Living More Fresno

My supervisor turned to me today as I was driving her back to the office from a meeting offsite. "I'm aware that your contract is set to end in two weeks, and I want you to know we're working on it. I've emailed our ED and she hasn't responded, but we'll set a time to meet with the grant administrator sometime soon, so hopefully your funding can be continued."

I graciously responded, fully aware that everyone's grants are expiring right now, and we've only received a few new ones.... 

...

I knew all that. I really did. but somehow, the two week mark hadn't clicked yet.

...

At Thanksgiving, one of the only real things I heard was my uncle say his business wasn't great, but it was okay, he hadn't had to lay any one off recently.

... 

Sometimes I think the biggest reason I came back to Fresno was to meet this boy. He's the most stable thing going on in my life right now. Not sure if that's the healthiest place to be in, but I'm happy. He's got a good job, works full time doing computer programming stuff. We're going to his company Christmas party in a week... at Ruth's Chris Steak House. We drive around in his black truck, run errands and visit his parents on the weekend (I bought myself a car finally, too!). He holds me and the world falls into place. 

...

We have a conversation about slowing things down and then walk into a jewelry store that's going out of business. Don't worry y'all, I freaked out and ranted about terrible working practices and blood diamonds and corruption in South Africa. 

On Beginning to see what I'm here to learn

"You know Christine, graduating high school is going to be the biggest thing I will have done in my whole life" she told me suddenly. I was suddenly ashamed of all my well-meant earlier admonitions to think bigger than city college. She's right, in a small way, but her brains are capable of doing anything in the world.
This girl who used to talk about leaving Fresno for college has realized that she is responsible for her family. What's more, she has realized that her family is her priority; despite outside influences pulling one way or the other. They would let her leave, and they would be proud of her successes. She knows it. She is choosing to stay. I am humbled by her strength, even as a confused shy high school senior. And I am going to scream so loudly at her graduation ceremony this May.

* * * * *

A girl had just come in to ask for an internship, and eventually mentioned that we knew her sister. As she was leaving my coworker says, "that's my sister-in-law. She married my wife's brother"

* * * * *

In one of my 1-1 listening sessions, a girl told me she thought Fresno was getting better, because she remembered the violence growing up, and having to go to funerals. There's not a funeral for a young person every weekend any more. When I asked what she wanted Fresno to be like (another city, specific area of town, or something from tv/movies), she thought about it and said a local private university, because its quiet and peaceful and the grass is actually green there.

* * * * *

Surrounded by people coming from much more communal-minded families (cultures), I am filled with thankfulness that they accept and love me, even as I am selfish and individualistic. I am learning to live well with my mother, and appreciating my incredible greater family.
There's this boy in my life, (we're "dating exclusively", which I think means boyfriend/girlfriend in high school lingo). His parents have a total of 16 siblings, giving him over a hundred cousins. I'm impressed.(i have a hard time focusing when I start thinking about him... guess this is the end of my post)

On Being in Fresno again

I've started half a dozen blogs since returning Home (in all senses of  that word). The words haven't come out right, yet. I've decided to not be so ambitious as to fully explain my current feelings or thoughts, but instead share some ideas I've been pondering.

A friend recently read Thomas Merton's Seven Storey Mountain, which I read last summer. What I took out of it, was from a simple conversation that Merton has with a friend before even entering a religious order. How does one become a saint? by wanting to become one.

"ecumenicism at  its best, means you walk away more deeply connected to your own tradition of faith" -Mary Jo  (who also said the faith of Muslims she lived with showed her what faith really could be)

"Each day holds a surprise. But only if we expect it can we see, hear, or feel it when it comes to us. Let's not be afraid to receive each day's surprise, whether it comes to us as a sorrow or as a joy. It will open a new place in our hearts, a place where we can welcome new friends and celebrate more fully our shared humanity" Henry Nouwen, Bread for the Journey

Everything so far has added up to being Ready for This, Here Right Now, and somehow what is to come is going to take the grand sum of everything I will have learned up to then.

that I could learn Spanish, and be fluent. (related- that I know more than I give myself credit for. apparently my accent is impeccable, according to an older man with questionable intentions)

that I want to find a family to live with in the southern half of town. preferably Spanish speaking, but maybe Lao.

I already have more education that 3/4ths of the those older than 25 in this county.

There are plenty of other educated intelligent boomerangers who have returned and are actively making a difference in this town (especially with youth).

I am attracted to people who go All Out towards some desire/ideal. preferably altruistic. (related- apparently my huge list of qualifications for ABoyInLife aren't that impossible, they are just intensely localized)

I am happy here. I feel lucky (/blessed) to be here. I feel really really lucky to be working here.

On Being a Companion

In the first few weeks past orientation, I fielded a phone call from a scared young man. He wanted to ask about specific line-by-line fields in his Personal Information Form (PIF). He had so many questions, I invited him to come into the office. We worked hard, and filled out the 16 page document. I heard his story, and helped him apply for social assistance,  legal aid, work permit, etc. I also connected him to a legal lady who works part time here. Some things he qualified for, and others he didn't.
Throughout the year, he checked in with me. I helped with various things. He found support groups, doctors, a counselor, a church (all on his own).
When my leg was broken, he gave me a sweet, and entirely appropriate, card with some candy.
He received a notice for scheduling, and began to panic a bit. He didn't qualify for legal aid, and no lawyers wanted to touch his case. Our legal lady began to talk to him about other options, because we knew, he didn't fit the definition of a refugee or protected person. He panicked some more. He disappeared for a while.
He found some other options for himself, and he found a lawyer.
The day before the hearing, I asked if he still wanted me to come to the hearing. He said he didn't want me to see him crying. that it would make him more nervous. etc. etc. So I didn't go.
Yesterday he had his hearing. He was summarily denied.
Today he called me. He sounded so relieved that it was all over. It was the least stressed and least panicked that he's been all year. He sounded normal. He's evaluating his options, but will probably return to his home country, work a bit, and then attempt to come back to Canada as a student or a worker.

And so I'm reminded what accompaniment is about: walking with people, even if its not the romanticized ideal "refugee". I walked with him this year, through the entire refugee process. People have the right to be heard. He was heard. His claim was denied, the legally appropriate response (dare I judge?).

Everyone has the right to make a refugee claim, to be heard by a refugee protection officer, and to present evidence proving their claims. Laws, human rights, international conventions, they apply equally to likable and unlikable people. to nice people and mean ones, anxious or angry, tall or short, OCD or scattered, attractive or ugly, old or young, fat or funny. Everyone has the right to be heard. At RH, we try to walk with the people who come to us, as faithfully as we can, throughout the Canadian process. I am transformed by the strength, dignity, and sheer willpower of those who I have companioned (for which I am so thankful).

