This is an excerpt from my journal entry on the first day of Cambalacha classes in the new year. People write books about Why Art? People write essays on the social power of art. The power of art to change the world. I like to think that I will explore the details, images, colors, and complications of this question as the year continues. For now, this is neither the first page of a book or a well-formed essay. It is a journal entry exploring why I believe in this project -- perhaps just touching the surface of how Gabriela, the founder and director of La Cambalacha, has visioned, dreamed, manifested, written, drawn, built, sung, danced this place into existence. Perhaps just touching the surface of what I will learn and experience and write, paint, dance, sing into existence while I am here. With the collaboration and love of people from all over the world. Some just passing through. Some staying a longer while. This is an excerpt:
Blank pages. How beautiful you are. White. Spacious. Calm. Free. I arrive in this place, San Marcos La Laguna, Guatemala. I arrive. To live. To share. To participate heart and soul in this project Cambalacha that believes in the power of Art to change the world. Living Artfully -- what is this? Cooperating. Listening. Greeting one another with Respect. Love. An Open Heart. Expressing love means dissolving fear -- confronting the fears we have inherited from years of oppression, civil war, violence. Calming the storm in our humans souls with Love -- creating together, sharing together, understanding that we create unnecessary divisions between us -- entre humanos, entre culturas, entre religiones entre culturas, entre razas. El Arte cambia el mundo. This is why we are here, in La Cambalacha, because we believe that the more people close to Art, to the Creative Process, the more peaceful, free, loving this world will be. Breathing, Dancing, Painting, Singing Positive Energy into the world -- sharing especially with children. Seeds of Hope. And we begin each workshop reminding ourselves why we play, why we sing, why we dance and paint and listen to stories and cooperate and express ourselves. Because every time we sing, out heart grows a little bit bigger. And everytime we dance our heart grows a little bit bigger. And everytime we wash ourselves of fear and dare to participate and express ourselves, our heart grows a little bit bigger. And every time we share and laugh and play together, our heart grows a little bit bigger. Until our hearts are "Asi de grande" -- and we draw a heart with our hands. A heart that begins at our fingertips stretching toward the sky and ends where our toes meet the earth. Imagine the life force of a heart this big. Beating. Pulsing. Nourishing the earth and its creatures with oxygen as it pumps and pumps -- hearts resounding together.
Monday, January 26, 2009
May you Walk in Beauty
May you walk in Beauty. So goes the first line of a Native American blessing that made its way into my poetic memory some time ago. As an adolescent trying desperately to fend off the authority of Image and the judgments, mirrors, crash diets, and insecurities that hide in its shadows, I did not understand the depth of this prayer. How is beauty a blessing when the pursuit of external beauty – body, lips, stride, reputation, career choice – is a journey through a briar-patch of self-doubt? Ah, now I understand. This is where you walk away from mirrors and media pressures and other people’s ideas of beauty, fall through the looking glass and re-emerge into a world of extraordinary beings. The same world of billboards and screaming labels and loud noises and violence, but perceived with a new pair of eyes.
Eyes. Prism eyes that carefully tune five sense organs: eyes, ears, nerve-endings, nostrils, lips. Eyes. Eyes of a child who “discovers the beauty of the world every moment again and again.” A new pair of eyes and a restored dedication to consciously recognizing the Beauty and Abundance that Is; a new pair of prism eyes and a rekindled commitment to participating in the Creation of Beauty in spaces where the stars do not shine as brightly. Meeting violence with compassion and love – this is the path King, Gandhi and the Dalai Lama choose. Beauty. Believing in Beauty in spite of the suffering and violence that try to strangle our songs and celebrations and poetry and commitment to life and love. Hope in the face of the fear and deep-seated prejudices that tear us apart. Beauty away from mirrors and magazine covers and accusations and violent television programs that air live on the streets of cities and towns in every nation around the world. Beauty that has the power to heal cold hearts, inspire reconciliation between warring nations, transform dissonance into harmony, help brothers and sisters open up and listen to the morning birds that sing for them. That sing for us.
May you walk in Beauty. Yes, I understand. When you walk in beauty, your heart is open and you believe in the power of love; in the power of compassion. You believe in the power of your actions, your smile, your touch, your dedication to the highs and lows of the human experience. You believe in the power of sharing Beauty and cease to hoard precious jewels that lose their magic when hidden away in a lock-box to gather dust. And because you believe in the power of Beauty you begin to walk with intention, speak with intention, act with intention – energized and awed by the power of your actions to transform, inspire, illuminate. May you walk in Beauty is another way of saying: may you have reason to believe that life is worth living. May you find yourself living moments that inspire you to share and contribute to the happiness of all the creatures you meet along the way. May you always be generous. May you always share your smile. May you always recognize the little wide-eyed-wonders of the world even when professionalism points his finger and calls you unsophisticated. May you walk in Beauty. May we walk in Beauty.
In the Beauty of:
- Washing bright-colored cloth and watching the reds, yellows, greens and blues bleed in a slow spiraling tornado down the drain. Back to the earth.
