocean" - or among moose - your whole life it might not be as exciting.
For me, this spark of enthusiasm is one of the allures of travel - tapping into a wondrous spirit of curiosity for cultures, and interactively learning as I weave my way through conversations and connections. I've delighted in the discoveries, as well as gained a greater appreciation for places and people I call "home". Tomorrow I leave Dillingham to commence a three week road trip around the Pacific Northwest; I fly into Seattle, and will be in British Columbia, Washington and Oregon until the 20th of November, when I will return to Holden Village to sous chef my way through the holidays. This is Elise signing out - for the time being - from Dillingham, Alaska.
19 October 2009
Insanity
What is insanity? Albert Einstein once said it's "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." This is precisely what I was doing all morning - unplugging and plugging in power chords, switching power strips off and on, and flipping breakers back and forth...all in a futile attempt to make Apple computers turn on so that we could continue with mind mapping our science projects!
It is my second week teaching at Aleknagik School. I'm substituting for the Principal/5th, 6th, 7th and 8th grade Math and Science teacher - yes, this is a single position! Everyone at this quaint village school multitasks - which is partly why I found myself in such a predicament. There was no one to call for help - no media (wo)man, janitor or electrician technician. So there I was, caught in a conundrum.
I consulted with the K/1st/2nd grade teacher, as well as Mrs. Schiaffo and Mrs. Burke; our secretary was gone and her replacement had no clue, and so, as a last resort I asked the school boat/four wheeler/bus driver for his assistance - but, had no luck.
Anyway, after all of this jumble jamble morning hooplah, at lunchtime I noticed the classrooms are not listed in order! Going down the hallway, classrooms are listed: 4-1-2-3. And so, whereas I thought I was in #1; it turns out I was actually in #3 - meaning, I was totally flipping the wrong breakers. Isn't it funny how we can miss a most simple cue in a frantic quest to make right something wrong? Ah...(sigh), and this is Elise, signing out from Dillingham, Alaska.
p.s. Happy Alaska Day! Here is an interesting tidbit: many AK businesses have opted to keep their doors closed today instead of last Monday, Columbus Day.
It is my second week teaching at Aleknagik School. I'm substituting for the Principal/5th, 6th, 7th and 8th grade Math and Science teacher - yes, this is a single position! Everyone at this quaint village school multitasks - which is partly why I found myself in such a predicament. There was no one to call for help - no media (wo)man, janitor or electrician technician. So there I was, caught in a conundrum.
I consulted with the K/1st/2nd grade teacher, as well as Mrs. Schiaffo and Mrs. Burke; our secretary was gone and her replacement had no clue, and so, as a last resort I asked the school boat/four wheeler/bus driver for his assistance - but, had no luck.
Anyway, after all of this jumble jamble morning hooplah, at lunchtime I noticed the classrooms are not listed in order! Going down the hallway, classrooms are listed: 4-1-2-3. And so, whereas I thought I was in #1; it turns out I was actually in #3 - meaning, I was totally flipping the wrong breakers. Isn't it funny how we can miss a most simple cue in a frantic quest to make right something wrong? Ah...(sigh), and this is Elise, signing out from Dillingham, Alaska.
p.s. Happy Alaska Day! Here is an interesting tidbit: many AK businesses have opted to keep their doors closed today instead of last Monday, Columbus Day.
18 October 2009
An excerpt from Eckhart Tolle's - A New Earth...
"When you are aware of space, you are not really aware of anything, except awareness itself - the inner space of consciousness. Through you, the universe is becoming aware of itself!
When the eye finds nothing to see, that no-thingness is perceived as space. When the ear finds nothing to hear, that no-thingness is perceived as stillness. When the senses, which are designed to perceive form, meet an absence of form, the formless consciousness that lies behind perception and makes all perception, all experience, possible, is no longer obscured by form. When you contemplate the unfathomable depth of space or listen to the silence in the early hours just before sunrise, something within you resonates with it as if in recognition. You then sense the vast depth of space as your own depth, and you know that precious stillness that has no form to be more deeply who you are than any of the things that make up the content of your life.
The Upanishads, the ancient scriptures of India, point to the same truth with these words:
What cannot be seen with the eye, but that whereby the eye can see: know that alone to be Brahman the Spirit and not what people here adore. What cannot be heard with the ear but that whereby the ear can hear: know that alone to be Brahman the Spirit and not what people here adore...What cannot be thought with the mind, but that whereby the mind can think: know that alone to be Brahman the Spirit and not what people here adore.
God, the scripture is saying, is formless consciousness and the essence of who you are. Everything else is form, is 'what people here adore.'
The twofold reality of the universe, which consists of things and space - thingness and no-thingness - is also your own. A sane, balanced, and fruitful human life is a dance between the two dimensions that make up reality: form and space. Most people are so identified with the dimension of form, with sense perceptions, thoughts, and emotion, that the vital hidden half is missing from their lives. Their identification with form keeps them trapped in ego.
What you see, hear, feel, touch, or think about is only one half of reality, so to speak. It is form. In the teaching of Jesus, it is simply called 'the world,' and the other dimension is 'the kingdom of heaven' or 'eternal life.'
Just as space enables all things to exist and just as without silence there could be no sound, you would not exist without the vital formless dimension that is the essence of who you are. We could say "God" if the word had not been so misused. I prefer to call it Being. Being is prior to existence. Existence is form, content, 'what happens.' Existence is the foreground of life; Being is the background, as it were.
The collective disease of humanity is that people are so engrossed in what happens, so hypnotized by the world of fluctuating forms, so absorbed in the content of their lives, they have forgotten the essence, that which is beyond content, beyond form, beyond thought. They are so consumed by time that they have forgotten eternity, which is their origin, their home, their destiny. Eternity is the living reality of who you are.