My Story Tree is Drooping

either from the insane humidity today, or the weight of so many stories.
 + + +
The boy who lives downstairs is singing "I know a song that is on anybody's words, anybody's words, anybody's words". I'm not sure if I want to correct him so he sings "that gets on everybody's nerves" or not.

His baby sister has the most wonderful smile. I babysat her today while she slept.

Their middle sister has made only happy noises today, as far back as I can remember. And she was happy this morning waiting for the bus

+ + +

the ladies who live underneath his family will miss me when I'm gone. They tell me my skin is like velvet.
Last night, we couldn't find a skin color in our new xbox360 avatar selections that matched one of them. she was laughing, and yelling, Christine! find it! where is my color?!. Its not here! and we couldn't find it anywhere. nothing lighter than dark dark brownish black that was lighter than cinnamon.
...
This whole week whenever I've come through the front door, she has stopped me, demanded I sit down and tell her about my day. It feels good.
...
Today, we talked about the interns salaries.
"that boy, he is working overtime?" -H
"yeah... except we don't get paid overtime, so really he's just working extra" -me
"ey! how much do you get paid? you work for free?" -H
"well. we get enough for rent. and then $115 for food. and then $200 just for us"
"it is not bad" - L simultaneously with H saying "it is so bad!
"no. its not a lot of money, but we have lots of fun anyways" -me
"but, you know. That thing you do. According to the Bible, if you do the volunteering, especially with the refugees and the very poor ones, you will be blessed more than the one who works for money. You will have very many blessings because of your work this year.
Even us, we volunteer too. It is good. Me? I volunteer for two hours a week, and then I am fed up. You? you work every day all year, even weekends sometimes.
you have learned so much this year. You talk to me, it is like you are namibian too. you talk to Z, it is like you are from her country.... and we learn too.
If you had just stayed in California, stayed with your mom, you would not have learned anything. Your mind would be closed. If you travel, if you help people, God will open your mind.
You know, life is not easy, working with the people.
But you guys, you come here to be with us for a full year. It is so much. It is amazing."

+ + +

The lady that lives below her has her hearing date, and did so beautifully in an interview today that she's starting work on Friday. Her daughter and I are going swimming this week. I'm excited.

+ + +

Today I turned over all my files to our director. Now I need to slowly clean out my desk and plan two last things. It feels good (among other emotions)

Excerpts on Whiteness

All of these quotes are taken from an article “How Do I Live in This Strange Place?” by  S a m a n t h a V i c e of R h o d e s University in South Africa.
accessed from the blog Africa is a Country  with a link to the article. Its worth reading in its entirety, (with the caveat that white people have inherently talked enough about everything in South Africa, so it might be more worth your time to go read something written by a nonwhite voice. whatever)

I think possibly, I came to a related conclusion after living in Stellenbosch for six months. Something about backing away slowly from International Development, and trying to stay in my own context. Except my own context is Fresno, and the people I love most are at FIRM, where I am still white (knowing I am not Hmong or Lao or Cambodian or Hispanic or Chicana). Reading it now, I like her conclusion of silence and humility, and that the solution to whiteliness is not mandating all bearers of whiteness jump in politically to attempt to rectify all past and ongoing injustices...

And in South Africa, the working and effects of privilege are starkly apparent; one cannot in good faith pretend they do not exist. Deciding how to live decently with this recognition is one of the main moral tasks facing all white people and the task I explore in this paper. How then is one to be a good person and live well under these morally dubious conditions? One way in which South Africa perhaps differs from the standard account [invisibility] mentioned above is that it is impossible for anyone not to be aware of his or her race... While one’s whiteness might still constitute the unacknowledged norm, as the invisibility thesis claims, that one is white rather than black is always present to oneself and others, barring an impressive feat of willed self-deception.

 My interest, then, is in white South Africans who are aware of their whiteness and,... see themselves as a problem, because they know their selves to be constituted by habits of white privilege. 18 In the rest of the paper, I have these people in mind when I refer to whites, not those who are blatantly and proudly racist. Alcoff asks, “what is it to acknowledge one’s whiteness? Is it to acknowledge that one is inherently tied to structures of domination and oppression, that one is irrevocably on the wrong side?” 19 I think the answer to Alcoff’s question in South Africa is fairly obviously “yes.” Whites in South Africa ought to see themselves as a problem. How does one live knowing this, among the very visible effects of one’s moral offenses?

... to explore it further it will be helpful to put guilt aside and concentrate on shame. ... In standard accounts of the moral emotions, shame differs from guilt in being essentially directed toward the self, rather than outwards toward a harm one brought about.25 Shame is a response to having fallen below the standards one sets for oneself, whether moral or not. One’s very self is implicated in a way that need not be the case with guilt, which is a reaction to what one has done, not primarily to who one is...Shame is the recognition that one ought not to be as one is, and it does not, I think, depend on the claim that one could be different to how one is.

....

... I do not think that it is possible for most well-intentioned white South Africans who grew up in the Apartheid years to fulfill their moral duties and attain a great degree of moral virtue. 38 We cannot after all stop being white, although we may try to minimize our whiteliness, and have a duty to do so. There are the justly famous exceptions, and we probably all know people who are simply and quietly good in ways that allow them to transcend their whiteness. I am not making any universal or necessary claims about the possibility of happiness and virtue for white South Africans. For most of us, however, attaining them will be difficult, for most of us are not good enough to become exceptions.

.....

I seek an appropriate way of living with white shame that is nonetheless private and does not assume that every person ought to respond only as a political animal, and that every response need be an outward action. For the very reason that every aspect of life in South Africa is so politicized, we should allow space for forms of expiation and self-improvement that do not demand a public gesture or political activity

...

To be morally successful, a certain restraint on our parts is required, which I now suggest we think about in terms of humility and silence. This restraint is, I think, appropriate to the South African context in a way it might not be elsewhere....

So, recognizing their damaging presence, whites would try, in a significantly different way to the normal workings of whiteliness, to make themselves invisible and unheard, concentrating rather on those damaged selves. Making pronouncements about a situation in which one is so deeply implicated seems a moral mistake—it assumes one matters politically and morally beyond the ways in which everyone matters equally. One needs to learn that one does not. One would live as quietly and decently as possible, refraining from airing one’s view on the political situation in the public realm, realizing that it is not one’s place to offer diagnoses and analyses, that blacks must be left to remake the country in their own way. Whites have too long had influence and a public voice; now they should in humility step back from expressing their thoughts or managing others.

...

 Whatever else it is, whiteliness is surely a lack of humility.

...

My attempt in this paper to think through being white would then be a professional and personal breaking of pernicious whitely silence; “making strange” what was previously “just the way things are.” 

