Thursday, June 5, 2008
God is Good
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Exploring Coelho, Sleeping in Leax Woods
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
-Henry David Thoreau
First, let me say I did not go to the woods as Thoreau did in "Walden", I have no fear of realizing at the end of my life that I have not lived. In fact that is where I think Thoreau was stupid, going to the woods was not "living", it was being a moron. So this isn't about "Walden" this is about Maine,"The Maine Woods", I might have gone up into "Leax Woods" To explore that quest of Thoreau.
Talk of mysteries! — Think of our life in nature, — daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, — rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! the actual world! the common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? where are we?
-Henry David Thoreau
But really, I went because I respect Paulo Coelho thoughts and he seems to think that in the spaces in normal lives, in the time when we don't know what is going on, we can find what is wrong with us.
Anyway, here is what I wrote during my last night in the woods. To see pictures from my time in Leax Woods, click here.
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I remembered a pen tonight, which is good as I think this is my last night. Really, I'm not sure what to think about the woods anymore, or better, myself. I slept well last night, but I slept in fear not solace, I slept as I write now, trying to distract my emotions from the cracks of twigs all around me. How did the citizens of European cities stand this wilderness? After these night out here I am starting to think that walled cities weren't first built to keep foreign armies out, but rather to keep at bay the fear of a "beast".
As I write this I am starting to see, it is more my own inability to control my imagination than the honest prospect of death by "beast" that puts fear in me. The chance a bear is going to attack this tent right now is so slim but still my mind is playing out great tragedies time and time again. I can see headlines with each branch crack, I can hear morning prayers with each acorn tossed louse by the breeze. I am so...
A horse just whinnied and I almost wet my pants.
I am the"Beast" behind the headlines. It is my soul which lends me fear, my soul not reality, my soul is causing me to feel weak and yellow and stupid... there is no bear, no wolf, no demon except me.
I will leave the woods, tomorrow at sunrise. I hope its nice like yesterday...
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I think Coelho is right, and I'm not sure what to do about it now.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Sahara
Awoke to the cold, to the ugly hour of 4:30 am, and to the darkness of a vast desert.
Climbed (struggled) to crawl my way along the crest of the largest dune around.
Thirty minutes later I sat, still heaving, and watched as the dim light turned to brilliance when the sun came over the horizon.
I felt the particles of sand between my fingers.
I thought: I am a grain of sand.
We sang.
Our voices faltered.
Someone prayed: may we feel a sunrise in our own hearts.
I smiled the entire way down the dune.
We climbed back atop our camels, wrapped our heads in scarves, and crawled slowly back through the sand.
Ahh, Arabia...
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Why I Keep Thinking About Pinecones
For about a year now I have been going back, in my mind, to this one day I spent in Honduras. It was during my home stay with a family from Tegucigalpa, a nice family, loving, caring, and all that jazz. The mother called me “hijo” (son) and the son (12 years old) would try to speak English with me when his mother was not around. But Mama (the mother) wanted me to learn Spanish so much that she continually would yell (nicely) “Mateo, mi hijo, no ingles aquí, no ingles.” (Matthew, my son, no English here, no English) and though I loved Sebastian (the son) for trying to help me out, Mama’s orders for me to stop speaking English came as a great relief because Sebastian’s English was more confusing than his Spanish most of the time.
So, about this one day that I keep going back to. It was one of the many days where I had no clue what was going on from Sunrise to Sunset. I woke up (as I did most days in Honduras) with the sun at something like 4am and sat in my room (falling in and out of sleep) longing to know what time it really was while understanding that the only clock in the house (which worked) was Mama’s cell-phone, and that her cell-phone was in her room, and thus in a place where I could not see it.
It was my third day at home stay, and I had learned to accept that there was no way for me to know what time it was. Plus Candy (the maid like lady whose room I had taken over) and I had by then developed a sort of routine where she would knock on my door and ask me questions which (I hope) were intend to check if I was up and nothing more because there was no chance I was going to understand what she asked but, as I had to answer to tell her I was still alive, I would say “si” followed by a “gracias” that I prayed to God informed her that it was all right if “si” made no sense and that I was getting up and that if she asked me in fifteen minutes I might be able to understand her more.
I’m not sure if the “gracias” did this for her, for as I said I had no clue what Candy asked me each morning while I lie in bed, and thus I don’t know if when I stumbled into the kitchen five minutes later Candy was asking me a new question or the same thing she had asked though the door. Either way Candy found our routine funny in some way and she would laugh and laugh each morning and I would smile while praying (yes I prayed a lot) that her laughter was a sign that she understood how confused I was and not a awkward giggle to cover-up how I was breaking some great cultural phopa.