Some years ago when visiting China, I came upon a stupa on a mountaintop near Guilin. It had writing embossed in gold on it, and I asked my Chinese host what it meant. 'It means "Buddha," he said. "Why are there two characters rather than one?" I asked. "One," he explained, means "man." the other means "no." And the two together means, "Buddha."' I stood there in awe. The character for Buddha already contained the whole teaching of the Buddha, and for those who have eyes to see, the secret of life. Here are the two dimensions that make up reality, thingness and no-thingness, form and the denial of form, which is the recognition that form is not who you are." (Tolle, Eckhart. A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose, pages 218-221)
When the eye finds nothing to see, that no-thingness is perceived as space. When the ear finds nothing to hear, that no-thingness is perceived as stillness. When the senses, which are designed to perceive form, meet an absence of form, the formless consciousness that lies behind perception and makes all perception, all experience, possible, is no longer obscured by form. When you contemplate the unfathomable depth of space or listen to the silence in the early hours just before sunrise, something within you resonates with it as if in recognition. You then sense the vast depth of space as your own depth, and you know that precious stillness that has no form to be more deeply who you are than any of the things that make up the content of your life.
The Upanishads, the ancient scriptures of India, point to the same truth with these words:
What cannot be seen with the eye, but that whereby the eye can see: know that alone to be Brahman the Spirit and not what people here adore. What cannot be heard with the ear but that whereby the ear can hear: know that alone to be Brahman the Spirit and not what people here adore...What cannot be thought with the mind, but that whereby the mind can think: know that alone to be Brahman the Spirit and not what people here adore.
God, the scripture is saying, is formless consciousness and the essence of who you are. Everything else is form, is 'what people here adore.'
The twofold reality of the universe, which consists of things and space - thingness and no-thingness - is also your own. A sane, balanced, and fruitful human life is a dance between the two dimensions that make up reality: form and space. Most people are so identified with the dimension of form, with sense perceptions, thoughts, and emotion, that the vital hidden half is missing from their lives. Their identification with form keeps them trapped in ego.
What you see, hear, feel, touch, or think about is only one half of reality, so to speak. It is form. In the teaching of Jesus, it is simply called 'the world,' and the other dimension is 'the kingdom of heaven' or 'eternal life.'
Just as space enables all things to exist and just as without silence there could be no sound, you would not exist without the vital formless dimension that is the essence of who you are. We could say "God" if the word had not been so misused. I prefer to call it Being. Being is prior to existence. Existence is form, content, 'what happens.' Existence is the foreground of life; Being is the background, as it were.
The collective disease of humanity is that people are so engrossed in what happens, so hypnotized by the world of fluctuating forms, so absorbed in the content of their lives, they have forgotten the essence, that which is beyond content, beyond form, beyond thought. They are so consumed by time that they have forgotten eternity, which is their origin, their home, their destiny. Eternity is the living reality of who you are.
Some years ago when visiting China, I came upon a stupa on a mountaintop near Guilin. It had writing embossed in gold on it, and I asked my Chinese host what it meant. 'It means "Buddha," he said. "Why are there two characters rather than one?" I asked. "One," he explained, means "man." the other means "no." And the two together means, "Buddha."' I stood there in awe. The character for Buddha already contained the whole teaching of the Buddha, and for those who have eyes to see, the secret of life. Here are the two dimensions that make up reality, thingness and no-thingness, form and the denial of form, which is the recognition that form is not who you are." (Tolle, Eckhart. A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose, pages 218-221)
12 October 2009
Planes, Boats, Four Wheelers...and Dog Mushing
The ways in which people move from one place to another here in Alaska continues to amuse me. As a spin off from the movie, Planes, Trains and Automobiles, this entry is appropriately titled according to the methods I've used to transport myself from point A to B to C and so on this past week - well, with the exception of the first and the last. I'm still waiting for a chance to get lost in clouds, and, would have to wait until winter for any luck with mushing.
Aleknagik School called me to substitute teach last Wednesday. To get there, I drove Rex's rubicund Nissan truck to the south shore boat landing, where I met the "school bus" lancha to take me across the lake. After disembarking, I still had a short walk uphill to the school, and on the way there, the "school bus" four wheeler toting a teetering wagon full of little wavers passed on my right. I wished I would have had my camera out and ready to catch the fleeting moment.
Jeff Ambrosier, Aleknagik School's Principal, told me "Aleknagik" literally means "wrong way home". The back story to this name all began once upon a time when a group of natives lost their way. Re-playing this conversation, I'm thinking a lot about the conceptions we hold of our homes; what is home? Where is home? Is it a physical location, a feeling or emotion, and/or a person or people?
A sailboat from Corsica docked in Dillingham's harbor about a week ago. There were eight people on board, and they've made their home together on the boat for five months - sailing the Mediterranean Sea, north around Spain and Portugal, through the English Channel, skirting Norway's east coast and into the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean above Russia. There are six adults and two children on the mission; their primary objectives are to research the effects of global warming in the Arctic, and to share their observations and insights with interested parties - like me! - along the way.
On a final note, I couldn't possibly end this entry without making mention of the most interesting mode of transport I've seen so far - dog mushing, which is also coincidentally, Alaska's State Sport. Last Saturday I got to see my first full-fledged mushing team on the streets of Dillingham! The dogs were the centerpiece in a three minute - five float parade; it was indeed, the shortest but one of the greatest promenades I've ever seen. Alaska celebrates 50 years of statehood in 2009 and festivities are well under way. This is Elise, signing out from Dillingham...