The relevant kind of silence is therefore a political silence, silence in the political realm, rather than a professional silence or the stifling of all conversation with others in which race or privilege, for instance, is the topic. For once again, shame, regret, or guilt would be the expected responses to knowledge of one’s whiteliness and insidious connection to injustice. This knowledge seems to recommend silence in the political realm as the morally decent policy: One would remain silent to prevent one’s whitely perspective from causing further distortion in the political and public contexts, where whiteness is most problematic and charged. Thought of in these terms, silence is a response to the inevitability of going wrong and an expression of humility.

Unlike many other colonial legacies, which whites should certainly feel uncomfortable about, our history of injustice is recent, part of living memory, something whites benefit from in direct, unmediated ways—and therefore something that implicates each one’s sense of self now. My argument for the appropriateness of feeling shame and of responding to it with silence and humility depends not on some ancient wrong done in our name, but of our own ongoing wrongdoings and their visible effects. Once again, then, the best moral response is to accept shame as both appropriate and troubling, and to turn one’s attention to the self with silence and if possible, humility.

Living decently in this land even under these conditions will be difficult. In a country beset by continuing injustice, it will be hard sometimes to discern when it is appropriate to maintain silence, and when that would indicate, rather, an inappropriate disengagement or obsession with moral purity. Perhaps gross injustice is being done, and whatever one’s race, whatever the context, one should take a stand. 49 Furthermore, one would still be compelled to make small gestures and utterances; there are demands every day for private acts, not of charity but of justice (whitely ways of thinking in this country confuse these two). But knowing how best to respond to these occasions is also difficult when whites still have economic and social power, which infects every encounter. White South Africans face daily and tenacious moral tests that show themselves up as inadequate as much as revealing the deep structural and systemic injustices of the country. However one acts, shame is never far away, for so many interactions seem charged with power or racial dynamics. It is hard to be comfortable like this and hard to resist the thought that for most white South Africans it will be almost impossible to lead a good life.

A Short Dictionary of Life Here

babies: a fact of life. over the course of the year, many turn into toddlers, and are replaced by new ones in different families.
communication: highly prized, but rarely fully realized
community: all-encompassing, defines life, yet makes little sense from the outside.
idealistic: a term thrown about with disdain as we balance impossible lives
interns: first overwhelmed confused small beings, then after three months become highly experienced staff members capable of legal advice, housing support, event coordination, public administration, teaching, babysitting, and counseling. Thoroughly appreciate when others cook for them, especially halusky.
left over wine: the best part of being voluntold to work events
meat: a highly prized nutritional supplement, fiercely defended against vegetarian proclamations of thinner staff

ohromerohouse: said with a loving sigh, or amused eyeroll. used on occasions where illogical decisions are made on behalf of bettering or protecting a relationship

ohmaryjo: a frequent saying. also can be followed by a song "mary jOoOoOo mary jo mary jo" closely related to: ohromerohouse
Oscar Romero's Prayer: not actually written by him, but quoted liberally in public and private
patience: the highest virtue we know.
parties: an essential ingredient for encouraging joy and happiness with the residents

prayer: a daily morning occurrence, to varying levels of participation or appreciation.

pregnant/mother: what all female-interns are regularly told they are (or ought to be) by residents, drop-ins, and former residents

sleep: highly prized, especially on weekends past nine am. 

TTC pass: highly prized plastic cards that interns can use in spare time to escape briefly. highly contentious issue if not returned in time. 

volentold: when interns work unplanned weekends or evenings for events that don't involve residents or daily tasks. the modus opperandi for making events happen that have been planned for other people.

Wanda: where to go when you don't have any money left to really get away from it all

Ridiculously Homesick Today

I wanna go home rull bad today.
It started with the Mexican food that my neighbor cooked on Friday. She made taquitos/flautas and sopes. I was trying to get out the door, she invited me to eat three times, and I managed to say no the first two times. Her husband's guacamole is divine. So I ate 3 taquitos and 3 sopes. And then I went to the event (with the ex-Jesuit) and served canapes to RH donors. And then I ate 3 more taquitos. and maybe 3 more sopes. and I tried the other appetizers too.
but theres something about deep friend corn flour surrounding fatty meat and cheese. smothered in guacamole and a bit of Mexican sour cream. it tastes like home.
When Jouni was here, we ate Vietnamese. I ordered coconut water and almost cried when it came. It was so good.
Yesterday, I ate Chipotle. It was good, but it wasn't the same.
***
Ashley asked what I was looking forward to most in August. The following list exploded out of my mouth:
1. Mexican food
2. fresh fruit that isn't transported thousands of miles first
3. being close to the mountains
4. being close to the ocean
5. warm summer nights
6. being able to call people with my cell phone
7. being able to text
8. having access to my moms car
9. going camping with my friends
10. being able to call my best friend and actually spend time with her before she moves to Utah
11. seeing those Fresno boys again.

There are so many beautiful things about being here, but man oh man, 40 never seemed like such a big number...

another person's opinion on my experience here

I met a character from one of Mary Jo's books last night.
He's the Jesuit who left the order to start a family.
Jack told us last night "he's more of a Jesuit than I'll ever be" (to which the man rolled his eyes and shook his head)
He's now working internationally for the Jesuits in his retirement. He looked sternly at the three female interns sitting on the bench across from him. "Be careful. Once you get involved with the Jesuits, you'll always stay involved" ..whoops...

...

later he asked me if Romero House had "ruined me for life" like the Jesuit Volunteers say that JVS does for their life. I told him I really didn't like that term at all. He explained that I was "ruined" from ever enjoying dominant culture, or capitalism, or all these other things. I told him I still didn't like that term.

 I prefer ideas of a more infinite Yes. Being open to a greater existence, a world of unseen possibilities, etc, etc.

...

Being a "Ruined" person implies that I could never go back even if I wanted to. It alludes to "ruined women" who, having lost their virginity, could never be accepted in proper society again. It implies that I have no choice in the matter. Me, having had one singular experience, would be automatically rejected by society. The experience entered me, and I having experienced it, am ruined.  No turning back, and I have not influenced anyone or anything. I have been altered, and must live with the consequences. He assumes that before we enter into these year-or-two-long experiences we were pure and naive, maybe even innocent.
I viscerally am disgusted by that idea.

...

I, being Presbyterian (apparently), prefer the idea that I have been walking this road since before I was born. That I am who I am, and I will be who I was meant to be, and this is but one experience in a long string of experiences. I am richer for it, I am stronger for it, I am wiser for it.

I am not ruined because of it.

...

After I leave here, I will continue to stretch and grow, and think about things. I will continue to live alongside people, to address issues of poverty and injustice. I will continue to read, to question authority, to pray and to sing (badly but happily). I will love children, I will fight for families. I will keep learning to budget. I will read the news. I will laugh. I will go shopping (sometimes even at Wal-Mart, when I'm really desperate and the event is about to start). I will make things from scratch, and I will repair things that break. I will buy plastic and cheap furniture when I move into a new apartment. I will garden, and I will buy mangoes imported from across the world. I will drink tea and talk dirty with women from across the globe. I will call my friends, and be glad to hear their voice on my coltan-dependent fancy cell phone. I will be angry at the news sometimes, and I will take full advantage of my US citizenship to travel anywhere in the world (almost).