- Listening to the laughter of two lovers who tattooed their love on their hands. Two lovers who sing hello and goodbye and always steal one last kiss before parting. Listening to the sweet melody of lovers at play with deep appreciation; gratitude – even though I sleep alone.
- Disappearing into the imagery rich mind of a Tibetan woman who sees trees as “the jewelry of the mountains;” and then gazing skyward through the green canopy of the avocado tree.
- Maria. Who greets me with flowers and kisses and a heart of gold; who washes dishes with her hips swaying to the curvy rhythms of salsa. Who calls me sister and receives my love when I do the same, sister.
- Grinding spices with mortar and pestle on a mountaintop with a view that makes you believe you can fly. Working with our hands to create, to nourish, to feed, to share. Grinding there in the shadow of the volcano
- Fuchsia flower petals swirling in a porcelain toilet
- Saying “yes” to invitations that change your plans.
- Ripe red coffee fruits.
- Listening to three grown men sword-fighting with six year-old Lucas just after dinner. Before bedtime Imaginations running wild. Consciously recognizing the Beauty of Play. Vital play.
- Feeling overcome with love for the children of La Cambalacha. Sitting in a circle by the lake painting watercolor images on our arms and ankles -- I paint you, you paint me. I permit you to touch my skin with watercolors. I open, just a little bit. Yes – watching as these budding flowers open little by little. Building confidence among this group learning to express themselves in paint, words, movement, dance, song. An expansive feeling within my heart: wanting deeply to know each and every one of these complex coming-of-age beings. To offer support and love and guidance as they encounter the many tints and shades of life. Looking them in the eye. And writing simply, “This I know: I love.”
I love
Eyes. Prism eyes that carefully tune five sense organs: eyes, ears, nerve-endings, nostrils, lips. Eyes. Eyes of a child who “discovers the beauty of the world every moment again and again.” A new pair of eyes and a restored dedication to consciously recognizing the Beauty and Abundance that Is; a new pair of prism eyes and a rekindled commitment to participating in the Creation of Beauty in spaces where the stars do not shine as brightly. Meeting violence with compassion and love – this is the path King, Gandhi and the Dalai Lama choose. Beauty. Believing in Beauty in spite of the suffering and violence that try to strangle our songs and celebrations and poetry and commitment to life and love. Hope in the face of the fear and deep-seated prejudices that tear us apart. Beauty away from mirrors and magazine covers and accusations and violent television programs that air live on the streets of cities and towns in every nation around the world. Beauty that has the power to heal cold hearts, inspire reconciliation between warring nations, transform dissonance into harmony, help brothers and sisters open up and listen to the morning birds that sing for them. That sing for us.
May you walk in Beauty. Yes, I understand. When you walk in beauty, your heart is open and you believe in the power of love; in the power of compassion. You believe in the power of your actions, your smile, your touch, your dedication to the highs and lows of the human experience. You believe in the power of sharing Beauty and cease to hoard precious jewels that lose their magic when hidden away in a lock-box to gather dust. And because you believe in the power of Beauty you begin to walk with intention, speak with intention, act with intention – energized and awed by the power of your actions to transform, inspire, illuminate. May you walk in Beauty is another way of saying: may you have reason to believe that life is worth living. May you find yourself living moments that inspire you to share and contribute to the happiness of all the creatures you meet along the way. May you always be generous. May you always share your smile. May you always recognize the little wide-eyed-wonders of the world even when professionalism points his finger and calls you unsophisticated. May you walk in Beauty. May we walk in Beauty.
In the Beauty of:
- Washing bright-colored cloth and watching the reds, yellows, greens and blues bleed in a slow spiraling tornado down the drain. Back to the earth.
- Listening to the laughter of two lovers who tattooed their love on their hands. Two lovers who sing hello and goodbye and always steal one last kiss before parting. Listening to the sweet melody of lovers at play with deep appreciation; gratitude – even though I sleep alone.
- Disappearing into the imagery rich mind of a Tibetan woman who sees trees as “the jewelry of the mountains;” and then gazing skyward through the green canopy of the avocado tree.
- Maria. Who greets me with flowers and kisses and a heart of gold; who washes dishes with her hips swaying to the curvy rhythms of salsa. Who calls me sister and receives my love when I do the same, sister.
- Grinding spices with mortar and pestle on a mountaintop with a view that makes you believe you can fly. Working with our hands to create, to nourish, to feed, to share. Grinding there in the shadow of the volcano
- Fuchsia flower petals swirling in a porcelain toilet
- Saying “yes” to invitations that change your plans.
- Ripe red coffee fruits.
- Listening to three grown men sword-fighting with six year-old Lucas just after dinner. Before bedtime Imaginations running wild. Consciously recognizing the Beauty of Play. Vital play.