Aleknagik School called me to substitute teach last Wednesday. To get there, I drove Rex's rubicund Nissan truck to the south shore boat landing, where I met the "school bus" lancha to take me across the lake. After disembarking, I still had a short walk uphill to the school, and on the way there, the "school bus" four wheeler toting a teetering wagon full of little wavers passed on my right. I wished I would have had my camera out and ready to catch the fleeting moment.
Jeff Ambrosier, Aleknagik School's Principal, told me "Aleknagik" literally means "wrong way home". The back story to this name all began once upon a time when a group of natives lost their way. Re-playing this conversation, I'm thinking a lot about the conceptions we hold of our homes; what is home? Where is home? Is it a physical location, a feeling or emotion, and/or a person or people?
A sailboat from Corsica docked in Dillingham's harbor about a week ago. There were eight people on board, and they've made their home together on the boat for five months - sailing the Mediterranean Sea, north around Spain and Portugal, through the English Channel, skirting Norway's east coast and into the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean above Russia. There are six adults and two children on the mission; their primary objectives are to research the effects of global warming in the Arctic, and to share their observations and insights with interested parties - like me! - along the way.
On a final note, I couldn't possibly end this entry without making mention of the most interesting mode of transport I've seen so far - dog mushing, which is also coincidentally, Alaska's State Sport. Last Saturday I got to see my first full-fledged mushing team on the streets of Dillingham! The dogs were the centerpiece in a three minute - five float parade; it was indeed, the shortest but one of the greatest promenades I've ever seen. Alaska celebrates 50 years of statehood in 2009 and festivities are well under way. This is Elise, signing out from Dillingham...
04 October 2009
Plane Talk
Could you please explain the VMC in a multi-engine plane? What are the standard auto rotation procedures in a rotary wing aircraft? These are just a sampling of questions which have been tossed back and forth at the Alaskan Espresso Shop beside Dillingham's airport runway.
In the last week I've been mixing lots of lattes and mingling with plenty of pilots. In general, I'm totally lost with aviation lingo, but I do find myself repeating random words I've overheard in conversation about fixed wings or float planes, for example. Although, when recycling these terms I've picked up, I haven't a clue whether I'm actually using the words correctly or not. In an ego-boosting sense, it can sound somewhat impressive to spout on about this or that in pundit language. I'm trying not to be so preoccupied with protecting my ego though, which is why my plane talk is inevitably followed with an expanding guffaw. I can't even begin to think I could fool another, when I cannot even fool myself.
All of this banter reminds me of a comment I once made to my dentist when he asked about my teeth at a check-up. I said "all is alright, well, with the exception of the oclusal of nineteen that has been slightly sensitive to cold." After a pregnant pause and incredulous look we continued on as normal, until I belly-laughed so hard that Doctor Steve had give me a minute to pull myself together.
Rex is a pilot and we're crossing our fingers for a blue bird day to fly. It's been raining non-stop here, but, hopefully we'll get up in the air this week. Dillingham is only accessible by plane or boat, and it seems like everyone who lives here has got wings of some sort. People own airplanes like they do cars. This almost makes me want to take flying lessons.
If I do do flying of any kind, though, it will most likely be fly fishing. I met a woman nicknamed, "Pudge", who is perhaps the best fly fisher in Alaska. She has fly fished and taught all over the world, is an accomplished author, an ambassador with Patagonia for women's fishing apparel, and took thirty minutes of her time to chat with moi. I openly admitted I'd only fly fished once while I went to university in Morris, Minnesota, and, that I only really went that time so that I could wear waist-high rubber waders with flashy suspenders, and be next to a very cute guy. What we women will do in search of love.
All of this said, I now have a genuine interest to try fly fishing again. And, Pudge and I may well do that at some point in the future. We exchanged cards, after all.
In the last week I've been mixing lots of lattes and mingling with plenty of pilots. In general, I'm totally lost with aviation lingo, but I do find myself repeating random words I've overheard in conversation about fixed wings or float planes, for example. Although, when recycling these terms I've picked up, I haven't a clue whether I'm actually using the words correctly or not. In an ego-boosting sense, it can sound somewhat impressive to spout on about this or that in pundit language. I'm trying not to be so preoccupied with protecting my ego though, which is why my plane talk is inevitably followed with an expanding guffaw. I can't even begin to think I could fool another, when I cannot even fool myself.
All of this banter reminds me of a comment I once made to my dentist when he asked about my teeth at a check-up. I said "all is alright, well, with the exception of the oclusal of nineteen that has been slightly sensitive to cold." After a pregnant pause and incredulous look we continued on as normal, until I belly-laughed so hard that Doctor Steve had give me a minute to pull myself together.
Rex is a pilot and we're crossing our fingers for a blue bird day to fly. It's been raining non-stop here, but, hopefully we'll get up in the air this week. Dillingham is only accessible by plane or boat, and it seems like everyone who lives here has got wings of some sort. People own airplanes like they do cars. This almost makes me want to take flying lessons.
If I do do flying of any kind, though, it will most likely be fly fishing. I met a woman nicknamed, "Pudge", who is perhaps the best fly fisher in Alaska. She has fly fished and taught all over the world, is an accomplished author, an ambassador with Patagonia for women's fishing apparel, and took thirty minutes of her time to chat with moi. I openly admitted I'd only fly fished once while I went to university in Morris, Minnesota, and, that I only really went that time so that I could wear waist-high rubber waders with flashy suspenders, and be next to a very cute guy. What we women will do in search of love.
All of this said, I now have a genuine interest to try fly fishing again. And, Pudge and I may well do that at some point in the future. We exchanged cards, after all.
27 September 2009
25 September 2009
Up up and away to Alaska!
