Sister. Make me write. For her.
For the little girl whose pretty
face stole her youth and caged her
dream window with iron bars. It
was not only her pretty face that
pushed her onto the street and into
the arms of that cool boy with the
cigarette. Full of false promises.
Promises that evaporate like the
clouds of smoke that cover his eyes.
And her eyes too. The cloud of smoke
that makes her think he is handsome
and kind and ready to offer her a life
that is better than the one she is living
in the four walls of her home. She is
only fifteen. Too beautiful. Dangerously
so. I know they are rough with her. I know
when she arrived late in the night they brought
out the belt and hit her, hurt her, maybe out of
love, maybe out of a lack of education, a feeling
of loss, a feeling of pain. Maybe I would have
run away, too. But not to the caged window. Not
to the house of this new cool catch who speaks
promises and delivers piles of clothes to clean,
piles of dust to sweep, orders to please him with
tortillas and ... she is fifteen. Orders to please
him as he spits upon her dreams of dancing, of studying,
of learning, of her own development. She was just beginning
to believe that her thoughts are worth something, that she
is capable and competent and that yes! she can fly through
that dream window if she continues to work, to try, to dedicate
herself, to believe that she can find a way out other than falling
into the arms of the cool boy who smells of alcohol. The cool boy
who sees her sparkle and wants it for himself. Wants to own it.
Wants to control it. Wants to keep it from the world.
Why didn't she come and speak to us. Why didn't she come to ask for help?
Why didn't she come and speak to us? Why didn't she dare to leave him?
Life is different, here. I realize.
I do not move to lay my judgement on these particular rhythms.
Nor doI feel it is my place to impose my cultural practices on
the youth here. But I do hope to inspire the young people of
these communities, of rural Guatemala, to distinguish the cultural
practices that continue to be useful and positive and those that
no longer serve. Discrimination against women does not help anyone.
Women feeling that there is no way out of the cycle of leaving
their parents' house to marry young (because they are already pregnant
and didn't know they had the right to say 'no'.) Settling submissively
for the cage before they have the opportunity to study, to explore, to ask themselves what it is they hope for in this life...
This cycle. This destructive, caged-window cycle must stop.
Bright-eyes. I hope you can shine through your caged window. I hope
your dreams of dancing carry you to a place of empowerment, of self-respect,
of courage. (Though as I write this, a voice inside says: 'wake up ... not
a chance at this point'.) I miss you. I share your story for all the women
of the world who are made to feel small and powerless and afraid and brainless and thoughtless and invisible. I share your story for all the women in the world who feel like they have no choice but to accept the caged-window. I write this story because I know not what else to do as heart races and throat ties a knot around my tears. I miss you, Rosario.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Saorsa: Internal Dialogue
"Our life expands or contracts in proportion to our courage" ... Read the quote that plays on the record player of my mind as I stand on the edge of the creative process. One, two, three and I jump with a splash into a sea of possibilities. A sea full of discouraging, spikey fish who tell you that your attempts at art are mediocre and fairly useless when compared to the professionality of the work of the more experienced artists with whom you reside and learn and play. And, there, hidden behind the anemone's tentacles, swims a rainbow fish who reminds you that Creating is about taking risks and experimenting and no one ever told you that you had to be perfect on the first attempt to raise a paintbrush to the easel. In fact, no one ever told you you had to be perfect at any point along life's winding road. Being Alive and Being Human means Being, period. Without the need for adjectives -- especially 'perfect' which is not so colorful and interesting anyhow.
I am. And so I jump -- I jump into a theatrical presentation of a journal entry I made just a year ago as I sat on the screen porch of an oversized beach house on the beautiful southern coast of South Carolina. I have been playing with it, tweaking it, changing it, letting it come alive in my hands and underneath my feet as I walk to the rhythm of the words on the stage, on the rocks, on the dirt beneath the great jocote tree. And a dialogue is born into the world. An internal dialogue. Two women that are the same woman; two voices who lose one another and find one another and support and question and ... discover. Discover the magic of opening and blooming into the acceptance of who you are; opening into the limitlessness of true freedom -- the freedom to fall in love with the world and, in so doing, begin to love oneself, away from the mirrors. The laughter that ripples from the wingtips of your song, the tears that result from the depth of Humanness, the fear that comes at the edge of happiness, at the edge of a dream, at the edge of shedding your skin and -- shining.