- Feeling overcome with love for the children of La Cambalacha. Sitting in a circle by the lake painting watercolor images on our arms and ankles -- I paint you, you paint me. I permit you to touch my skin with watercolors. I open, just a little bit. Yes – watching as these budding flowers open little by little. Building confidence among this group learning to express themselves in paint, words, movement, dance, song. An expansive feeling within my heart: wanting deeply to know each and every one of these complex coming-of-age beings. To offer support and love and guidance as they encounter the many tints and shades of life. Looking them in the eye. And writing simply, “This I know: I love.”
I love
Sunday, January 11, 2009
I have arrived
"The Life of a Teacher is as important a life as any person may live. Viewed broadly, it is a life of leadership in a world of contradictions and crises. It is a particularly human life, one of total involvement with human beings as they face human questions." Morris Mitchell
I smile at the young woman flipping through her quote book as she realizes why she feels slightly nervous as she steps into her new role as an educator in a multi-faceted, constantly blooming art education project on the shores of one of the world's most extraordinary lakes. San Marcos La Laguna, Solola, Guatemala. This is her home for the next year of her life; the next year of possibly sharing in the creation of something meaningful in a world that daily surprises us with the range of beauty and violence, harmony and dissonance, intention and apathy, awareness and careless breath. Perhaps it is the state of the world that makes her approach this opportunity with suitable concern. Yes, I am talking about myself in third-person. Witnessing myself as a human being from a place outside myself helps me to remain compassionate toward this young woman who is learning. Day by day. Learning. Witnessing myself in this way allows me to admit that I am feeling simultaneously ecstatic and nervous about all this Cambalacha year will be. Simultaneously capable and unprepared. Simultaneously courageous and hesitant.
Jane writes to me this morning and helps me understand from where these contradictory sentiments arise. Her words could not be more pertinent as I sit to attempt articulation, attempt fininte detail, attempt a written expression of the experiences I am living in the first days since my arrival. She sees inside the red walls of my heart -- expanding and contracting, as I encounter the first demon of the journey. A "wailing doubt" that so often arises at the beginning of a journey and causes one to question her ability to do what it is she whole-heartedly wants to do. A "wailing doubt" that interrogates a person's creative energy with judgements of "good" and "bad" and "success" and "failure." "This is the doubt that tempts you to narrow what you see about what you can do or be at La Cambalacha," says Jane. The word "tempt" is key because it signals a release of accountability -- the possibility that one would release herself from the challenge of accountability. Of accountability to herself. Allowing her to fabricate a story that she is really not as creative as the rest and cannot be expected to hold her own amongst a group of such dynamic persons and perhaps she should not hold so much responsibility and ... so on and so forth as the snowball rolls and gathers momentum. This doubt that arises is an obstacle of my mind; a convincing illusion; something I have the fortunate opportunity to encounter with the fierce grace of Kali -- courage, compassion, strength and dedication. I have arrived at La Cambalacha. A community. An art school. A conscious education project that believes in the power of Art to change the world -- one person at a time, one day at a time, one seed at a time, one question at a time, one step at a time. I have arrived. Dancing. Singing. Sewing. Painting. Laughing. Drumming. Singing. Sharing. Creating. Growing. Learning together. I have arrived. Signing a contract for one year of living and breathing children, early mornings, dance floor inventions, middle of the night revelations, hard work, colorful play, coffee harvests, mango feasts, lessons in balance, exploration. I have arrived. Entering into the undulating rhythm of the lake and afternoon winds. Commiting to the constant, thrilling, simultaneouly exhausting and energizing pulse of La Cambalacha. Crystalizing details to follow.
I smile at the young woman flipping through her quote book as she realizes why she feels slightly nervous as she steps into her new role as an educator in a multi-faceted, constantly blooming art education project on the shores of one of the world's most extraordinary lakes. San Marcos La Laguna, Solola, Guatemala. This is her home for the next year of her life; the next year of possibly sharing in the creation of something meaningful in a world that daily surprises us with the range of beauty and violence, harmony and dissonance, intention and apathy, awareness and careless breath. Perhaps it is the state of the world that makes her approach this opportunity with suitable concern. Yes, I am talking about myself in third-person. Witnessing myself as a human being from a place outside myself helps me to remain compassionate toward this young woman who is learning. Day by day. Learning. Witnessing myself in this way allows me to admit that I am feeling simultaneously ecstatic and nervous about all this Cambalacha year will be. Simultaneously capable and unprepared. Simultaneously courageous and hesitant.
Jane writes to me this morning and helps me understand from where these contradictory sentiments arise. Her words could not be more pertinent as I sit to attempt articulation, attempt fininte detail, attempt a written expression of the experiences I am living in the first days since my arrival. She sees inside the red walls of my heart -- expanding and contracting, as I encounter the first demon of the journey. A "wailing doubt" that so often arises at the beginning of a journey and causes one to question her ability to do what it is she whole-heartedly wants to do. A "wailing doubt" that interrogates a person's creative energy with judgements of "good" and "bad" and "success" and "failure." "This is the doubt that tempts you to narrow what you see about what you can do or be at La Cambalacha," says Jane. The word "tempt" is key because it signals a release of accountability -- the possibility that one would release herself from the challenge of accountability. Of accountability to herself. Allowing her to fabricate a story that she is really not as creative as the rest and cannot be expected to hold her own amongst a group of such dynamic persons and perhaps she should not hold so much responsibility and ... so on and so forth as the snowball rolls and gathers momentum. This doubt that arises is an obstacle of my mind; a convincing illusion; something I have the fortunate opportunity to encounter with the fierce grace of Kali -- courage, compassion, strength and dedication. I have arrived at La Cambalacha. A community. An art school. A conscious education project that believes in the power of Art to change the world -- one person at a time, one day at a time, one seed at a time, one question at a time, one step at a time. I have arrived. Dancing. Singing. Sewing. Painting. Laughing. Drumming. Singing. Sharing. Creating. Growing. Learning together. I have arrived. Signing a contract for one year of living and breathing children, early mornings, dance floor inventions, middle of the night revelations, hard work, colorful play, coffee harvests, mango feasts, lessons in balance, exploration. I have arrived. Entering into the undulating rhythm of the lake and afternoon winds. Commiting to the constant, thrilling, simultaneouly exhausting and energizing pulse of La Cambalacha. Crystalizing details to follow.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Kundera Quote: Food for Thought
As I logged on to post a few new thoughts, I came upon this entry that I wrote at the beginning of January just before departing for Guatemala. I think it is worth sharing. Milan Kundera has a succinct and powerful way of addressing worthwhile questions -- questions for human mind and heart together. I hope that I cultivate the ability to express succinctly, powerfully, nakedly the images and thoughts that dance around my heart and mind. The ability to be concise is not something that comes naturally to me. So -- here it is, Kundera food for thought. I hope that you are Living far from apathy and boredom. I hope the colors you paint are rich and inspired and passionate. Food for thought:
Excerpt from a Milan Kundera novel, Identity -- featuring two unforgetable characters, Chantal and Jean-Marc, who love each other so passionately, so heatedly that they drive each other mad. Creating a reality so crazy with poetry and mystery and jealousy and red-pulsing love that they cannot turn the lights off to fall asleep for fear of losing one another in some awful dream. A riveting novel. A few days after finishing the novel, I recalled something on page 81 to be soul-moving ... food for thought. And so I record it here -- not to post, to save until it comes up on some interconnected occasion.
They talk about death, about boredom, they drink wine, they laugh, they have a good time, the are happy.
Then Jean-Marc came back to his idea: "I'd say that the quantity of boredom, if boredom is measurable, is much greater today than it once was. Because the old occupations, at least most of them, were unthinkable without a passionate involvement: the peasants in love with their land; my grandfather, the magician of beautiful tables; the shoemakers who knew every villager's feet by heart; the woodsmen; the gardeners; probably even the soldiers killed with passion back then. The meaning of life wasn't an issue, it was there with them, quite naturally, in their workshops, in their fields. Each occupation had created its own mentality, its own way of being. A doctor would think differently from a peasant, a soldier would behave differently from a teacher. Today we're all alike, all of us bound together by our shared apathy toward our work. That very apathy has become a passion. The one great collective passion of our time."
Instinctively, I want to shout out to any soul who feels apathetic about his or her work -- apathy is not living, apathy is not life, leave your apathetic work to discover something that truly lights your fire and makes you burn with inspiration. We are not meant to be apathetic. Perhaps we are not meant to search so hard for "the meaning of life." Life just is ... the meaning is in the bread we bake, the birds we befriend, the laughter we share, the honest work it takes to survive on a planet trying so hard to provide for a population of homo sapiens who all too often forget to be grateful. Sigh. I am glad I will be able to revisit this passage from time to time. Checking in with myself to see if apathy lingers near my life and work from day to day. Checking in with myself to see if I feel inspired, passionate, alive. At this moment, right Now, I am bubbling over with gratitude, joy, and uncontainable inspiration for the journey I am about to make. Cambalacha, Guatemala, here I come. Open-heartedly. To learn, to share, to plant myself heart and soul in the fertile soils of San Marcos La Laguna for the next year. Om.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Sunshine Dirt Schoolyard
I went to heaven today. In the back of a red pickup truck; I went to heaven. I held the crossbar like a valiant windsurfer -- riding the air currents like a dandelion seed. Not sure exactly where I am going, yet knowing the soil will be fertile. I feel like I am flying. In the back of a red pickup truck. My open heart is my sail. Fearlessness is my strength. Open heart and Fearlessness: companions. We climb higher and higher. The pothole highway to heaven. Steep green slopes. How did they manage to plant corn way up there? On that slope just inches away from being a vertical line to the center of the earth. Because Corn is god. Yes. I understand. Golden ears cared for with dedication, tenderness, sweat and broken backs. Uncomplaining broken backs. I am high on oxygen clouds. Oxygen clouds that kiss the blue-green celestial lake. Please do not make Lago Atitlán a "wonder of the world," I think to myself. An official "wonder of the world" destination. All of the camera flashes reflecting off the water would be like a terrible storm. And the souvenirs and catchy slogans and monster hotels would disrupt the texture of this heaven in the back of a red pickup truck.
We snake our way up the mountain. Higher. A seed am I. A smiling seed. On my way to Santa Clara. Still, I do not know where I will land. Fertile soil. Coffee. Corn. And children. Children. This is where I fly. This is where I land. Fertile soil. A schoolyard. Three buildings and a central sunshine dirt schoolyard.
Santa Clara. A pueblo in the clouds. A flock of sunkissed children swarm. They are curious. Excited. Ready to learn the dance we have prepared. A choreography we have danced in the evenings before dinner. Exaggerated. Fun. Young Women returning to childhood dance recitals. Shaking our hips and waving our pom-pom hands with inexhaustible enthusiasm. We play. And now. In this sunshine dirt schoolyard, on the top of a mountain, in the corn clouds, in heaven, breathing the blue-green evaporation of the celestial lake. In this sunshine schoolyard, we will teach 50 children this made-with-love choreography for their upcoming performance in the local Gimnasia Rítmica competition. A celebratory dance. To enjoy. To perform. Cumbea. As I dance alongside these children -- jóvenes between 8 and 15 years old -- I blossom like a happy silent clown who receives an airborne kiss from across the circus. A monkey kiss on a mountain top in Guatemala. The children are smiling. The children are laughing. The children are dancing. I am sunkissed, rosy-cheeked, too. Like the children. I am dancing. Saying to myself, "Yes! I want to dedicate myself to this place for the next year. I want to make my life here -- sharing, creating, smiling, growing with the children of Lago Atitlán. I watch Gabi, the founder and director of La Cambalacha, teach the children with confident, joyful composure. She knows how to facilitate beautiful collaboration, creation, art when surrounded by 50 bouncing children in a sunshine dirt schoolyard. I am filled with gratitude. I am content. I, too, dance with enthusiasm and feel heartbeat elation as I watch them dance, remember, smile their way into a final pyramid. A pyramid with 50 children. Cumbea. Remarkable cartwheeling joy. They love us instantly. And we love them. There. In the sunshine dirt schoolyard. We dance.
We snake our way up the mountain. Higher. A seed am I. A smiling seed. On my way to Santa Clara. Still, I do not know where I will land. Fertile soil. Coffee. Corn. And children. Children. This is where I fly. This is where I land. Fertile soil. A schoolyard. Three buildings and a central sunshine dirt schoolyard.
Santa Clara. A pueblo in the clouds. A flock of sunkissed children swarm. They are curious. Excited. Ready to learn the dance we have prepared. A choreography we have danced in the evenings before dinner. Exaggerated. Fun. Young Women returning to childhood dance recitals. Shaking our hips and waving our pom-pom hands with inexhaustible enthusiasm. We play. And now. In this sunshine dirt schoolyard, on the top of a mountain, in the corn clouds, in heaven, breathing the blue-green evaporation of the celestial lake. In this sunshine schoolyard, we will teach 50 children this made-with-love choreography for their upcoming performance in the local Gimnasia Rítmica competition. A celebratory dance. To enjoy. To perform. Cumbea. As I dance alongside these children -- jóvenes between 8 and 15 years old -- I blossom like a happy silent clown who receives an airborne kiss from across the circus. A monkey kiss on a mountain top in Guatemala. The children are smiling. The children are laughing. The children are dancing. I am sunkissed, rosy-cheeked, too. Like the children. I am dancing. Saying to myself, "Yes! I want to dedicate myself to this place for the next year. I want to make my life here -- sharing, creating, smiling, growing with the children of Lago Atitlán. I watch Gabi, the founder and director of La Cambalacha, teach the children with confident, joyful composure. She knows how to facilitate beautiful collaboration, creation, art when surrounded by 50 bouncing children in a sunshine dirt schoolyard. I am filled with gratitude. I am content. I, too, dance with enthusiasm and feel heartbeat elation as I watch them dance, remember, smile their way into a final pyramid. A pyramid with 50 children. Cumbea. Remarkable cartwheeling joy. They love us instantly. And we love them. There. In the sunshine dirt schoolyard. We dance.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Burning Hands and Contentment
I am on fire. Lit up with inspiration. Gratitude flows within and without like water. Flowing. Like the blue-green afternoon tide of the lake. Lake Atitlán. Gratitude Abundant. Truly. Where do I begin?
I have been dancing circles here in La Cambalacha for the past two weeks. Like a crazy woman I run from teaching a morning yoga class - to translating a word document - to helping Lola and Angela with lunch in the kitchen (while dancing to the latest evangelical tunes on the radio) - to inventing a thousand afternoon games to entertain the youngsters whose attention span is fleeting - to dressing up in costume and getting in character for a dance/culture class with the 12 and 13 year-olds who are sometimes difficult to motivate - to talking long hours in the night with Gabriela (the founder and director of La Cambalacha who is an extraordinary dancer and has me hooked on learning Hip Hop) and Cambalacha family - to skipping happily down to the lake to bathe body and soul in morning sun rays - to walking arm and arm with María who fills my heart with joy the color of sunshine and rain - to choreographing dances for local children to perform in the upcoming town festival - to riding in the back of a pickup to the neighboring village to share art, music, ecology classes with the students in primary school - to contemplating the reason that children tend to go crazy on rainy days and trample upon your words and good intentions - to being reminded that children are made of rainbow colors -- sometimes dark with disrespect and ungratefulness, other times vibrant yellow and orange with laughter, songs and engaged imaginations. Each day, I arrive at my bedside absolutely exhausted and smiling; smiling at the good fortune of being here in La Cambalacha.
From the moment I returned to the shores of San Marcos La Laguna, I felt a rush of Contentment rise in my soul. Manifesting in a Gracious Smile. A smile that says Thank You to each and every breath that has carried me here. Life is Intense here in La Cambalacha. There is always much work to be done. Not only are we dedicated to facilitating the artistic development of nearly 2,500 children on the shores of Lago Atítlan; we are committed to living in community. On Fire with Intensity. The heartbeat of the day, powerful.
I feel strangely inarticulate as I listen to the evening rain. Swimming in such emotion, amazement, marvel as my life unfolds minute by minute. Two weeks on Fire passing with little opportunity to express in words the rhythms, sentiments, thoughts, emotions I am feeling strongly, like drumbeats, like a rainstorm, in my organs, in my breath, in my smile. A pause from writing due to Burning Hands. Swollen. Red Blistered. An overdose of acidic fruit and sunshine? A mean herb? A caterpillar? Animal Urine falling in the night? A strange spirit? I do not know exactly what happened to my hands. But they swelled up like balloons and put on an ugly mask of blisters and puss. In the healing process, my extraordinary living body generated an entire new layer of skin, allowing the old, dark, burned skin to peel away, piece by piece. Strange, powerful occurrence. When studying the Mayan calendar with a group of beautiful sisters one evening, I see the Tarot card that speaks of my sign and my nahual (animal spirit guide). My hands are in fire. I burned myself the last time I was here. Burned myself in the kitchen cutting Chiles. A down home Virginia girl unaccustomed to cooking with chiles picantes. Que locura.
Please take a look at the website of La Cambalacha. It is beautifully crafted. It gives you a glimpse of what we are doing here in San Marcos La Laguna. How we are singing, dancing, playing, sharing, creating and opening our hearts to the power of art and collaboration. I will be participating in a fantastic Cambalacha Parade on the 15th of September. I am learning to twirl a vibrant golden flag while dancing to the drumbeats of percussion and marveling at the clown faces and fun of the stilt walkers. Singing ... singing ... singing. I will try to write more frecuently. For now -- www.lacambalacha.org
Abundant Gratitude. Love. Learning. And lots of Rain that does keep us from living like Fire.
www.lacambalacha.org
I have been dancing circles here in La Cambalacha for the past two weeks. Like a crazy woman I run from teaching a morning yoga class - to translating a word document - to helping Lola and Angela with lunch in the kitchen (while dancing to the latest evangelical tunes on the radio) - to inventing a thousand afternoon games to entertain the youngsters whose attention span is fleeting - to dressing up in costume and getting in character for a dance/culture class with the 12 and 13 year-olds who are sometimes difficult to motivate - to talking long hours in the night with Gabriela (the founder and director of La Cambalacha who is an extraordinary dancer and has me hooked on learning Hip Hop) and Cambalacha family - to skipping happily down to the lake to bathe body and soul in morning sun rays - to walking arm and arm with María who fills my heart with joy the color of sunshine and rain - to choreographing dances for local children to perform in the upcoming town festival - to riding in the back of a pickup to the neighboring village to share art, music, ecology classes with the students in primary school - to contemplating the reason that children tend to go crazy on rainy days and trample upon your words and good intentions - to being reminded that children are made of rainbow colors -- sometimes dark with disrespect and ungratefulness, other times vibrant yellow and orange with laughter, songs and engaged imaginations. Each day, I arrive at my bedside absolutely exhausted and smiling; smiling at the good fortune of being here in La Cambalacha.
From the moment I returned to the shores of San Marcos La Laguna, I felt a rush of Contentment rise in my soul. Manifesting in a Gracious Smile. A smile that says Thank You to each and every breath that has carried me here. Life is Intense here in La Cambalacha. There is always much work to be done. Not only are we dedicated to facilitating the artistic development of nearly 2,500 children on the shores of Lago Atítlan; we are committed to living in community. On Fire with Intensity. The heartbeat of the day, powerful.