For the next six weeks I'll be in Dillingham, Alaska, a village on the southwest coast that is renown for its salmon fishing. Come summertime sleep deprived fishermen pull net after net of King, Sockeye, Coho, Chinook and Pink salmon out of percolating waters. The town grows into quite a cosmopolitan place actually, with the influx of seasonal workers from all over North America, Africa, Asia and Latin America. Having arrived on the 21st of September, I missed out on all of this year's fishing, but I did get to see some skiffs bobbing around in the harbor.
"Skiffs" are boats, and "snow machines" are what I call snowmobiles, but "lickin' chicken" is a phrase that only Rex employs to mean: "that sounds great!" He enthusiastically says this a lot, and not necessarily in sole reference to food. Dillingham jargon also includes a lot of Yupik - a language spoken by one of seven main indigenous groups in Alaska. Quyana (KWI-ana) is "thank you", and I might say this if somebody were to give me agutik (Eskimo ice cream), but perhaps not if I were to be gifted an oosik (OO-sik), a walrus penis. I think this is part of a joke often played on newcomers, and I'm grateful I've got an uncle for the inside story. Names of places are also influenced by Yupik. There is the Nushagak river running into the bay, and last night I went to Wood-Tikchik State Park; with 1.6 million acres, it is the largest state park in Alaska.
I never realized how incredibly huge Alaska really is until someone told me they once bought a t-shirt with an outline of the state holding four pictures of Texas inside. From the western tip of the Aleutians to the eastern Canadian border with BC, Alaska easily stretches across the lower 48. The average world map doesn't seem to reflect this proportion reality, although, the following website might do so: http://www.sasi.group.shef.ac.uk/worldmapper/index.html. World Mapper illustrates equal area cartograms, also known as density-equalizing maps, which re-sizes each country to reflect the variable being mapped. There are a plethora of categories: communication and language, disease and destruction, health, services and movement. It's definitely worthwhile to check out when you've got a free moment.
My first few days in Dillingham were full of free moments, with plenty of time to observe, reflect, ponder, draw insights and delve into lengthy discussions, but now days seem to be filling up. This morning I've already visited the elementary, junior and senior high schools, trooper station, DMV office, probation headquarters and the courthouse. I'm looking into substitute teaching possibilities while I'm here, so need a background check but first must get an Alaskan ID card from DMV. The last two stops were to Rex's office, and then to court to see him in action. Ah what a morning, oh yes, and I forgot to mention it's only 10:46. Please stay tuned in for Alaskan anecdotes.
"Skiffs" are boats, and "snow machines" are what I call snowmobiles, but "lickin' chicken" is a phrase that only Rex employs to mean: "that sounds great!" He enthusiastically says this a lot, and not necessarily in sole reference to food. Dillingham jargon also includes a lot of Yupik - a language spoken by one of seven main indigenous groups in Alaska. Quyana (KWI-ana) is "thank you", and I might say this if somebody were to give me agutik (Eskimo ice cream), but perhaps not if I were to be gifted an oosik (OO-sik), a walrus penis. I think this is part of a joke often played on newcomers, and I'm grateful I've got an uncle for the inside story. Names of places are also influenced by Yupik. There is the Nushagak river running into the bay, and last night I went to Wood-Tikchik State Park; with 1.6 million acres, it is the largest state park in Alaska.
I never realized how incredibly huge Alaska really is until someone told me they once bought a t-shirt with an outline of the state holding four pictures of Texas inside. From the western tip of the Aleutians to the eastern Canadian border with BC, Alaska easily stretches across the lower 48. The average world map doesn't seem to reflect this proportion reality, although, the following website might do so: http://www.sasi.group.shef.ac.uk/worldmapper/index.html. World Mapper illustrates equal area cartograms, also known as density-equalizing maps, which re-sizes each country to reflect the variable being mapped. There are a plethora of categories: communication and language, disease and destruction, health, services and movement. It's definitely worthwhile to check out when you've got a free moment.
My first few days in Dillingham were full of free moments, with plenty of time to observe, reflect, ponder, draw insights and delve into lengthy discussions, but now days seem to be filling up. This morning I've already visited the elementary, junior and senior high schools, trooper station, DMV office, probation headquarters and the courthouse. I'm looking into substitute teaching possibilities while I'm here, so need a background check but first must get an Alaskan ID card from DMV. The last two stops were to Rex's office, and then to court to see him in action. Ah what a morning, oh yes, and I forgot to mention it's only 10:46. Please stay tuned in for Alaskan anecdotes.
22 August 2009
16 August 2009
Nebuta et al.
Hmmm...what to write? So much has happened during this last month in Tokyo. Reflecting upon some of the highlights, I think about singing with my sister, Erika in Inokashira park one Saturday night. We had a single fan consistently within earshot - a self-proclaimed "alien" who was amicable and missing a few front teeth. A fireworks display in Koremasa was outrageously incredible and indelible. Music blasted through towering speakers in the jam-packed stadium, accompanying a rainbow of zipping swivels, booming bursts and crackling pops. Then, Damien, an Irish friend visited last week. We took the Shinkansen - bullet train - north to Aomori, and by chance found ourselves in front of cameras filming a commercial for the Nebuta festival. I'm sure we won't become famous, but our faces will flash across all television screens around Aomori at least.
Nobody knows exactly when Nebuta first started (I've been given a wide range of guesses, between 60-150 years ago), but everybody knows exactly how it should be celebrated. The festival always falls on the first full week in August, and is just behind Aomori apples in terms of its national and international recognition and popularity. There is day-time fanfare, but everyone knows the hoopla really begins with parades down Shinmachi dori each night. The taiko drums and piping flautists with fast fingers lead throngs of dancers dressed in yukatas shouting "Ra-se-ra ra-se-ra" through the city. The gigantic illuminated floats weigh up to four ton - about 8,000 pounds! - are (wo)man powered, built with wooden frames and lit up with thousands of light bulbs. Makeshift risers stacked three high flank the parade route, and to get a good spot it is best to show up at least two hours early.