I want to share it with you. Because art is for sharing. Art is for everyone. Art is not about ownership and copyrights. Let's throw out possessives and just admit that these words are. They are. Born inside of me. From the experiences I have lived and continue to live as the record plays on life's turntable. But, there are no new stories; just different ways of telling, sharing, communicating what it is to live as an Alive, Breathing, Human Being. I present to you -
Saorsa: Internal Dialogue
“Saorsa”, pronounced “seer-sha”, is Irish Gaelic meaning “free•dom” n.
The condition of being free of restraints.
Liberty of the person from slavery, detention, or oppression.
Ease or facility of movement
Frankness or boldness; lack of modesty or reserve
*Should I write the date? Should stale numbers be the first characters to fill the page?
-Numbers are not stale unless you make them that way. Our realities are created by our way of perceiving
*(and our perceptions are created by our realities)
-It’s cyclical. Like so much in life.
*True. Einstein loved numbers and God at the same time. He painted his dreams in numbers and colorful eccentricity; his hair standing on end as Universe magic fed his spirited-Mind.
-So, are you going to write the date?
*Yea, I suppose so. May 30, 2009. Maybe someday I’ll want to know.
+Beauty is a feeling more than a reflection when you learn to love yourself.
-So, you feel beautiful?
*Yea. I do. I walked away from the mirrors, fell through the looking glass, met a symphony of poets, dancers, teachers, activists, musicians, mothers, brothers, sisters, playmates, demons, angels, drumbeats, silent winds, desert wildflowers and began to breathe.
*Began to breathe -which led to singing. *Began to sing -which led to dancing. *Began to dance -which led to falling in love with the world. *Fell in love with the world and began +to love myself.
*Yes, I learned to love myself away from the mirrors - feeling Alive (-Alive) in the beat of the drum, feeling youthful (-Youthful) in the turn of the cartwheel, strong (-strong) in the pulse of the run, fertile (-fertile) in the curve of the hula-hoop, wild (-wild) in the sweat of naked desert love-making, calm (-calm) in the loving quiet of morning meditation, grateful (-grateful) for the opening of my pores, my heart, my soul to the nectar of this life.
*I am –woman. I am -goddess. Goddess lives in me. She is so happy to break free of her chains. She cannot keep from dancing. She knows the music will slow eventually. She knows she will grow thirsty and want to sit and rub her tired feet.
-But she is not living there, now.
*She is living Here - in the Rhythm. Dancing.
-You are goddess. You are glowing.
* (Smile) I feel the warmth. I needn´t consult the mirror. The edges of my smile and the fluttering wings in my heart are better reflections of how I feel. Beautiful. Thankful. +Free.
___________________________
*You saw the embers glowing,
deep within my soul.
Your breath, a warm breeze from the West
came to Dance among the simmering coals.
Smelling of salt and cinnamon,
you blew a kiss and ignited the fire in me.
I am on fire.
Glowing.
Like Lady Moon,
unfraid to walk naked in the night.
I am on fire.
The world smiles upon the
rosy blush of lovers´cheeks.
And I smile back.
*There is a necessary pause after "lovers´cheeks, before smiling into the last line.
- Read silently, the poem is mediocre.
*Yet, spoken aloud, there is a taste of sweetness on my lips. Could I communicate the decadent sensations I feel in my soul to an audience of young lovers like myself? Could I share the heat that this western Rhythmaker stirs up in me as it blows breezy and kind through the screen porch?
-No.
*Not in the way I feel it. I would have to start speaking and discover what spices I release - a new word, a verse, a more full-bodied, sexy version of this simple picture of a heart.
-Enough circular talk. Who is this Western Breeze? Who is the Rhythmaker?
*I am glad you ask. I do not want to forget. I do not want this energy to evaporate from my body and scatter to the clouds before I try and explain the way it swept me off my feet so unexpectedly. Actually, it is fair to say we swept each other off our feet. +Unexpectedly.
(Pause)
-Where did you go? Do not be afraid. You don´t have to speak. Just write. Take the lid off and pour a stream of you onto these pages …as quickly or as slowly as feels natural.
*My body pulses. A buzz of electricity just under my skin keeps me from sleeping.
-So, what do you do with this energy?