So this in that way this day I keep going back to was like every day during homestay. Candy knocked on my door, said something, I replied “si… gracias”, got dressed and brushed my teeth before yawning my way into the kitchen where Candy asked me something I didn’t understand. Confused I walked into my room (she followed me) to grab my dictionary so I could ask her to repeat herself. She beat me to it though, and grabbed my church shirt off my bag and told me something which I understood to mean “do you want me to iron this?” and so I said “si” and followed her back to the kitchen where I found Mama and Sebastian (as dog-tired as I was) eating breakfast.
I ate breakfast slow that day. Laughing to myself about how Mama had asked me if I wanted the milk in my cereal hot or cold on the first day and that though I had said “frío” I had been severed hot milk each morning after that. To be honest I got used to eating Corn Flakes with Hot Milk by the end of the weak but as this day was still only day 3 I was very happy to have my watermelon juice to help wash down the newly odd taste.
The day then continued as most days in my home stay did. Mama told me the plane, I made sure she thought I understood by saying it back to her and then went into my room and looked up the words I didn’t know. I would then get dressed and wait for the family to be ready.
Eventually the whole family was ready so we grabbed a taxi and went to church. I expected to go to Mass while I was in Honduras (if it any church at all) but my family was highly involved in a large Assembles of God church so, lucky for me, I understood a good deal of what was going on during the serves since I spent most of my pre and early teens in a AOG church back home.
It was after church that everything went crazy. Mama had told me we were doing some things with Johnny (her boyfriend) after church but what I did not understand is what “some things” meant to her.
Here is a list of the things we than did with Johnny.
We went and picked up more family
We bought Chinese food to eat later
We drove across the city and got soda
We drove for an hour (I loved that drive as I was in the bed of the pick-up) out of the city and into the mountains.
We stopped by this little town and looked around
We got in a paddle boat and paddled around
We meat more family
We went to Johnny’s parents house and I met them
His parent tried to talk to me
We went to where Johnny was building his new home
We drove for another half-hour higher into the mountains
We stopped, in the middle of this dirt road with a great view, and ate.
It was here, sitting on the top of one of Honduras many mountains, that I first started to think about Pine tress and it is here, after Chinese food on paper plates in the middle of a dirt road with 10 Hondurans, which I go back to again and again. See, when Johnny’s son (Juanito), Sebastian and I finished our food we started to run around the mountain. At first we kicked a ball around but when Sebastian almost sent it down the mountain we turned our attention to a grove of tall pine tress.
I had never seen pine tress like these before going to Honduras. They dwarfed the largest trees I had seen in the woods around my house and (as I soon discovered) these pine trees didn’t only seed via the brown pinecones I had learned to collect and turn into birdfeeders as a child (apply peanut butter sprinkle with bird seed) they also produced a soft hive shaped cone that was filled with sap and covered in something that looked like orange pollen.
Juanito and Sebastian got really excited when they sighted an orange pinecone and began grabbing rocks off the road to throw it. Juanito (who was a bit older than Sebastian and much stronger) hit it once or twice before Johnny came over and told Sebastian to climb the tree and shake it down for us. When the orange pinecone hit the dirt road it cracked open and a bunch of the orange powder rose into the air.
“Ven a me, Mateo” Johnny said, crouched beside the spilt pinecone and ushering me closer with his hand. “Mateo” he said picking up the split pinecone with his left hand and a normal brown pinecone with his right. “Mateo, esta es como vida.” (Matthew this is like life) he said shaking the two pinecones. “Un Pino” he said pointing at the pine tree with his lips “y dos frutas” (one tree and two fruits). He asked if I understood I told him yes and than asked why, “porque?”
His words:
“Las frutas de el pino son como hijos. Un pino y dos frutas son como un padre and dos hijos. Estan desde una cosa, pero las frutas estan muy differente?”
My Translation:
The fruits of the pine tree are like sons. One pine tree and two pinecones are like a father and two sons. They are from one thing, but the fruits are very different, yes?
“Si” I told him, puzzled now by the meaning of his words and not the definition and though I wanted to understand more I did not know what to ask. I wish I had asked, “Porque?” (as in why do you tell me this) but before I had much time to think Sebastian was out of the tree and had run over to get his orange pinecone from Johnny.
We soon left. The eleven of us all loaded back into the pickup, and we drove back down the mountain, Sebastian in the cab with Johnny, Mama and his Pinecone while Juanito and I sat in the truck bed (with the other six Hondurans) and watched the pine grove fade away, then the mountains, the small towns, until we were thrust back into the city. When we got back into the city Juanito slide over beside me and asked how to say “Dios te bendiga” in English. I told him, happy to be the one teaching for once.
When we got back home (after dropping family members at their houses) Juanito and I kicked a ball around while Sebastian, Johnny and Mama talked inside the house. Juanito and I did not talk much that evening as we kicked the ball around. I wonder if he was thinking about what his father had told me, I wonder if he understood why Johnny had told me this, if he understood the “why” behind the interesting metaphor. What little we said was in jest. I called him Juanito-ito-ito (ito means little) while he chased down the ball and because he was bigger than me (stronger, not taller) he called me “Ito” as I struggled to dribble the ball passed him.