I've had the chance to haneru - literally, "jump" - in the Nebuta parade three times before, but had to miss out this year. Damien and I were in Aomori on the eve of the festival, and got to check out all of the glowing floats on exhibition just beside Aomori bay. My ceramics sensei, Kamata san, is a good friend of Nebuta's top designer; hence, that night we soon found ourselves in his company sitting seiza style, sipping sake and eating edamame. He invited me to help out with next year's float. I told him I was honored to receive an invitation, but because the project would start in February and finish in August, I really didn't believe I'd be able to give the time. Mais, c'est la vie - life is an array of options, and I'm really starting to think about what directions our decisions take us...
Nobody knows exactly when Nebuta first started (I've been given a wide range of guesses, between 60-150 years ago), but everybody knows exactly how it should be celebrated. The festival always falls on the first full week in August, and is just behind Aomori apples in terms of its national and international recognition and popularity. There is day-time fanfare, but everyone knows the hoopla really begins with parades down Shinmachi dori each night. The taiko drums and piping flautists with fast fingers lead throngs of dancers dressed in yukatas shouting "Ra-se-ra ra-se-ra" through the city. The gigantic illuminated floats weigh up to four ton - about 8,000 pounds! - are (wo)man powered, built with wooden frames and lit up with thousands of light bulbs. Makeshift risers stacked three high flank the parade route, and to get a good spot it is best to show up at least two hours early.
I've had the chance to haneru - literally, "jump" - in the Nebuta parade three times before, but had to miss out this year. Damien and I were in Aomori on the eve of the festival, and got to check out all of the glowing floats on exhibition just beside Aomori bay. My ceramics sensei, Kamata san, is a good friend of Nebuta's top designer; hence, that night we soon found ourselves in his company sitting seiza style, sipping sake and eating edamame. He invited me to help out with next year's float. I told him I was honored to receive an invitation, but because the project would start in February and finish in August, I really didn't believe I'd be able to give the time. Mais, c'est la vie - life is an array of options, and I'm really starting to think about what directions our decisions take us...
12 July 2009
I would love to live
Like a river flows,
Carried by the surprise
Of its own unfolding.
There is this game I learned and love called art-o-mancy. A good friend, Annie, introduced me to it while we were in San Francisco at the Asian Art Museum in May of 2008. It's quite possible she made it up, and it's also entirely reasonable that this same game and similar versions are played all around the world. Perhaps I only just discovered it at twenty-seven. Anyway, it entails precisely this - a map of a museum, and someone to serve as your personal escort (preferably an open, creative and curious mind to enhance the experience). One first begins with eyes closed tightly, moving an index finger over a map of whatever museum he or she finds him- or herself in, eventually placing that pointer down upon a particular room. Some may say it is divinely guided there, others might say that it is totally random. It does not matter, really; the results are equally interesting regardless of the belief one holds. Still with eyelids shut, your guide leads your trusting shuffling steps to that room you chose, and then asks whether you'd like to move left, right, or stay straight until you finally find yourself in front of a single piece. When you are ready, you open your eyes and simply look at where you are, and what is in your presence. You engage your body, heart, mind and spirit with the piece in front of you - reacting, responding and reflecting indiscriminately. You allow all thoughts, ideas and observations to surface and be legitimate. And if you extend an invitation to your cohort for input, he or she may surprise you with their take on expressed and unexpressed thoughts and feelings in that given moment.
I'm quite sure I've already blogged this story in some way, shape or form, so I won't delve into descriptive detail once more, but I wanted to re-visit art-o-mancy because I think it relates to the John O'Donohue excerpt above. Both involve a conscious decision to let go of the self-orchestrated organizational patterns of movement and perception we so often fall into, in order to yield to an unraveling presence of being. It is not about aimless or thoughtless living, rather, we are consciously present to life - to our questions and held intentions - and attentive to what the universe brings forward - to what avenues open up, where we find ourselves, in who's company and how it might be meaningful.
Within my own experiences, this has been easier to do outside of a structured habitual routine - i.e. while traveling. Somehow, plopping myself down upon a new latitude and longitude crossing gives greater sensitivity to what I'm seeing, listening to, smelling, touching and tasting. Additionally, closing and opening a subsequent chapter in life naturally pulls us towards presence. Knowing that we are on the doorstep of change, we savor a place and all that it conjures up inside of us, or a serendipitous relationship and the world as we know it to be. In doing this, we prepare ourselves to turn the page.
I'm in Aomori, Japan this time, knowing that my good friend Melanie will all too soon be leaving for Australia. Melanie has always been here, from when I arrived in August of 2003 to teach at Toyama High School with the JET (Japan Exchange and Teaching) Program, throughout my three years living in this land known for its apples, Nebuta festival and local dialect - Tsugaru-ben, and during the past three summers when I've come back to visit. We've laughed and cried together - taken scooter trips across Hokkaido, and airplane trips to Vietnam and Australia. We've sang Alanis Morisette's Thank You sweetly and at the top of our lungs countless times in karaoke boxes, eaten who knows how many plates of sushi side-by-side with hashi - chopsticks - in hand, and had our fair share of blue bird skiing and snowboarding days in great Hakkoda powder. It's difficult to imagine Aomori without Melanie, yet, a week from today this is what will happen.