*I reach out. I reach out to the Rhythmaker. West coast lover whose drumbeats vibrate in me - bouncing around my chest cavity like an echo in a canyon.
-You channel your energy where? Why not sit with the moon and tell her your breathless story?
*I do sit with the moon. I sit with you, hands on my heart, asking to temper the pulse in me. Asking for strength to ground myself in the present moment, without wild thoughts of running away; running away from my muse; climbing out the window into the night.
-and you pulse still
We run and jump wildly with wide eyes and inspired smiles … playing with our conjoined skirt, feeling each others weight, pulling and pushing until at last we bump into each other, stop, look out upon the world, upon nuestro camino and say:
*I pulse still.
And there we stand, gazing out upon the world with fire eyes -- possessed by a passion for living, a sensation of freedom so strong that it sweeps you off your feet like a tumble-weed and your curls dance themselves into knots and your skin kisses the sun and you find your way out of the tumble until you are driving yourself and finding your way, seeing the light, living in the flow, Being ... Learning to be comfortable with uncertainty, comfortable with insecurity, Invigorated by the sun, moon, stars (cliche, yes, but we too often forget to recognize the abundance all around. In simplicity. In the stars that give life through their glow. We too often forget to open our pores and Receive our blessings, or we are too afraid of what might happen). We stand there gazing out upon the world feeling thankful and awake.
And so, there it is. A piece about connecting the dots to find your own internal dialogue, to discover the evolving conversation within your being. Imagine this as a stage piece presented more abstractly: many words left out, a certain nonsensicality, jumping around, acting as our mind does -- here there and everywhere. Everyone in the audiene participates in the creation of the piece, fills in the blanks, the blanks of this journal entry that dared to become something for sharing.
I am. And so I jump -- I jump into a theatrical presentation of a journal entry I made just a year ago as I sat on the screen porch of an oversized beach house on the beautiful southern coast of South Carolina. I have been playing with it, tweaking it, changing it, letting it come alive in my hands and underneath my feet as I walk to the rhythm of the words on the stage, on the rocks, on the dirt beneath the great jocote tree. And a dialogue is born into the world. An internal dialogue. Two women that are the same woman; two voices who lose one another and find one another and support and question and ... discover. Discover the magic of opening and blooming into the acceptance of who you are; opening into the limitlessness of true freedom -- the freedom to fall in love with the world and, in so doing, begin to love oneself, away from the mirrors. The laughter that ripples from the wingtips of your song, the tears that result from the depth of Humanness, the fear that comes at the edge of happiness, at the edge of a dream, at the edge of shedding your skin and -- shining.
I want to share it with you. Because art is for sharing. Art is for everyone. Art is not about ownership and copyrights. Let's throw out possessives and just admit that these words are. They are. Born inside of me. From the experiences I have lived and continue to live as the record plays on life's turntable. But, there are no new stories; just different ways of telling, sharing, communicating what it is to live as an Alive, Breathing, Human Being. I present to you -
Saorsa: Internal Dialogue
“Saorsa”, pronounced “seer-sha”, is Irish Gaelic meaning “free•dom” n.
The condition of being free of restraints.
Liberty of the person from slavery, detention, or oppression.
Ease or facility of movement
Frankness or boldness; lack of modesty or reserve
*Should I write the date? Should stale numbers be the first characters to fill the page?
-Numbers are not stale unless you make them that way. Our realities are created by our way of perceiving
*(and our perceptions are created by our realities)
-It’s cyclical. Like so much in life.
*True. Einstein loved numbers and God at the same time. He painted his dreams in numbers and colorful eccentricity; his hair standing on end as Universe magic fed his spirited-Mind.
-So, are you going to write the date?
*Yea, I suppose so. May 30, 2009. Maybe someday I’ll want to know.
+Beauty is a feeling more than a reflection when you learn to love yourself.
-So, you feel beautiful?
*Yea. I do. I walked away from the mirrors, fell through the looking glass, met a symphony of poets, dancers, teachers, activists, musicians, mothers, brothers, sisters, playmates, demons, angels, drumbeats, silent winds, desert wildflowers and began to breathe.
*Began to breathe -which led to singing. *Began to sing -which led to dancing. *Began to dance -which led to falling in love with the world. *Fell in love with the world and began +to love myself.
*Yes, I learned to love myself away from the mirrors - feeling Alive (-Alive) in the beat of the drum, feeling youthful (-Youthful) in the turn of the cartwheel, strong (-strong) in the pulse of the run, fertile (-fertile) in the curve of the hula-hoop, wild (-wild) in the sweat of naked desert love-making, calm (-calm) in the loving quiet of morning meditation, grateful (-grateful) for the opening of my pores, my heart, my soul to the nectar of this life.
*I am –woman. I am -goddess. Goddess lives in me. She is so happy to break free of her chains. She cannot keep from dancing. She knows the music will slow eventually. She knows she will grow thirsty and want to sit and rub her tired feet.
-But she is not living there, now.
*She is living Here - in the Rhythm. Dancing.
-You are goddess. You are glowing.
* (Smile) I feel the warmth. I needn´t consult the mirror. The edges of my smile and the fluttering wings in my heart are better reflections of how I feel. Beautiful. Thankful. +Free.
___________________________
*You saw the embers glowing,
deep within my soul.
Your breath, a warm breeze from the West
came to Dance among the simmering coals.
Smelling of salt and cinnamon,
you blew a kiss and ignited the fire in me.
I am on fire.
Glowing.
Like Lady Moon,
unfraid to walk naked in the night.
I am on fire.
The world smiles upon the
rosy blush of lovers´cheeks.
And I smile back.
*There is a necessary pause after "lovers´cheeks, before smiling into the last line.
- Read silently, the poem is mediocre.
*Yet, spoken aloud, there is a taste of sweetness on my lips. Could I communicate the decadent sensations I feel in my soul to an audience of young lovers like myself? Could I share the heat that this western Rhythmaker stirs up in me as it blows breezy and kind through the screen porch?
-No.
*Not in the way I feel it. I would have to start speaking and discover what spices I release - a new word, a verse, a more full-bodied, sexy version of this simple picture of a heart.
-Enough circular talk. Who is this Western Breeze? Who is the Rhythmaker?
*I am glad you ask. I do not want to forget. I do not want this energy to evaporate from my body and scatter to the clouds before I try and explain the way it swept me off my feet so unexpectedly. Actually, it is fair to say we swept each other off our feet. +Unexpectedly.
(Pause)
-Where did you go? Do not be afraid. You don´t have to speak. Just write. Take the lid off and pour a stream of you onto these pages …as quickly or as slowly as feels natural.
*My body pulses. A buzz of electricity just under my skin keeps me from sleeping.
-So, what do you do with this energy?
*I reach out. I reach out to the Rhythmaker. West coast lover whose drumbeats vibrate in me - bouncing around my chest cavity like an echo in a canyon.
-You channel your energy where? Why not sit with the moon and tell her your breathless story?
*I do sit with the moon. I sit with you, hands on my heart, asking to temper the pulse in me. Asking for strength to ground myself in the present moment, without wild thoughts of running away; running away from my muse; climbing out the window into the night.
-and you pulse still
We run and jump wildly with wide eyes and inspired smiles … playing with our conjoined skirt, feeling each others weight, pulling and pushing until at last we bump into each other, stop, look out upon the world, upon nuestro camino and say:
*I pulse still.
And there we stand, gazing out upon the world with fire eyes -- possessed by a passion for living, a sensation of freedom so strong that it sweeps you off your feet like a tumble-weed and your curls dance themselves into knots and your skin kisses the sun and you find your way out of the tumble until you are driving yourself and finding your way, seeing the light, living in the flow, Being ... Learning to be comfortable with uncertainty, comfortable with insecurity, Invigorated by the sun, moon, stars (cliche, yes, but we too often forget to recognize the abundance all around. In simplicity. In the stars that give life through their glow. We too often forget to open our pores and Receive our blessings, or we are too afraid of what might happen). We stand there gazing out upon the world feeling thankful and awake.
And so, there it is. A piece about connecting the dots to find your own internal dialogue, to discover the evolving conversation within your being. Imagine this as a stage piece presented more abstractly: many words left out, a certain nonsensicality, jumping around, acting as our mind does -- here there and everywhere. Everyone in the audiene participates in the creation of the piece, fills in the blanks, the blanks of this journal entry that dared to become something for sharing.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Opening the Windows of Our Hearts
I have been waking up at 5 o'clock each morning to have a bit of time with myself, the early birds, the quieting crickets and my deep, waking breaths. 5 o'clock I wake while the stars are still fading and the moon is kissing the mountainside - her final hour of presence leaving me with a grounded sense of security. (I smile as these words leave the lips of my mind - "grounded sense of security" - for they were spoken by a friend, Abi, as she unveiled the layers upon layers of her womanhood in a monologue that she performed as part of a show we did here in La Cambalacha on Friday night. I gifted her some words as she sat to write her red exploration of a child breaking free from her cage and opening to her feminine strength that Yes! deserves to be heard. And, now, she gifts me a phrase - not to be owned, bought or sold. Gifted.)
And I return to where I left off -- 5 o'clock in the morning. I wake in this hour to have some time to sit and breathe before entering the kitchen to make breakfast for the family. Before my thoughts turn to boiling water for rich coffee and cutting fruit for morning bellies to enjoy -- I breathe, I meditate, I write. Grounding myself. Centering myself for the day. The days filled to the brim and beyond (Overflowing) with activity and children and swirling combinations of mind-blowing juxtaposition, inspiration, creation and the mundane, ordinary everyday (that also turns out to be extra-ordinary if you open yourself to its true colors). The orange joy of working with children, who find the magic in everything. The vibrant green gratitude for living together with people who value each moment of life and want to honor it with art and love and intention and a listening ear. With senses attuned, fingertips to toe-tips engaged – we live, celebrating the blessings of life without shame – working to multiply the heart-awakening effects of a smile, a hug, a ripple of laughter, an afternoon of play that turns you upside down and inside-out with happiness.
And that was all meant to be an introduction to an excerpt from my Morning Pages that I write at the five o'clock hour in the company of the moon and the early birds. For many months of not writing to you my words flow out in torrents -- not knowing quite how to communicate all that has happened and is happening in these moments that form my life. And so, I share with you now this excerpt that is a Window into my heart and my life for which I feel grateful. Deeply grateful.
Morning Pages. Gallos calling out to the dawn. Coaxing the sun to come out and play. Dogs howling at the moon; daring each other to howl louder and louder while the world of San Marcos La Laguna sleeps. They howl at night and sleep by day. We grow used to the noise. Yesterday, Monday, I spent the afternoon in San Juan. Each Monday we travel to la biblioteca to play for 1 hour 15 minutes, or something longer when we cannot tear ourselves away from what we are doing. (Playing - having fun – sharing – learning and blooming with glue-covered fingers.) Yesterday was particularly beautiful. (I probably say this each week. But this is how Beauty is. She grows, spreads her fingers far and wide. What the world needs -- not the "beauty" of supermodels and latest fashions. The Beauty of Exchange, Sharing, Consciously Creating Harmony Together.) And so, San Juan. Yesterday. We sang a song -- La Palmera; and danced and Smiled and sang again. We played a game. We stretched up high and stretched down low and gathered the positive energy we created in the circle in the palm of our hands. And then we got quiet as we played with this magic ball -- letting it grow bigger and smaller like a heartbeat swelling, rising and falling. And then we compacted the energy into a small dandelion seed and blew it gently across the room to our friend Leire, who began to fly when she received our seeds beneath her wings. Up, up, so full of gratitude for the generous hearts of the children.
She read a story. Actually, no. She did not ‘read’ a story; she told a story with the expression and dedication/energy of an authentic storyteller. El Monstruo de la calle de los colores. La calle de los colores (The street of colors) is not fantastical. It is right here, at the edge of town. (Do you know esta calle? she asked the children.) At first, no. But then, when asked what colors one sees bouncing off the prism windows of this rainbow street, each child eagerly contributed a color or two or eight. Rojo! Anaranjado! Azul! Verde! Amarillo! Morado! Blanco! This is where the Monster lived. He was shaped like a giant, rectangular armware. Like the piece of furniture that often hides an all too often used television and stereo system. It has doors that open to the front.
El Monstruo (Armarion) only left his dark house once a day. Once a day he appeared on la calle de los colores. He walked to buy a newspaper. Each and every day. The children were very curious about this. They wanted to know more about the peculiar Armarion. But when they ran after him, he ran away too, scared. And then he would turn around and scowl and open his peacock feather tail and scare the children in return. Could it be that he was he reading? All day long?