When Johnny emerged from the house he called Juanito and I over to him. “Buenos-Noches, Mateo” he said pulling me into a hug. “Buesnos-Noches.” I said glade to understand both what and why he was saying this. When Johnny let me go Juanito smiled at me and said “God bless you, ito” before pulling me into a hug. “Dios te bendiga, también” I told him, laughing as he hit my back with all his strength.
Mama came out of the house and Johnny and Juanito got into the pickup. We waved goodbye, and as Johnny rolled away he said, as if he thought I might forget.
Como dos hijos, Mateo (Like two brother, Matthew)
I laughed hard for the first time during home stay when he said that, I can’t explain why. He didn’t say it to be funny, he said it to teach me something, to pass on wisdom, but when I laughed he didn’t look confused, or hurt, he smiled and gave me a thumbs up, so I repeated what he told me back on the mountain as he rolled to far away to hear me, before anything else, I walked to my room and I wrote it down, word for word, in my journal.
“Las frutas de el pino son como hijos. Un pino y dos frutas son como un padre and dos hijos. Estan desde una cosa, pero las frutas estan muy differente!”
I am still not sure what Johnny meant by his lesson with the pinecones. I wish I knew if he meant padre like father or Padre like God, but then I am glade I don’t understand because if I did than I guess I wouldn’t still be thinking about that orange pinecone which sat in our sink for the rest of the week, dripping sap.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Part 4: Road to Nausea
Being the only one over 25, my mom had to do all of the driving. We weren’t satisfied with her abrupt breaking and unnecessary acceleration, and we let her know it. She also doesn't have much common sense on the road; my brothers and I agreed that she would have done the Michael Scott and driven into a lake if a GPS system told her to. Haleakala was incredbile, but the road to Hana wasn't terribly worth it, except for a stop we made at the Black Sand Beach; that was sick nasty awesome. We discovered off the path hiking that led to high cliffs and deep caves (you’ll see pictures one day). My mom couldn’t handle watching us do such dangerous things, so she went back to the car, and my brothers and I continued on our adventurous way.
Today we swam in the 7 deadly pools of sin. That’s not what they’re really called, but I can’t remember the real name since I always think of the 7 deadly sins. We jumped waterfalls and cliffs, the highest was about 30 feet. Tomorrow we leave for Kaua'i, and I can't tell you how anxious I am to leave Maui for the excitement waiting for me on Kaua'i.
Until then, peace.
Part 3: No More Glitz
The time has come when the perks of 5-star resorts are no longer to my advantage; I have no more pools, no more fancy dinners, no more maid service, and no more gifts every night upon return to the room. However, my trip does continue into a much more fun chapter: family adventures.
Right now I am writing to you while sitting in the Aloha Cottage #79. The book Maui Revealed describes this “hotel” as following, “Cheap and dreary units with a kitchen or kitchenette. Don’t expect much here—no phone, no internet, and not much aloha. Some rooms have a TV.” (None of ours do.) Contrary to this review, we believe it to be a pretty nice place. Perhaps that is only in comparison with where we stayed last night—Banana Bungalow, a youth hostel.
Please imagine staying at a youth hostel with your mother. Upon arrival, I left my family and sat in the common room where I met 2 guys from Germany, one from Switzerland, one from Brazil, another from Russia, a girl from Canada, one from Ireland, one from Scotland, and 3 from Norway. Everyone was under 30 and traveling through Hawaii on their own (or in small groups), and they were candidly surprised that my mom was checked in to this run-down bungalow. My mom, however, thought this was the coolest thing ever; It reminded her of her hippie days when she traveled, staying in only tents and youth hostels.
After going to dinner with my new friends at Rosa’s, a Mexican restaurant very much like Don Lorenzos (hopefully minus the illegal immigrants) we came back to the hostel and hung around a bit more. I decided to get to bed at around midnight. Let me tell you, it was a good thing I did. On my way back to the room, I see a 54 year-old woman in pink satin pajamas wandering half-asleep down the path to the common room, where everyone was having drinks, smoking, etc. (No, despite what all of you think, I was neither smoking nor drinking!) “Mom, what are you doing?" I ask, refusing to believe she was doing as I suspected. “I didn’t know where you were, and I realized I hadn’t seen you in several hours; I don’t know who you’re with, and I couldn’t sleep.” Yep, that’s what I thought. Now, if you were talking with a bunch of world travelers who were half-way around the world from their country, on their own, and out comes your mother in pink satin pajamas worried about where her baby was, wouldn 't you be pretty embarrassed? Yeah, me too, and I am very difficult to embarrass. I tell her this through laughter, because I was relieved I met her on the path, stopping her short from making her appearance, and her response was, “You would have been embarrassed? I’m sorry.” Then she decided that if I’m going to London on my own and traveling around Europe, staying in youth hostels, I can probably do without her midnight check-ups.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Since being in Buffalo,
- frozen, since I failed to pack sufficiently for the balmy 45-degree May temperatures.