...

The world is not black and white. I am neither ruined nor pure. I reserve the right to interact with the world as myself, outside of categories or assumptions. I have been me for many years before this one. I will continue to be this person for many years to come.

Let Me Pick You A Story From Our Tree

He knows my name! my friend told me while sitting in the common room.
He can say it! He told me, it means Gift in his language.
He knows my name!

And my name too! my other friend-neighbor told me
but he doesn't know what it means... but it is from his language too.
It is a name in his country.

because our country had many missionaries from Finland.
this is how we learned about God.

Many people, when they meet me, they cannot say my name, because of the j
even you, you couldn't remember our names when you met us
but he, he knows how to say our names. he knows our names.

* * *

"I was talking to my boyfriend about the pinatas. He asked if you had gone to teacher's college or something, because you were really good. I said no. It was just you."

* * *
like most days, I woke up exhausted, but I got out of bed nevertheless to go clean up from the street party. Worked a few hours, then crashed at Starbucks a few hours. A former resident had been in the ER yesterday ('ey! I saw that one who lives in my house now in the hospital, but he didn't see me), and I took her son home last night and checked in on her. Today I promised to cook her dinner, but I was dreading it all day.
I left an hour late, but picked up some chicken, ice cream and perogies from the store on the way. I cooked her some chicken rice soup (that turned into chicken rice after I served it... hmmm) and we watched two movies. I taught her son how to cook perogies (for lunch this week), and eventually left around 10pm in the best mood I've been in for a while. Life is so good.

then my journey home reminded me of why Canada is great.

As I left her rent-geared-to-income apartment complex I walked through a poorer part of downtown, unnoticed by anyone. No catcalls, no asking for change, no dirty or suspicious glances. Just people minding their own business on their own stoops or going somewhere of their own.
When I got to the subway station, I read the handwritten sign at the teller's booth. "Agent gone.  Please drop your payment in the box and continue through the turnstile"
So I dropped 2.50 in the box and walked through the turnstile,
hopped on my prompt subway, transferred quickly
and was home in 20 minutes.
(and when I got off the subway at Dundas West, I realized maybe I have been in Canada too long. I did the right thing, and paid the fare even when no one was watching. Whats worse, I didn't even notice that until I had gotten home....)

Listening to Sigur Ros, imagining feeling carefree some day...

Jouni and I found an amazing Vietnamese restaurant in Chinatown the other day. I ordered coconut juice and almost cried when they brought me the glass. I had the best Bun (possibly ever? crazy. I know). Jouni said "I think maybe you need to go back to Fresno"

wholeheartedness

I pulled this quote from a book a few Saturdays ago, and have been weighing it ever since.

The antidote to exhaustion may not be rest. It may be wholeheartedness.

Its completely counter-intuitive, and its the last thing I want someone to tell me on a low-day.  But... somehow its true (when authentically enacted). I never realize it beforehand, but sometimes I stand up and realize I feel better. The solution is wholeheartedness.

This week has been long and tedious. I've been working on installing internet, which although innocent sounding, is actually a Herculean task wherein beyond every solution lies two more problems. AND, people who have never had internet before now, have realized they will have internet as soon as I solve all the problems. So they come and bug me. Every day. Multiple times a day. (and interns were included in that, until I asked them to stop). Yesterday, I restored internet to two apartments, only to take it away from the family with the most computers. I could shoot something.
I may be perfectly competent to call customer service for hours on end, and I may be perfectly computer literate. I may have ALL the necessary skills. BUT IT DRAINS MY SOUL AWAY TO CARE SO MUCH ABOUT INSTALLING INTERNET FOR WEEKS ON END.

so, its Friday. This morning, I worked on internet. This afternoon I went to an appointment in Brampton with a family. I was gone for 5 hours. I came home and cooked fajitas for dinner. I was so tired.

I came up through the back driveway to my house. I was thinking about mowing our front lawn, but before I could get to it, I saw the little girl from the basement playing in the dirt. I called her to me, and showed her how she could pull out the little oak seedlings as she played. We made little tree bouquets together and then raced to put them in the green bin. After a while, she asked me "Christine, are you ever going to cut down that long grass up there?" and I said, "Yeah. I am. Let's do it right now."
So I went and grabbed some pruning shears to attack these plants that looked like they were going to be beautiful flowers, but ended up being flailing grassy leaves that are taking over our garden. I started chopping. The girl started helping me pull out the stocks.
Soon one of the ladies from the first floor came out. "What are you doing?? Is it garden club today? I was going to take a shower, but I saw you and I came out to see what is happening"
"No, its not garden club not exactly. But you can help us if you want!"
So the lady came down and started tugging out plants too.
A little while later the small girl's mom came out too.
Soon, a lady from another house came by, because her family had been playing in the parkette. I didn't see her at first, I just heard "Christine!!! Why you is no invite me for garden club!?!?!"
I responded "Well. It was an accident. There will be a real garden club soon, but this is just an accident. it started with just me and the girl, and then it just kept getting bigger...."
"Okay. Who cares. I help you."
So then we were four grown women, pulling out crazy strong plants. We got some pitchfork action going, got the roots out of some of them (more work to come, though). We planned a party for our house, thought up what seeds to use, talked about last year, talked about plants that grow in everyone's home countries. And as it got dark, we headed inside, and washed up.

And my heart feels so much better now.

Communicating where I am...

Excerpt from The Two Gretels by Robin Morgan

The two Gretels were exploring the forest.
Hansel was home,
sending up flares.

Sometimes one Gretel got afraid.
She said to the other Gretel,
"I think I'm afraid."
"Of course we are," Gretel replied.

Sometimes the other Gretel whispered,
with a shiver,
"You think we should turn back?"
To which her sister Gretel answered,
"We can't. We forgot the breadcrumbs."

So, they went forward
because
they simply couldn't imagine the way back.

http://andreaandluke.blogspot.com/2009/07/two-gretels-communion-liturgy-andrea.html

My roommate Katie shared this poem in her morning prayer on Thursday. The above link is from her country supervisor from last year, when she was living in Mexico as a YAGM volunteer. One of the things she offered in her reflection was the need to communicate clearly with your friends and family "Hansels" back at home.
We don't go home the same. And the only way home is forward. Even when people at home are sending up flares, or memories from ages past come haunt you, the only way forward is to imagine the new way. So communicate where you are now, and where it is you think you might possibly be going from here.

I am moving home to Fresno, but as an adult. The only way is forward. I'm not going to be the same that I was before I left, just like I wasn't the same when I came back from Whitworth, or home from South Africa. Its an ugly transition, you know, learning to live as your new self in an old familiar place.

And even though I dream of Fresno, of boys past, of fresh fruit, warmth and sunshine, I am older, I am stronger, I am freer. I have walked this far, and I will keep walking all my life. It is good to walk in the rain, in the sun, even in the snow sometimes. I don't know that my memory works well enough to serve as breadcrumbs, which is just as well.

 * * * * *
And where am I now?

My feelings in this forest are so varied, depending on the day. This week I have been so tired, so frustrated at a family, our administrator, the freaking patriarchy in this organization, and the effing Bell internet. This week I have been really happy, and really proud of myself, I mowed the lawn of my house, I installed internet in another, I did a creative morning reflection, I danced at our fundraiser, and I saw an incredible production of Midsummer Night's Dream. I've been connected with home, with news of an interview offer, EdD acceptence, wedding-scheduling talks. I've been planning a mini vacation to NYC too. I've spent good quality time with some residents of my house, I've fed a baby, I've welcomed another baby into the world. I've connected an illiterate woman with a skilled tutor. I've introduced ELL kids to Shakespeare, and they laughed at all the right parts.
I've thought about justice. about my life. about this world. about the oscillating relevancy of politics. about Canadian politics. about Pho and Thai tea. I tasted my first slurpee of the summer. and drank a dirty chai in the rain.

whoops. do you see how easy it is to slip from feelings to actions? let's try again.
This week, I've felt lonely. I've felt loved.
I've felt admired and condemned in a red dress.
I've felt pride and anger.
I even woke up in the morning asking why in the world I have gotten out of bed every other morning that I could remember. (eventually I convinced my half-asleep self that the reason one gets out of bed is to see what it is in the day that makes it worth it... and one won't ever know unless one gets out of bed to see)
I've felt drained and then filled.
I've felt far from home, and blessed to be here.
I've felt frustrated at others, and at myself.
I've felt thankful, and I've felt loved.

Its hard to say what it is I see in you.

The sun has finally come out in Toronto for THREE days in a row! AND they even happened on a weekend. I do better in sunshine. I love feeling tan, or at least a little bit darker.

My ankle is healing so much faster than I thought it would, but it still looks like a grandma with diabetes foot by the end of the day.

Here's a list of things that I find hard to do:

1. write honestly when I know people are actually reading what I say. That being said, I think its important that I don't post things I wouldn't want someone to read (which has happened, and exploded terribly all over the end of one summer, even though I still stand by what I said).
2. talk about feelings (especially ambiguous ones)
3. buy good gifts for my mom
4. get out of the house on a Sunday
5. e-mail friends of friends (even if the connection is already made)
6. get to church on a Sunday (especially alone)
7. talk through negative things, but stay optimistic about the big picture
8. engage with residents who are my companions on the weekend
9. take time for myself, and then return at full force
10. commit fully to the present here, when I know I'm leaving in a few months. 

but when the sun is shining, it so much easier to trust that it will all work out in the end. So much easier to realize I have so much more than enough here.

Today I spent mostly waiting for a doctor in various waiting rooms, because a thirteen year old companion of mine broke their foot playing soccer on Friday. Separately, I also had physiotherapy for my own ankle at the hospital we ended up in the emergency room of later. I got back from the hospital at 7pm (where at the end of the day, they had done nothing for this kid, except give us a 7am appointment the next morning in the Fracture Clinic). Then I ate a bit of dinner, and sat in the rooftop garden with two interns. We talked a bit, which is always therapeutic, but mostly we just WERE. Sitting with our faces towards the setting sun, together, and then my soul is replenished.

After they left, I weeded the garden a bit, and did some physio excercises on the trampoline up there. 

I am thankful to be here. It is good to be here. Even when I am exhausted and frustrated and really hungry in a waiting room. Even when residents are complete and total bitches to our faces or behind our backs. Even when nothing happens the way it was said in the morning meeting. 

It is good to live with people. It is not good to be alone.

It is good to hear a happy girl clapping and singing early in the morning. and to hear loud shouts of GOOOOOAAALLLL!!!

It is good to bike from house to house, and to connect people who need help with those who can provide it. Its even better to facilitate the beginning of friendships.

It is good to walk in your neighborhood, or local park, to nap in the grass, and to hear a young girl say to her mother "but mommy.... where are you going? its so BEAUtiful here...."

It is good to finally get exercise, to have your heart pump before your ankle throbs.

It is good to be single. To be free and open and perfectly complete. To have no worries of babies or pregnancy. 

It is good to be surrounded by interns. and then surrounded by adoptive aunties, mothers, sisters, friends. To trust and be trusted with each others lives, stories, children. 

(i who have died am alive again today,and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birthday of life and of love and wings: and of the gaygreat happening illimitably earth)
-ee cummings

"Go ahead and live your life.You might be surprised. The world might continue."-Gwendolyn Brooks

Blog of Lists

5 Beautiful Things I will take with me from the Catholic influence here

1. RETREATS! retreats are the best, and help everything. I've taken one personal retreat and two intern retreats. essential practice for the rest of my life.
2. greater appreciation for the Psalms, and their incredibly poetry. It amazes me a little bit how we can read the same Psalms every month and every so often a line or a few words will pop out at me in a totally new way
3. the Canticle of Zechariah (blessed are you God of Israel for you have visited and redeemed your people. and have raised up a horn of salvation in the house of your servant). what its all about. in a nutshell. 
4. ...appreciation of Jesuits... whoops. 
5. Mary Jo's steadiness of presence. Her whole-life commitment to Being With people.

4 Things I learned that I do

1. even with a good attitude, and awareness that others depend on my attention to detail, I still really don't like dishes
2. i'm not good at branching out and meeting total strangers in a new city. i think that I'd like to have multiple friend circles, but I don't actually make the effort to attend awkward things like book clubs or yoga classes at the library...
3. communicate well with people with limited to no english. (if they let it happen)... before I thought it was a skill that everyone who worked with refugees had... not so, i have discovered
4. i am utterly dependent on the internet for my sense of stability and place in the world. I stay up too late on the internet and then don't function in the mornings.... regularly.

5 bookmarks I depend on:

1. facebook
2. New America Media 
3. my google reader
4. Al Jazeera English
5. God's Politics blog

other places I want to try to be in the world:

1. Thailand/Laos*
2. Slovakia/Eastern Europe*
3. North Africa
4. East Africa
5. Amsterdam/anywhere in the Netherlands/Geneva/Brussels**
6. Turkey
7. Kerala
8. Forced Migration Studies department at Wits in South Africa. Also Cape Town**

 (**and/or attempt living in)

1 place that I daydream about regularly:

1. Fresno

94 days

I am tired. Its the time of year when I seem to get tired. I am so ready for the clouds to part and the sun to shine through. 

Mother Theresa says, do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired.