I feel strangely inarticulate as I listen to the evening rain. Swimming in such emotion, amazement, marvel as my life unfolds minute by minute. Two weeks on Fire passing with little opportunity to express in words the rhythms, sentiments, thoughts, emotions I am feeling strongly, like drumbeats, like a rainstorm, in my organs, in my breath, in my smile. A pause from writing due to Burning Hands. Swollen. Red Blistered. An overdose of acidic fruit and sunshine? A mean herb? A caterpillar? Animal Urine falling in the night? A strange spirit? I do not know exactly what happened to my hands. But they swelled up like balloons and put on an ugly mask of blisters and puss. In the healing process, my extraordinary living body generated an entire new layer of skin, allowing the old, dark, burned skin to peel away, piece by piece. Strange, powerful occurrence. When studying the Mayan calendar with a group of beautiful sisters one evening, I see the Tarot card that speaks of my sign and my nahual (animal spirit guide). My hands are in fire. I burned myself the last time I was here. Burned myself in the kitchen cutting Chiles. A down home Virginia girl unaccustomed to cooking with chiles picantes. Que locura.
Please take a look at the website of La Cambalacha. It is beautifully crafted. It gives you a glimpse of what we are doing here in San Marcos La Laguna. How we are singing, dancing, playing, sharing, creating and opening our hearts to the power of art and collaboration. I will be participating in a fantastic Cambalacha Parade on the 15th of September. I am learning to twirl a vibrant golden flag while dancing to the drumbeats of percussion and marveling at the clown faces and fun of the stilt walkers. Singing ... singing ... singing. I will try to write more frecuently. For now -- www.lacambalacha.org
Abundant Gratitude. Love. Learning. And lots of Rain that does keep us from living like Fire.
www.lacambalacha.org
Friday, August 8, 2008
Transitioning
I woke up yesterday morning feeling tense. Feeling nervous. Nervous about money. "How am I going to pay for the next year in Guatemala? If the numbers do not add up, how am I going to dedicate myself heart and soul to the children of San Marcos La Laguna for the next year?" I sat down on the patio next to the fountain and scolded myself for letting money tie me in knots. For letting pieces of paper and unfeeling numbers make a fool of me on this brilliant, quiet morning. "Laugh at me," I say to the fish and the turtle who swim lovingly in the clear water. "Laugh at me. This will help shake me back to a centered place."
I continue with morning yoga practice. Sitting quietly, patiently, trying to understand the knots in my nerves before sending them on their way out the door. "Let go of unserving preocupations," I say to myself. The turtle chimes in. "Teresa - the woman who sells anklets in the park - she has reason to worry for money, niña," he says. "Five children. Five children under the age of 7. Dead husband. She sells anklets for a living. She sells necklaces. Earrings. Teresa has reason to feel nervous about money. You, niña, with good shoes, good health, the privilege of traveling to Guatemala in the first place, the privilege to even think about volunteering in Lago Atitlán por un largo tiempo -- you have no reason to let money move you like a puppet." The turtle continues swimming. I let his words reverberate in my interior. Teresa is there.
Teresa bargains with me because her son, Steven, is hungry. He hasn´t eaten all morning and she is hoping to sell at least one pair of earrings so she can buy him a little something. Ice cream is the cheapest. Antigua is so expensive these days. Food is so expensive these days. I am in Parque Central when Teresa and Steven approach. Juan is there, too. He sleeps soundly on Teresa´s strong, hunched back. She remembers me from 3 weeks back. I show her the anklet she sold me, already fading with adventure - having swum in lake, waterfall and sea. I regret that I have no small bills to offer Teresa. I can see that Steven is hungry. I can also see that he is accustomed to hunger as he lets himself be distracted by the pen and paper that I carry. "Do you like to draw?" I ask him. He looks at me shyly. Silently. Just at that moment, a seed-pod falls from the tree under which we sit. Steven breaks it open and a world of microscopic beauty shows its face. "¡Que magnìfico!" I say expressively. "We should draw it." Steven watches. Silently. Still. I begin to draw. He follows along like an apprentice, curious about the way the pencil moves and leaves a trail of seed-pod details. "Now it´s your turn," I say. This time he accepts. First he draws a house. The house has windows and a door. When I ask him where his room is, he looks at me questioningly. There are no individual rooms in the house. One shared space. When he tires of the house, he draws a bus. Lots of windows, four wheels, a busdriver, an overhead rack where people can put their luggage and market goods. We talk about the bus as he imagines it, delicately touching the pencil to paper. What a fortunate encounter. Afternoon in the park with Steven drawing pictures of the life around us. The afternoon does not feed Steven´s hungry belly. But perhaps it feeds his hungry eyes just a little bit. Perhaps it feeds his smiling spirit just a little bit. This I hope. Hope for Exchange. That the gift he has given me with his deliberate, careful pencil marks and youthful resilience are somehow felt on his end too. We share a parting smile. He runs proudly, drawings in hand, to show his mother how he has been passing the time.
I continue with morning yoga practice. Sitting quietly, patiently, trying to understand the knots in my nerves before sending them on their way out the door. "Let go of unserving preocupations," I say to myself. The turtle chimes in. "Teresa - the woman who sells anklets in the park - she has reason to worry for money, niña," he says. "Five children. Five children under the age of 7. Dead husband. She sells anklets for a living. She sells necklaces. Earrings. Teresa has reason to feel nervous about money. You, niña, with good shoes, good health, the privilege of traveling to Guatemala in the first place, the privilege to even think about volunteering in Lago Atitlán por un largo tiempo -- you have no reason to let money move you like a puppet." The turtle continues swimming. I let his words reverberate in my interior. Teresa is there.
Teresa bargains with me because her son, Steven, is hungry. He hasn´t eaten all morning and she is hoping to sell at least one pair of earrings so she can buy him a little something. Ice cream is the cheapest. Antigua is so expensive these days. Food is so expensive these days. I am in Parque Central when Teresa and Steven approach. Juan is there, too. He sleeps soundly on Teresa´s strong, hunched back. She remembers me from 3 weeks back. I show her the anklet she sold me, already fading with adventure - having swum in lake, waterfall and sea. I regret that I have no small bills to offer Teresa. I can see that Steven is hungry. I can also see that he is accustomed to hunger as he lets himself be distracted by the pen and paper that I carry. "Do you like to draw?" I ask him. He looks at me shyly. Silently. Just at that moment, a seed-pod falls from the tree under which we sit. Steven breaks it open and a world of microscopic beauty shows its face. "¡Que magnìfico!" I say expressively. "We should draw it." Steven watches. Silently. Still. I begin to draw. He follows along like an apprentice, curious about the way the pencil moves and leaves a trail of seed-pod details. "Now it´s your turn," I say. This time he accepts. First he draws a house. The house has windows and a door. When I ask him where his room is, he looks at me questioningly. There are no individual rooms in the house. One shared space. When he tires of the house, he draws a bus. Lots of windows, four wheels, a busdriver, an overhead rack where people can put their luggage and market goods. We talk about the bus as he imagines it, delicately touching the pencil to paper. What a fortunate encounter. Afternoon in the park with Steven drawing pictures of the life around us. The afternoon does not feed Steven´s hungry belly. But perhaps it feeds his hungry eyes just a little bit. Perhaps it feeds his smiling spirit just a little bit. This I hope. Hope for Exchange. That the gift he has given me with his deliberate, careful pencil marks and youthful resilience are somehow felt on his end too. We share a parting smile. He runs proudly, drawings in hand, to show his mother how he has been passing the time.
Exchange. The perfect segue into my next step here in Guatemala. Tomorrow morning, I return to San Marcos La Laguna on the shores of Lago Atitlàn to work with El Proyecto Cultural La Cambalacha. "Cambalacha" means Exchange. "Arte para Todos," dice el sitio web. "Art for All." At the beginning of our travels together, Rachel and I were lucky enough to work with this project for a week. I fell in love with the children immediately. After teaching my first yoga class, I walked around the room, where the children lay in Shavasana, corpse pose, with eyes closed and muscles relaxed. I was speechless. Overcome by the joy and honor I felt being there, with them, in those peaceful morning moments. Beginning the day together. Greeting the sun together. And they followed me so sincerely. A few beautiful giggles because our spirits like to laugh. Otherwise, careful, honest attention. Wow.
El Proyecto Cultural La Cambalacha was founded on the belief that children have the right to creative education. In Guatemala, there are many children who do not have the opportunity to attend school at all. Those who do certainly do not have the suerte to learn music, art, dance, or theatre. I was lucky enough to meet an educator in the Guatemalan Highlands, a woman who also studied music, who helped me understand a bit more about the education system in Guatemala. "Less that 1% of public schools in Guatemala offer arts to students," she says. With 60 children in one classroom and few resources, art does not make the list of important courses for students to learn. As a person who believes that all children are born artists - imaginative, creative, curious - and that art -- poetry, music, theatre, dance, fine arts have an important place in this world, I am feeling called to dedicate myself to La Cambalacha for more than just a passing breath. INSPIRATION is what this world needs. There is enough INFORMATION flying around for a thousand universes, but without INSPIRATION, we wander like robots, ghosts, looking for wholeness rather than creating it. Looking for wholeness among the piles of books, texts, phones messages, emails, advertisements rather than painting it, dancing it, growing it, speaking it, feeling it in the very wind that strikes the morning chimes. And so I go. And so I go to San Marcos La Laguna. Dance. Yoga. Theatre. Music. Acrobatics. Clown. Fine Art. Community. I will go and collaborate with other beautiful people who believe that living art has a powerful place in the lives of children, in the lives of us all. I will begin to understand the ins and outs of El Proyecto in more detail. I will teach what I know of the artist in me and open myself to learning from the Human Exchange of each passing day. Children. Elders. Plants. Animals. Mothers. Fathers. They will all be my teachers. Now is not a time to worry over money. If I am meant to stay here with these INSPIRING children, I will find a way. Mother Earth agrees. Walking through the garden of La Escalonia today, this quote jumped out at me from the friendly horsetails, "Cuando haya pescado el ùltimo pez, envenenado el ùltimo rìo, talado el ùltimo árbol, el hombre se darà cuenta que no puede comerse el dinero." You cannot eat money. One day we will learn this. One day soon.
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