- explored the West Seneca shopping district, which includes the Catholic Shop, JC Penney, and a thrift store that (sadly) only sells clothes from A&F and Aeropostale.
- discovered the glory of Redbox movie rentals.
- found all free or discounted food within a one-mile radius of campus (free iced coffee day at Dunkin Donuts, half-priced appetizers at Applebee's, $1 ice cream scoop Tuesdays at Baskin Robbins, free iced tea at Tim Horton's).
- watched a fairly substantial amount of South Park.
- become quite knowledgeable on current ghetto culture.
- been asked several times daily why I do not have a boyfriend, a husband, or children.
- been forced to explain (multiple times) to skeptical fourth graders that yes, I am only 19.
- gone on two field trips.
- regularly been called homie.
- crossed the streets of downtown Buffalo without looking first (without consequence).
- gone to bed past midnight during the week (except for one time).
- slept past 6:15 AM during the week.
- decided to become an education major.
- been able to make the fourth graders in my class understand why being unmarried and 19 are adequate reasons for not having children.
- made it to Canada, even though I pass the Peace Bridge two times a day and am tempted every time.
What to look forward to: a weekend in Webster with the Miller family...
A Day in Fes:
(the moon rises)
We met Sanna at four, she took us to her home, served us tea, and sat us before the television. We watched Arabic music videos. We also watched Usher.
She took us to her small embroidery shop just beyond the meat market. It lies, tucked away with other shops, some with quiet and ancient shopkeepers, others no better than mountebanks.
We sat.
We watched the Moroccans pass instead of the minutes.
Sanna then rose, beckoning us to follow, checking over her shoulder to make certain we had not been lost to the sea of shoulders. We followed through this labyrinth of a city, through alleys I knew I would soon forget, into another Dar where two women and a young girl had already sat down to tea. The television was on, and, for our benefit, they turned the channel to an American movie. Gigli.
Again, we sat. The two older women chatted, and Sanna dissappeared with her friend, leaving the two of us to the sounds of Arabic palaver and poorly scripted dialogue. Soon, the girls returned, and the older woman departed, coming to kiss me. I, however, was not aware of the right-right-left cheek kissing method. It ended awkwardly, but it ended in laughter.
We returned to the shop.
Around 9, the mother, whose name I forget, took us through the market to buy some ingredients for dinner. Chicken. As we waited for it to be cut, a small cat nibbled on intestines at my feet. And, displayed on the counter was a tray of brains. I was thankful for the chicken. We crossed back and forth through the market. The crowd swelled. I tried to remember to keep my gaze down. The sun was now gone, and more men began to ask, "how are you, my flower?"
We pushed our way back through the labyrinth, back to the house. We begged to help prepare dinner. I cut an onion. The jellabas and headscarves came off. Sanna became playful. She told us the Arabic names of each ingredient. We soon forgot.
We ate. We grew tired. We climbed our way to the rooftop, laughed through the unsophistication we now faced, laughed through the unfamiliarity with turkish toilets, and managed to arrive at this moment.
I am in Fes.
I am in Morocco.
I am incapable of comprehension.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Ok, so I didn't actually travel,
Norwegian independence Day is kind of like Norwegian Christmas for me. I get to hang out with all of my Norwegian friends (which is basically what they all are anyway) and eat Norwegian food and practice my rough language skills.
This year it kind of rained, but we Norske's don't let that bring down our good time. Mary-Ellen and I went on a top secret mission to steal some St. Olaf flags and then looked through a travel brochure. We cheered for Hannah as she carried a banner and they we found this troll to take a picture with.
The day inspired me to write this in my moleskine-
When I think about it all I get so sad. I love it there more than one should love a place. More than Captain VonTrapp loved Austria, and certainly more than Carrie Bradshaw loves Manhattan.
The very thought that at this moment I could be sitting by the pier in Oslo drinking coffee with a sugar cube in my mouth is enough to make me cry.
Sometimes, when I find myself just a bit too full of emotion and simply need to leak a few tears, I think I must be crying for Norway.
Back To My Whole Explosion Over Hamburgers Not Tasting Right
glaze of death stuck to my fingers because I've spent a good amount of time in discussion/thought about what Fr. Phil was handing me to put into my mouth. I found it to be more sloppy joe than burger. But, really, a sloppy joe is still made from burger and bread not like that Krispy Kreme burger this of death. So, yea, I freaked out and called this:
