“Oh, the ache we have to know and be known, to love and be loved.”

I understand that up until this point that this blog has been a venue filled with my own thoughts, my insights about my presence, my life, my evolution, but my hope is that as my time progresses here, that it will inevitably become less about myself, and more about Belize as a country – its struggles – its people – their brokenness, and my own, tethered together. My hope is to somehow give faces, carefully carved features, to each issue, each individual battle. And to somehow, if only vaguely, demonstrate how intricately it is laced to our own struggles, our own country’s state of turmoil, our own anxious thoughts that pervade our minds each night as we fall asleep. That ultimately, it’s not because it could have been us, but that it IS us. I read that somewhere this week (I can’t remember where!) and it continues to ring in my head. It makes so much sense to me.

I guess I’m just feeling so compelled to be an advocate for that very notion – to somehow articulate our…connectedness. “Oh the ache we have to know and be known, to love and be loved.” – that ache traverses all boundaries, borders, and labels. It is a quote that comes from the book “Radical Compassion” a quote that has pervaded my thoughts ever since my mind read and processed its power. It’s such a simple quote, obvious, yet so profound. I’ve filled up my bus riding time this week with books – and I love to think about how much of what I read is tightly laced into the wires of my mind, so potent that they’ve become a lens, a framework through which I exist.

So yeah, obviously my head is big ol’ crazy mess right now, but I’m okay with that, as long as I’m reminded each night not to take myself too seriously. I had a wonderful reminder the other day, as I was walking home from the bus stop – deep in thought – trying to wrap my head around the day, the girls, Belize itself – when suddenly I heard “Hey, white girl! Smile.” At first I thought I was hearing yet another catcall, so I almost instinctively ignored him – it took me a few moments to really hear it, to process the demand. It touched me so much that I turned around to say “Thank you, sir. You’re so right. Thank you.”

In fact, my brain dances so much I’ve taken to carrying around a little notebook. I always think I’m having these small epiphanies, and I’m terrified that if I don’t write them down – to capture them like a still-life painting – that they’ll be gone forever, never to be found in the confines of my crazy, turning mind again. This notebook has become a ubiquitous presence in my satchel. It’s beginning to be my most prized possession – torn, dirt ridden pages, riddled with incoherent scribbles and words jotted down in a hurry – pages wrinkled from sweat pressed fingers and forearms. It often finds itself pressed against dirty bathroom walls, bus seats, and sweaty legs. “Girl, why you always writing? You always writin’!” I’m pretty sure some of my coworkers may think I’m crazy. I’m quickly becoming that crazy white girl, always wandering around aimlessly, Nalgene and notebook in tow, but I’m quite okay with that…

I’m just feeling this incredible need to document everything, knowing at the end of the day that it will still feel insufficient. I recently understood why I (and my community, as well) haven’t been too eager to publish our pictures to the world so far. Why? Because it is such a small, inaccurate portrait of our lives here. It’s this small glimpse of a world that took place outside of Belize itself, of our little orientation dreamland. This leads my mind to the inherent inadequacy of pictures in general – that they almost always fail to capture the entire picture – only the parts which are somehow slow enough to stop and snap – never capturing the crazy, the ostensibly mundane, the ugly parts - the REAL, authentic snapshot of the human experience. And once in a while we do capture it - even the beauty – with the tradeoff of the moments lost, jinxed somehow, or simply ruined by the presence of a camera. I constantly find myself torn between the desire to savor the moments here, or risk their destruction by my need to capture them.

With all that being said, I have to admit that I’ve been hesitant thus far to bring my camera outside of the comfort of our community – of these strong walls that hold up our little fortress. And I must say, ’m proud of myself for not being careless, but careful (so unlike me!), thus far in my journey. But the more I’m beginning to feel at home, the more I’m slowly fumbling my way to comfort, I’m starting to feel a bit restless. To put it blatantly, I’ve decided that I refuse to let this city cage me in – to inhibit me from my seemingly inherent, intrinsic need to document and live it – to take my camera on the streets and bus – to poke its head out from my bag and attempt, ATTEMPT, to capture something real here – not just smiling white faces among waterfalls and hammocks. And if my camera gets stolen – if it gets ripped from my grasp - then so be it. It’s a risk I am, at this point, willing to take (You can tell me you told me so after I’m sobbing into this computer when it gets stolen).