I'm not quite sure how thats supposed to happen. 

Somehow when you/I/one first start a project, its so exciting. Meeting new people, learning a new system, trying and even failing. Slowly, it becomes easier, less overwhelming, until one day it is completely and entirely ordinary. People are people, who you know, and who know you. There aren't really surprises, because even if a new circumstance comes up, you already know how each person is going to respond, and who you need to call to sort it out. Some people complain about everything. Some people freak out like the world is ending (and always need some small crisis to be solved)... maybe so they can feel like they're making progress in the midst of the incredibly infuriating long wait. 

I live with people who are waiting to be heard. They are waiting for a hearing, so that they can learn if the government of Canada is willing to accept their story, and willing to let them stay in Canada. A family could wait two years for a hearing, then wait three months for a letter, (and if they're not accepted, wait a few weeks for the next last-chance application to try to stay). And if all that fails? They go back. They're deported. 

If it works however, these fragile (sometimes annoying) people can trust the world again. They can slowly become more fully human, more fully present. They can live, fully. not waiting any longer. 

I haven't figured out a good response yet, when someone asks me if they are going to be accepted or not. I tell them I don't know. Even though I have heard their story over coffee or jack daniels. Even though I have seen how their children can't sleep at night without nightmares. Even though I have watched them conquer so much in their time here. Even though I believe that every inch of their humanity is valid and wholly worthy of protection. I don't know if Canada is their new home, or if they'll be sent back.

I am tired of not knowing. I am tired of bearing stories and expecting them to not be accepted. The political climate of Canada is so conservative these days, and the refugee board that hears the cases is more and more highly politicized.

I work with a lot of Roma(ni) these days, gypsies (zigan/cegan) in common derogatory terms. I can't believe the shit that these kids have gone through in their schools. I can't believe the shit their parents went through, or their grandparents. (Did you know that the Roma were killed off alongside the Jews in the Holocaust? sometimes just gunned down in killing fields, as to not waste the resources expended by transporting them to gas chambers?). There's limited evidence that people bring with them of systemic discrimination. police brutality and roaming masked mobs. people marching and chanting "death to the criminals: the jews the gypsies and the homosexuals."

And yet, today I was reading al-Jazeera, and I saw an appealing picture. It was a face, vaguely Asian, but I didn't read the headline next to it. I clicked through to find a beautiful slideshow of Hmong faces in Vietnam. I listened to the first seven minutes of the accompanying documentary about the difficulties around infant mortality and cross-cultural understanding between the Hmong and Vietnamese. The Hmong are compassionately portrayed as misled pagans with disfunctional traditions. And yet, when I think of Hmong, I think of the incredible strength, vitality, flexibility and beauty of the diaspora community in Fresno and every US city I've spent much time in. And then I remember how silly it can be to box people in, by culture, by poverty, by any form of statistical expectation. I have agency. The people with whom I live have agency. The world is dynamic, just like the relationships I have here, just like the IRB. I can go ahead and live my life, the world just might continue. I can help in real ways, I can love in real ways, but in the end, I am just a small tiny piece of each child's whole life. Each adult who I talk with, or help with something, has agency over her/his life and family. I have a role to play, but it is not to decide.

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way.... We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker. We are workers, not master builders, ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own    ~ prayer attributed to Oscar Romero. 

Example of Feeling Protestant

I've told a few people (including our Jesuit chaplain Jack, whoops) that being at Romero House has made me realize how Protestant I am... and furthermore how much I appreciate my Presbyterian (and *gasp of all gasps* evangelical) roots. For the litany of reasons, I would need another post, but the following event happened a few days ago, and it was the perfect example of how sometimes I get so confused because I don't get the signals, or don't understand whats going on, or what I'm supposed to do, because I'm SO not Catholic. It also demonstrates how I think that the ceremonies and traditions are more fluid than a strict liturgical calendar would let them be. (In fairness, I really appreciate a lot of things that I've learned about Catholic traditions and worldview and commitment to social justice, yet another unwritten post...)

On the Thursday before Good Friday, all the interns gathered for a special "Maundy Thursday" supper. We were apparently recreating the last supper, with unleavened naan and red wine... and chicken and red beets. Before we ate, however, we gathered in the intern common room for a washing of feet. Before the actual washing of feet, our director read a rather long reflection on this painting by Sieger Koder (but I didn't have my glasses, so I couldn't actually focus on the painting at all... )
Then she removed one shoe and sock, and our founder quietly poured water over her one foot and then wiped it off with a towel. Our director then washed/splashed one foot of the guy sitting next to her, who then splashed and wiped the foot of a girl who then solemnly splashed and wiped my foot. I continued the pattern, and on it went. (may i point out at no point in time were there any verbal instructions on what we were supposed to do)

Afterwards, I asked the intern next to me (who grew up Catholic, but no longer affiliates herself with that) "...so... is the one foot thing being considerate because I have a cast on one of my feet? or is it a catholic thing? or like for efficiency or something?"
she thought for a bit. "umm I don't know... i think the only other time I had my feet washed, it was only one foot too. it must be a Catholic thing, but I would ask MJ to be sure"

So over dinner, we ask our Indian intern about what its like in Kerala. He explains that the priest washes the feet of twelve selected members of the parish and then kisses them, and other traditions to which the Catholic members of our group nod and smile.

Coming from the most "evangelical" or perhaps being the most vocally noncatholic background,  our director asked me, "have you ever had your feet washed before". and I said "yeah, definitely, at like camps, or service retreats, but never in connection with the last supper", which I don't think was the expected answer.

and that right there kind of summarizes why I like coming from a tradition that is not so strictly traditionalist. We don't read the same thing on the same day every three years. We don't have (as many) specific rituals attached to specific days. We do things that feel right, that have a biblical base, when it makes sense for the context. My favorite memory of foot washing happened at a camp. After a long day of hiking towards the end of a week at camp, each cabin found a private location and the leader (me) started washing one of the girls feet. The other girls stood around her and gave positive examples of the girl who was being washed having been a servant leader throughout the week. The girl with two clean feet then washed the feet of the next girl. To me, that more wholly represents what John 13 says what Jesus wanted his disciples to do than a ritual where water is symbolically poured and no ones foot is actually cleaned.

sidenote- i feel the same way about communion/eucharist: bread and wine were what was on the table, what was common when eating, not some sacred substance [although there are special foods for passover, i know. but we all do communion/eucharist monthly or weekly anyways, so we're already breaking from the direct text.... ] It didn't have to be led or blessed by some ordained person. i think what jesus was saying was, when you eat together in community, think of me. i am there too....
Hence, i've had communion with a limited number of skittles shared gracefully, and also with tortillas and cranberry juice. neither time was anyone ordained saying any fancy words. but i'll attest and those kids did too, that the holy spirit was there in the middle of that. even with the closest priest miles away.