All of this, coupled with the uncertainty of where my footsteps will lead me this fall, has brought me to a place of presence. It seems, never have mornings been so magnificent. I woke up today listening to pitter-pat raindrops on the window pane beside my futon. And never have nights been more incredible. We were in Kizukuri Saturday for a farewell fiesta that ended just before sunrise. I wish I would have been able to stop the clock to make it all last a bit longer. Tomorrow I'll djembe drum with Kiyono, and on Wednesday surf with Mako. On Thursday I hop on the Shinkansen bullet train for Tokyo, and truthfully, I don't know exactly when I'll be back in Aomori again. And so today, tomorrow and the next, I'm relishing all things soon to become so natsukashii...
Like a river flows,
Carried by the surprise
Of its own unfolding.
There is this game I learned and love called art-o-mancy. A good friend, Annie, introduced me to it while we were in San Francisco at the Asian Art Museum in May of 2008. It's quite possible she made it up, and it's also entirely reasonable that this same game and similar versions are played all around the world. Perhaps I only just discovered it at twenty-seven. Anyway, it entails precisely this - a map of a museum, and someone to serve as your personal escort (preferably an open, creative and curious mind to enhance the experience). One first begins with eyes closed tightly, moving an index finger over a map of whatever museum he or she finds him- or herself in, eventually placing that pointer down upon a particular room. Some may say it is divinely guided there, others might say that it is totally random. It does not matter, really; the results are equally interesting regardless of the belief one holds. Still with eyelids shut, your guide leads your trusting shuffling steps to that room you chose, and then asks whether you'd like to move left, right, or stay straight until you finally find yourself in front of a single piece. When you are ready, you open your eyes and simply look at where you are, and what is in your presence. You engage your body, heart, mind and spirit with the piece in front of you - reacting, responding and reflecting indiscriminately. You allow all thoughts, ideas and observations to surface and be legitimate. And if you extend an invitation to your cohort for input, he or she may surprise you with their take on expressed and unexpressed thoughts and feelings in that given moment.
I'm quite sure I've already blogged this story in some way, shape or form, so I won't delve into descriptive detail once more, but I wanted to re-visit art-o-mancy because I think it relates to the John O'Donohue excerpt above. Both involve a conscious decision to let go of the self-orchestrated organizational patterns of movement and perception we so often fall into, in order to yield to an unraveling presence of being. It is not about aimless or thoughtless living, rather, we are consciously present to life - to our questions and held intentions - and attentive to what the universe brings forward - to what avenues open up, where we find ourselves, in who's company and how it might be meaningful.
Within my own experiences, this has been easier to do outside of a structured habitual routine - i.e. while traveling. Somehow, plopping myself down upon a new latitude and longitude crossing gives greater sensitivity to what I'm seeing, listening to, smelling, touching and tasting. Additionally, closing and opening a subsequent chapter in life naturally pulls us towards presence. Knowing that we are on the doorstep of change, we savor a place and all that it conjures up inside of us, or a serendipitous relationship and the world as we know it to be. In doing this, we prepare ourselves to turn the page.
I'm in Aomori, Japan this time, knowing that my good friend Melanie will all too soon be leaving for Australia. Melanie has always been here, from when I arrived in August of 2003 to teach at Toyama High School with the JET (Japan Exchange and Teaching) Program, throughout my three years living in this land known for its apples, Nebuta festival and local dialect - Tsugaru-ben, and during the past three summers when I've come back to visit. We've laughed and cried together - taken scooter trips across Hokkaido, and airplane trips to Vietnam and Australia. We've sang Alanis Morisette's Thank You sweetly and at the top of our lungs countless times in karaoke boxes, eaten who knows how many plates of sushi side-by-side with hashi - chopsticks - in hand, and had our fair share of blue bird skiing and snowboarding days in great Hakkoda powder. It's difficult to imagine Aomori without Melanie, yet, a week from today this is what will happen.
All of this, coupled with the uncertainty of where my footsteps will lead me this fall, has brought me to a place of presence. It seems, never have mornings been so magnificent. I woke up today listening to pitter-pat raindrops on the window pane beside my futon. And never have nights been more incredible. We were in Kizukuri Saturday for a farewell fiesta that ended just before sunrise. I wish I would have been able to stop the clock to make it all last a bit longer. Tomorrow I'll djembe drum with Kiyono, and on Wednesday surf with Mako. On Thursday I hop on the Shinkansen bullet train for Tokyo, and truthfully, I don't know exactly when I'll be back in Aomori again. And so today, tomorrow and the next, I'm relishing all things soon to become so natsukashii...
17 June 2009
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...
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...
10 June 2009
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...
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...
17 February 2009
14 February 2009
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...
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...
27 January 2009
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 -
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 -
14 January 2009
There is a particular green paint coloring innumerable walls in Nicaragua. It´s lighter than lime, somewhat minty and matte - versus sheen. It covers buildings - inside and out; anyone who´s been to Nicaragua and is reading this may likely be nodding their head in agreement. More than once I´ve wondered where all of the paint came from, whether gratis brushes were also part of the deal, and why this exact tint of green was selected.
Three of the walls in the room where I sit now have this distinctive hue; the fourth is more of an unfinished makeshift partition - a basic wooden frame with a covering of cardboard-thin cork-board platelets. There is a three foot gap to the tin roof ceiling so all sound - murmuring voices, a fuzzy television set, cat´s meow and that clanging just outside the house creates an orchestra of noise somewhat difficult to drown out. The only decorative piece adorning the room is a cherub-like picture of Divino Niño Jesus - Divine Baby Jesus, with arms raised and wearing a golden crown. Just beside my bedpost and on the wardrobe as well is an etched name - Árlen. She is my host sister.