It’s ridiculous, how much I already feel myself transforming here. The last two years its like I became a wet rag, soaking up, almost dripping with cynicism - and JVI orientation, the dawn of it all, began the slow process of wringing me out, drip by drip. It’s so odd – to feel idealism again – like a long lost friend whom I fully intend to pull back under my arm, and fight like hell to keep there. Sometimes I find myself lost in my thoughts, looking in the mirror, thinking – “Wow! Who is this girl? Where have you been?”

This poem says it all about the idealism brewing in me, coupled with the need focus on the now, the basic. Thank you, Thomas.

“After Nietzsche”
Not merely bear what is necessary,
Still less conceal it –
All idealism is mendaciousness
In the face of what is necessary –
But love it

Love it, not merely bear it
In the face that must conceal it:
Mendaciousness of idealism
Not able to bear what is necessary –
Not merely bear it but love it.

In the fact that must conceal
What is necessary
To bear
Love appears in the face
Of the face of what is necessary.
-Tom Sleigh

At this point in time I want to thank you (s?) – who have made it this far in my insanely long, ridiculously detailed blog entry (for which I apologize, but I can’t help myself) – for the insane number of lovely, lovely letters I have received thus far. My community has come to resent me for the amount of mail I receive, for which I have no other response than a quick smile, not pretending that I have words to articulate how wonderful and considerate the people in my life truly are.

I apologize if I haven’t been able to respond as of yet; the days here are not nearly as free as I had expected them to be. I thought my evenings would be filled with reading and letter writing, but so far, only my Saturdays and Sundays have been afforded such luxuries. My days look something like this: Rise at 5 am to run in order to allow for a bit of yoga, coffee drinking, breakfast eating, and my need to a gradual transition into the day. I have to catch the bus by 7:15 am in order to get out to the training center by 8 am. I work out there all day, and catch the 4:00 bus back home and often times walk into the house just as the clock strikes 5:00. Now, one would think: “5:00? That leaves so much time for your evening!” No, only four hours really, and besides, I have found myself so physically and mentally exhausted by the end of the day – by the insane heat and constant sweating, coupled with the energy I must maintain to keep the girls’ attention – that I quite literally walk into the house, grab my ipod, and collapse onto my bed, back still soaked in sweat from the bus ride home, chacos still caked in dirt.

I’m finding that I so badly need that time to unwind, to relax and transition back into the evening, often falling asleep, if only for a few minutes. If it’s my turn to cook, or we have a community or spirituality night which fill the remainder of the evening – with bedtime being at 9 pm, sometimes not being able to keep my eyes open a minute past. It’s odd even as I sit here on this Saturday morning, that I couldn’t sleep in past the ripe hour of 6 am. So anyway, with that, I am about to delve into my notebook and the torn-open envelopes scattered on my desk – and REPLY. So sit tight, loves. They’s a comin’.

As I’m about to wrap this all up, I have to include in here what Kristin is painting/writing on the wall right next to me, right above our kitchen table. Because, well, I think it’s wonderful, and want to share it with you! (among so many other passages, excerpts, poems which I intend to spend every moment compiling with the intention that everyone has the opportunity, if they so choose, to fall in love with them the way that I have). It’s a concrete reminder of the fact that we are part of a long line of JVI’s who have lived here before us, and will come after us. It connects us to our families back home (and everywhere)and to our fellow JVI communities all over the world that gather together each day around their kitchen tables. Anyway, here it is.


“Perhaps the World Ends Here”
By Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Also, I assure you that as life here settles down and becomes more mundane and routine, my blog entries will be fewer and farer between, and shorter (maybe). Promise!