PS: After dinner, I asked our director about the one-foot thing, and she laughed and told me that it was simply out of consideration of me only having one foot available. which is sweet. but then i asked another intern, and he said that he's seen both.
so i still don't get it....

Voice of the Day: T.S. Eliot

04-19-2011

“In order to arrive at what you do not know 

You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.

In order to possess what you do not possess

You must go by the way of dispossession. 

In order to arrive at what you are not

You must go through the way in which you are not.

And what you do not know is the only thing you know

And what you own is what you do not own

And where you are is where you are not.”

- T.S. Eliot, from his poem “East Coker”

Verse of the Day: Love in Truth and Action

02-11-2011

"Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action."

- 1 John 3:18

Voice of the Day: Enuma Okoro

02-03-2011

“And the work of God is rarely dull, but it’s not always necessarily what we think. Transformation is hard stuff. Seeking to bring about the kingdom of God — caring for the poor, feeding the hungry, visiting prisoners, caring for the sick, renouncing demons in God’s name — you don’t do that in a 15-minute lunch break.”

- Enuma Okoro

questions that break me (when i get older, i will be stronger)

A new family has moved in. The youngest is nine, and she speaks five languages. They have just come from two years in a Nordic country, and are beginning from nothing once again. They are Roma(ni) from Eastern Europe. They are sweet, funny, and full of laughter alongside of concerns.

Today after starting the school registration process, we sat around their kitchen table and drank strong coffee. After two years of English classes in a foreign European country, the daughters (9 and 11) are conversant, and very interested in who my girl best friend and my boy best friends are. We talk about movies, actors, popular music, and greetings in different languages.

Then after a while, one of the girls began a conversation that I have heard too many times before. "Christina. you are very white."

"yes. yes I am. My skin is very light, especially in winter." She lifts my arm to hold it next to hers.

"You are more white than me" (she is maybe two shades darker than me)

"You are way more white than me" -says her younger sister E (who is caramel-colored with dark hair and eyes, and truly adorable/beautiful)

"Yes, my skin is lighter than yours. but in summer, I will try very hard to get darker skin. I wish that I had skin like yours, E".

"no." -E

"Yeah! its true. Every summer, my friends who are light like me, we lay outside for hours and hours and hours, and we try SO hard to have dark skin. We think it is very beautiful"

"No. it is not beautiful to be black like me". -E

...

and then my heart breaks a little bit.

...

later, we're discussing K'Naan (the waving flag song dude, who was a Somali refugee as a child, and grew up in Toronto).

"is he your boyfriend?" -A

"no. but I wish he was! I've never met him before" -me

"but, do you know his mother?" -E

"no, I've never met his mother" -me

"You should tell him he is your boyfriend" -E

"yeah! I should call him in the phone and tell him, hey! no more girlfriends for you! only me! okay K'naan?" -me, and we all laugh

"...but Christina... he is African?" -A

"yeah, he comes from Somalia, which is in Africa"

"So he is black then?" (A has a seriously concerned look on her face)

"Yeah. he is."

"but he is black..." -A

"Yeah. thats okay with me"

"Is he black like me?" (asks E, a caramel-colored beautiful girl)

"no, he is much darker than you"

"is he black like my dad?" (a slightly darker caramel-colored man)

"no, he is darker than your dad. He's from Africa, so his skin color is like Joy's (their West African neighbor downstairs)"

"You would have a boyfriend who is black like Joy????"

...

My roommate who grew up abroad, went to high school in Chicago, and university in Canada told me in September that Canadians don't really believe in racism... At a museum recently, an intern told me that kids don't think about race. That its only adults that care about race. I told them that one of our kids insulted another by saying "you are too dark like emmanuel (a boy from Nigeria)".

...

Thoughts on talking to kids about the differences between people, and not judging or hating?? loving the skin they are in? not wanting to be white like me? not seeing blackness as something repellent? thoughts on not denying the reality of race and racism in the world but giving them tools and paradigms to avoid soaking it all in?

...

The girls also asked me who I hate. and if they would get hit when they went to school.

Self-centred universe?

In her upcoming book, Mary Jo Leddy, (Romero House Founder), writes on the empire of self that as Americans (she sees Canada as a colony of the US) have grown up knowing as reality. We believe that the world revolves around our country, our media, and by extension, our God, our perception and knowings of God, and even our personal lives. Everyone here lives in a self-centered world. She even points to Christian self-help devotionals that say before we can help anyone or do external works, we must know ourselves, as examples of the self-centered world. Her solution to this problem is to encounter the stranger, and welcome the stranger. When she helps people currently seen as refugees, she is pulled outside herself to serve, and then (hopefully) be transformed in the encounter.

...

All of which, I would generally agree with, even before I read her second chapter this afternoon.

I fullheartedly agree with the radical proposition of Isaiah 58:6-8, that if we work for justice, our own wounds will heal. our own redemption will come.

...

And yet, I am currently bound in my room with books and a computer. In my whole theory of giving up independence for Lent, I still remain in the centre of my newly constructed world. Where is the Lenten transformation in that? In the paradigm I've been working from (pre broken ankle), in order to extend beyond myself, I would need to do something. I would be the one "not hiding from relatives that need my help" and "sharing my food with the hungry". In that version of the paradigm, I am unable to perform those acts, and thus am unable to receive the salvation that comes with the dawn. I am living in a self-centred world. I am the centre of my space. People only come here to be with me. I will not encounter strangers here, I don't think.

...

The solution I think, is to be open to seeing old people in strange ways, to welcoming the new dependent relationships. I need to be open to the possibility that the intern with whom I most often butt heads might be the one who visits me most consistently, who calls to check in daily. The culture that informs the interesting communication among our team is also dictating care and concern for me.

I need to be open to receiving the care and concern that my housemates offer. In redefining our roles to one another, my self should be open to be altered.

I need to be open to the possibility that I can accept gracefully whatever is given to me. I must trust that the godliness and salvation offered by Isaiah in the interchange are given communally, and that grace has many guises (most of which are quite humbling).

I do not earn love or favor, redemption or righteousness. I ought to exist beloved. Nouwen says I am God's Beloved.

On Observing Lent for the first time...

So what is LENT?

At Jesus' baptism the sky split open, the Spirit of God, which looked like a dove, descended and landed on Jesus, and a voice from heaven said, "This is my Son, My Beloved, with whom I am pleased." Afterward, as told in Matthew 4:1-11, Jesus was sent into the wilderness by the Spirit. Where he fasted and prayed for 40 days. During his time there he was tempted by Satan and found clarity and strength to resist temptation. Afterwards, he was ready to begin his ministry.

(Speculation)

Maybe Jesus needed some time with God to sort through the major changes happening in his life. Maybe needed to get away from family, friends and the familiar routine in order to see God (and himself) more clearly. Perhaps he wanted some intentional time with God as he searched for direction and answers like you. Like Jesus, we may need to take some serious time to pray and listen for God.