I am back in the barrio - neighborhood - of Ciudadela, Managua, an area in Nicaragua´s capital which is noted more for poverty and crime than anything else. Rumor has it the vibe is especially ¨caliente¨ - hot - at the moment; ten masked men jumped a neighbor a few days ago, and last night a parked patrol car caught everyone´s attention with its flashing lights. Eavesdropping, I found out the police officers were there on account of another assault.
I´m with an eclectic group of nine from the U.S. and one bloke from Ireland who now lives in San Francisco, California. We are not here for a specific project-based purpose; after explaining this to a Swedish woman working with Asociación de Mujeres Sol Naciente, an organization collaboratively building solar powered ovens in northern Nicaragua, she curiously asked: What then is your connection? Why are you here together?
In a sense I can understand her initial bewilderment. Both in person and on paper we are a sundry lot - ranging in age from 20-77, and dressed in our own unique styles - with university logos, goth apparel, wearing canvas hats with plastic silverware strapped to one side and donning embroidered flowery tops. Professionally, we are just as different. We are college students studying economics and earning Master of Divinity degrees, or at work with our vocations - with people who are homeless, and ironically enough, in the mortgage business. I think Maria has the most interesting position; she is a designer for Hallmark greeting cards and weekend photographer.
What brings us together to Ciudadela Nicaragua is a desire for experiential learning and connection. We´ve been staying with host families and sharing our stories, observations and realizations in reflection as a group. Each of us has experienced a challenge in some way shape or form. For some, a language barrier is a frustration; there is only so much which can be communicated with facial expressions, hand gestures and doodles. For others, adjusting to a different lifestyle is difficult. There are days with no water for washing and hours of electricity blackouts; beans and rice for every meal also can get to be a bit much. My internal struggle has something to do with wanting to fix, to solve, to help ¨improve¨ what I may see as a broken situation. I want to buy Augustina new glasses because her´s fell and shattered, and Engel orthopedic shoes; his knees bow in making him pigeon-toed and he falls a lot. I want to buy fruits and vegetables for everyone and cook for the community; there seems to be so much sickness and malnourishment. Árlen who is 18, and Nubia who is 28 both deal with a lot of abdominal pain and gastric intestinal problems from poor diets; ovens are a rarity so most food is fried.
In bringing this to consciousness I realize two things - first, my backpacker budget does not allow me a lot of economic freedom; and there will always be a need no matter how many people I might be able to help. Second, I do not wish for my relationships to be principally financially based; there can be somewhat of an oppositional force between cash-flow and meaningful connection. So what is the significance of all of this - both for me personally and for my relation to the world?
With gaining greater understanding of myself and my thought processes, I feel less pressure and stress to try to take responsibility for every need I identify, and instead try to allow for giving to happen as I am able. Gestures may be small; today I bought a man on the bus some water for one Córdoba - about 5 cents. Sometimes I´m capable of doing a bit more; last year I rode my bike from California to Kentucky and raised just over $1,000 for the Colegio San Francisco, a primary school for children in Ciudadela Nicaragua. Our last full day in the barrio we gave the school exterior a fresh coat of paint - not a minty matte green but indigo blue. In following months hand-written letters will keep us in contact with friends in Ciudadela. This was my second visit to the barrio so I´ve got two host families to write to. I look forward to my next trip to Ciudadela, hopefully winter of 2010 - with the addendum often heard in Nicaragua - ¨si Dios quiere¨, if God wills it.
Three of the walls in the room where I sit now have this distinctive hue; the fourth is more of an unfinished makeshift partition - a basic wooden frame with a covering of cardboard-thin cork-board platelets. There is a three foot gap to the tin roof ceiling so all sound - murmuring voices, a fuzzy television set, cat´s meow and that clanging just outside the house creates an orchestra of noise somewhat difficult to drown out. The only decorative piece adorning the room is a cherub-like picture of Divino Niño Jesus - Divine Baby Jesus, with arms raised and wearing a golden crown. Just beside my bedpost and on the wardrobe as well is an etched name - Árlen. She is my host sister.
I am back in the barrio - neighborhood - of Ciudadela, Managua, an area in Nicaragua´s capital which is noted more for poverty and crime than anything else. Rumor has it the vibe is especially ¨caliente¨ - hot - at the moment; ten masked men jumped a neighbor a few days ago, and last night a parked patrol car caught everyone´s attention with its flashing lights. Eavesdropping, I found out the police officers were there on account of another assault.
I´m with an eclectic group of nine from the U.S. and one bloke from Ireland who now lives in San Francisco, California. We are not here for a specific project-based purpose; after explaining this to a Swedish woman working with Asociación de Mujeres Sol Naciente, an organization collaboratively building solar powered ovens in northern Nicaragua, she curiously asked: What then is your connection? Why are you here together?
In a sense I can understand her initial bewilderment. Both in person and on paper we are a sundry lot - ranging in age from 20-77, and dressed in our own unique styles - with university logos, goth apparel, wearing canvas hats with plastic silverware strapped to one side and donning embroidered flowery tops. Professionally, we are just as different. We are college students studying economics and earning Master of Divinity degrees, or at work with our vocations - with people who are homeless, and ironically enough, in the mortgage business. I think Maria has the most interesting position; she is a designer for Hallmark greeting cards and weekend photographer.
What brings us together to Ciudadela Nicaragua is a desire for experiential learning and connection. We´ve been staying with host families and sharing our stories, observations and realizations in reflection as a group. Each of us has experienced a challenge in some way shape or form. For some, a language barrier is a frustration; there is only so much which can be communicated with facial expressions, hand gestures and doodles. For others, adjusting to a different lifestyle is difficult. There are days with no water for washing and hours of electricity blackouts; beans and rice for every meal also can get to be a bit much. My internal struggle has something to do with wanting to fix, to solve, to help ¨improve¨ what I may see as a broken situation. I want to buy Augustina new glasses because her´s fell and shattered, and Engel orthopedic shoes; his knees bow in making him pigeon-toed and he falls a lot. I want to buy fruits and vegetables for everyone and cook for the community; there seems to be so much sickness and malnourishment. Árlen who is 18, and Nubia who is 28 both deal with a lot of abdominal pain and gastric intestinal problems from poor diets; ovens are a rarity so most food is fried.
In bringing this to consciousness I realize two things - first, my backpacker budget does not allow me a lot of economic freedom; and there will always be a need no matter how many people I might be able to help. Second, I do not wish for my relationships to be principally financially based; there can be somewhat of an oppositional force between cash-flow and meaningful connection. So what is the significance of all of this - both for me personally and for my relation to the world?
With gaining greater understanding of myself and my thought processes, I feel less pressure and stress to try to take responsibility for every need I identify, and instead try to allow for giving to happen as I am able. Gestures may be small; today I bought a man on the bus some water for one Córdoba - about 5 cents. Sometimes I´m capable of doing a bit more; last year I rode my bike from California to Kentucky and raised just over $1,000 for the Colegio San Francisco, a primary school for children in Ciudadela Nicaragua. Our last full day in the barrio we gave the school exterior a fresh coat of paint - not a minty matte green but indigo blue. In following months hand-written letters will keep us in contact with friends in Ciudadela. This was my second visit to the barrio so I´ve got two host families to write to. I look forward to my next trip to Ciudadela, hopefully winter of 2010 - with the addendum often heard in Nicaragua - ¨si Dios quiere¨, if God wills it.
06 January 2009
Writing to you from Ometepe...
A 20 minute hike, 30 minute bus ride and 40 minute stint in a pick-up truck with three other nomadic travelers brought me to Moyogalpa, which has the only ATM on Ometepe Island. It was a mission and a half to get here, so I´m spending a leisurely day catching up on communication, possibly visiting a museum which supposedly hosts Nicaragua´s largest collection of decorative funeral urns, and definitely going to the cash machine before returning to Zopilote for stone oven pizza tonight.
Ometepe is an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. It´s known for its two majestic volcanoes - Concepción, which is still active, and Maderas, which is not - plantain production and ecological friendliness. Organic farming practices and Permaculture projects abound. This way of life is not part of a trend, it has not been externally imposed - it´s simply the way it is and always has been. Pesticides are expensive and in essence, unnecessary; the volcanic soil is nutrient rich. For the most part islanders seek to self-sustain or barter with a neighbor. Zopilote receives a gallon of fresh milk every morning. It´s deliciously creamy, but when it´s gone no hay más hasta la próxima mañana. I wake up early to ensure I get one full cup.
Zopilote is a transient community grounded with the continuous efforts of two Italian brothers. There are hammocks, tents and a few dormitory beds to sleep in; most people who arrive are environmentally interested and aware, seeking to learn through living. All waste is separated - recycled and composted when possible. There is filtered water available - not in disposable plastic bottles for 20 Córdoba (1 USD) apiece, but from a tap. And at reception there are always free bananas; yesterday I ate eight.
I try to live life by the motto: ¨All Good things in Moderation¨, but I also believe there is space for time of indulgence. At the moment I´m nursing sore muscles from my climb to the top of Maderas, and bananas are supposed to be helpful for lactic acid build-up. Round-trip, we hiked - stepped over and ducked under fallen branches - smucked through shin-deep mud, teetered back and forth between tree trunks to maintain balance - and stumbled over roots for eight hours. I made the trek with seven gentlemen - four Canadians, two Alaskans and Héctor, our Nicaraguan guide. It was an unforgettable experience, and I´ll happily share the photos as soon as I can find a USB cable to upload images. Until the next post, sending each and everyone of you amor y suerte - love and luck!
Ometepe is an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. It´s known for its two majestic volcanoes - Concepción, which is still active, and Maderas, which is not - plantain production and ecological friendliness. Organic farming practices and Permaculture projects abound. This way of life is not part of a trend, it has not been externally imposed - it´s simply the way it is and always has been. Pesticides are expensive and in essence, unnecessary; the volcanic soil is nutrient rich. For the most part islanders seek to self-sustain or barter with a neighbor. Zopilote receives a gallon of fresh milk every morning. It´s deliciously creamy, but when it´s gone no hay más hasta la próxima mañana. I wake up early to ensure I get one full cup.
Zopilote is a transient community grounded with the continuous efforts of two Italian brothers. There are hammocks, tents and a few dormitory beds to sleep in; most people who arrive are environmentally interested and aware, seeking to learn through living. All waste is separated - recycled and composted when possible. There is filtered water available - not in disposable plastic bottles for 20 Córdoba (1 USD) apiece, but from a tap. And at reception there are always free bananas; yesterday I ate eight.
I try to live life by the motto: ¨All Good things in Moderation¨, but I also believe there is space for time of indulgence. At the moment I´m nursing sore muscles from my climb to the top of Maderas, and bananas are supposed to be helpful for lactic acid build-up. Round-trip, we hiked - stepped over and ducked under fallen branches - smucked through shin-deep mud, teetered back and forth between tree trunks to maintain balance - and stumbled over roots for eight hours. I made the trek with seven gentlemen - four Canadians, two Alaskans and Héctor, our Nicaraguan guide. It was an unforgettable experience, and I´ll happily share the photos as soon as I can find a USB cable to upload images. Until the next post, sending each and everyone of you amor y suerte - love and luck!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)