(http://www.upperroom.org/methodx/thelife/articles/lent101.asp)

* * * * * *

Lent is coinciding with my mandatory bed rest. I'm taking it as an opportunity to think about things. I haven't decided exactly what merits so much thought, but its quite possible that my leg will be in a cast for at least the 40 days from Lent, so I guess that its a good opportunity to give up independence for Lent. Instead of all the things that keep me busy, keep me happy, keep me connected, I'll be dependent on new people, on new things. I'm trying to be positive here and frame it as a spiritual practice to keep me from going stir-crazy.

One would think that independence would naturally be curtailed by living in community. To a certain extent, it is. My life is definitely defined by living on $150 a month, by living with the people I work with/for, by not being able to afford a cell phone. However, I would say that prior to this year, I wasn't dependent on money, my friends, or my cell phone. Being here has perhaps grown that independence, but it was definitely already present. When I was in my terrible twos, my favorite thing to say was "NO! Neeny do it self!". I didn't like people helping me when I was perfectly capable of doing something (or figuring out how to do something) on my own. I don't like being dependent on money, on people, on technology. I like standing alone on a street corner and walking to wherever I want to go. Sitting in a park. Being in a coffee shop thinking my own thoughts until I'm ready to go to the next place. I like planning events, and telling other people what to do, organizing community so that everyone is included.

But now, I've gone off and broken my fibula. I'm stuck in bed until the swelling goes down significantly, and then I'll still be in a cast after that. A cast that can't get wet, that can't rest on hard surfaces. Like it or not, there are a lot of things that I am physically not capable of doing on my own. I might be able to figure out a creative way to make things happen, but I'm currently feeling the effects of trying too hard the three days before I got my cast. So for now at least, I'm being uncreative, and I'm lying helpless in bed. For the next week.

I am dependent for meals, I am dependent for interaction with real people, I am dependent for help going anywhere other than the bathroom and the kitchen next door. I have one leg that I can hop on.

And yet, it is good to be dependent on my community. I know that they will probably get tired of me, and I know that everyone else has such busy lives. For now though, I am incredibly thankful for the three phone calls a day I get from one intern. I am thankful for the friend who visited for an hour this afternoon. I am thankful for my six year old neighbor who came and brought me a little creme cake think (ala Twinkie but flat), and her two favorite dolls to keep my company while she is in school tomorrow. I am thankful for my mama and my daddy. and I am SO thankful for facebook connections and best friend messages.

* * * * * *

Lent is the perfect season of the year for solitude and self-reflection. As we spiritually journey into the desert, Lent is a time to reexamine our boundary lines and get realigned, set in right relationship with God and the world around us.

http://www.upperroom.org/methodx/thelife/articles/lentsimplicity.asp

* * * * * *

I apparently will spend a bit of time in solitude and self-reflection. I think it might be healthy for me to get realigned with the adult me, figure out where I stand (lay? recline? hobble?) with God and the world. (sidenote: I think the Catholic influence here has gotten me into the Christ-above-culture paradigm in terms of how I think of God. i kinda like it.)

I ought not be afraid of time alone. I ought not be too busy Doing Things to take a step back and think about Being someone, and Thinking Things (that can't be real, at least not at this point in time). I think that I need to engage in the abstract world, as something real too. Because at least for now, I can't really engage fully in the physical world here as much as I could with two working legs.

Or maybe its a time to engage with this community in different ways. Encouraging people? Asking for a Spanish tutor? Appreciating the giftedness, love, and steadiness of all the residents who care for me.

I don't want to shy away from theology either. Although I feel quite nervous looking it straight in the face and pronouncing opinions. I am a bit shy post-Whitworth, but RH conversations keep the thoughts flowing. Maybe its time to put some out on "paper". ...its just that I prefer living my convictions so much more than entering into any kind of silly debate... anyways. If I'm to take Lent seriously, and dig for some deeper profound meaning in my bed-rest time, I think it ought to include God. somehow. and I think I ought not be shy about trying to extrapolate what it is that I've actually learned, and how (if at all) I'm actively changing, and growing.

I think I still am the luckiest girl in the world. This could be the best place to be stuck in a cast that I've been to yet. I think that it will all be okay in the end. :)

On Being Blessed by a Broken Fibula

I've known for a while that I live in the best house at Romero House. The past few days have solidified the proof. On Saturday evening on my way to grab some food at Wanda, I put on flip-flops because it was raining, and I love walking in flipflops in the rain... If only I had gotten that far...

Somehow I slipped on the steps going down my front porch, and caught one foots flipflop with my other foot, and stretched and spun my right ankle in all sorts of painful directions. After a brief string of expletives, I threw my books and movie (that I had been carrying) onto the porch, and slowly crawled up the stairs. I hobbled to the door and rang it until one of my neighbor-friend-ladies answered it, and helped me in. The two friends from the first floor ran around, found me ice, tylenol, and entertained me with stories of their sprained ankles and backs for a couple hours.

Intern Thomas came a while later and looked at my injury. We decided together that it was probably just a sprain, and it wasn't worth the wait at the ER.

My ankle swelled bigger and bigger, and we watched cheesy W-channel movies. That night, Thomas and I hobbled up the stairs. He held my leg up in the air, and I clung to the banister with one hand and his back with my other, and I hopped. boy did I hop. I hopped up two flights of stairs into my bed, and slept soundly until the morning. The next day I read in bed, ate delicious cereal, and then was brought breakfast in bed: potato pancake, and toast/ham/egg sandwich.

Basically, I've spent my time with my leg elevated on pillows, reading good books, and eating good food that all these different people have brought me. My leg doesn't really hurt, unless I try to put weight on it, and I hop real good now.

I'm so blessed by all these wonderful people in my community. What more could I want?

I went to the ER this morning, driven by my roommate, and hung out there a couple hours waiting for xrays to be ordered/taken. Then, I took my crutches and made my way sweating to the other wing of the hospital, up the elevator, to meet my newest housemate: CAROLINA!!! she was born while I was sitting in the "fast-track" waiting room, at 11:24am today, weighing 2,8 kilograms, around 6 lbs.

I went back downstairs, talked to my lovely med school student who told me, yes, indeed, I had a broken fibula, and she took me over to the "fracture clinic" where I waited 45 minutes, and then asked how much longer, and was told 3-4 hours, to which I said "dang.", then the nice lady offered me a 7am appointment the next morning, telling me to come at 6:30, and then I'll be seen right away.

So, now I'm chilling at home, eating the delicious salami sandwich, amazing chicken/hominy Mexican soup, and hearty beef/noodle Slovakian soup, and chamomile tea made by someone else, and my director just called to see if she could bring anything over for me.

life is good.

in mj's words: what more can my jesus do for me today? lol