One day, the children were flying a kite near Armarion's home and the kite landed up high on his second story balcony. The children decided to wait until Armarion was sleeping to go and retrieve the kite. When it was time, three children helped hoist one another up to the balcony. When they saw Armarion sleeping, they could not contain their curiosity any longer, and so they went inside, tiptoeing. As they got closer, they realized that Armarion was surrounded by bits of newspaper, torn-up and chewed on. A bowl full of newspaper lay at his feet. He had been eating it like popcorn! Eating all the information without reading a single word. In fact, he did not know how to read. The television had eaten his brain as he sat and ate the newspaper. His heart had grown cold and withdrawn. The children felt the sadness in the gray chill of the lightless room.
One of the children noticed that Armarion wore a necklace of keys around his left wrist. A particularly daring girl took the keys in her hand and began looking for the key that would unlock the front doors of Armarion’s square body – two doors that rested just where his heart would be. When they opened the doors, they were surprised to find another door. They opened it. Inside was another door. And another and another and until little Monica was practically inside the monster. All you could see were her little toes. In the final lock, she placed the last key, which appeared itsy-bitsy even in her tiny fingers and then … They heard it. A song coming from deep inside Armarion. From between the doors burst the brilliant yellow wings of a canary. They had discovered the heart of the monster, who woke with a rumbling, tumbling, grateful smile. “Thank you!” he exclaimed. “My heart is awakening – feeling the sunshine of your smiles for the first time in so many years.”
From that time on, the children who played en la calle de los colores laughed and shared with Armarion, who threw out his television set and began to feel human again. The children would come each week and teach Armarion how to read. They were such good teachers, beginning with simple alphabet and everyday words and then gradually introducing longer, more fantastical and adventurous words, stories and rhymes. And they lived happily, playfully, open-heartedly, there, en la calle de los colores – sharing their gifts, stories and imaginations with a smile.
I didn’t realize I would sit here and tell the whole story. How beautiful, eh? What I originally wanted to share was the art project that followed the story – “La ventana de mi corazón.” “What is inside your heart?” we ask the children as we hand each one a window with a blank landscape on which to draw the beauty of their hearts. Trees, plants, animals, yellow canaries, friends – the children picked up the crayons and drew happily. Isabel draws a man holding a broom. He is very happy that he is able to buy this broom. A broom to sweep his home and feel content with a clean floor? A broom to fly away on? Children are the greatest wonders of the world. Isabel, in her owl-eye wisdom, reminds me to always give thanks for the small blessings in life.
We share our hearts in a circle. One by one, we open the windows for our friends to see. We were shy at first, passing a long, silent moment before daring to open the shades; but little by little, we opened each window and shared the colors and shapes with the whole group – exploring what is inside our hearts. Beauty abounds! The energy of the room is buzzing – and our hearts start dancing, hanging their around our necks with the windows open. And we begin to sing …
“Mi corazón salió a bailar,
Porque lo hace muy bien.
Mi corazón salió a bailar,
Porque lo hace muy bien …
And we dance.
And I return to where I left off -- 5 o'clock in the morning. I wake in this hour to have some time to sit and breathe before entering the kitchen to make breakfast for the family. Before my thoughts turn to boiling water for rich coffee and cutting fruit for morning bellies to enjoy -- I breathe, I meditate, I write. Grounding myself. Centering myself for the day. The days filled to the brim and beyond (Overflowing) with activity and children and swirling combinations of mind-blowing juxtaposition, inspiration, creation and the mundane, ordinary everyday (that also turns out to be extra-ordinary if you open yourself to its true colors). The orange joy of working with children, who find the magic in everything. The vibrant green gratitude for living together with people who value each moment of life and want to honor it with art and love and intention and a listening ear. With senses attuned, fingertips to toe-tips engaged – we live, celebrating the blessings of life without shame – working to multiply the heart-awakening effects of a smile, a hug, a ripple of laughter, an afternoon of play that turns you upside down and inside-out with happiness.
And that was all meant to be an introduction to an excerpt from my Morning Pages that I write at the five o'clock hour in the company of the moon and the early birds. For many months of not writing to you my words flow out in torrents -- not knowing quite how to communicate all that has happened and is happening in these moments that form my life. And so, I share with you now this excerpt that is a Window into my heart and my life for which I feel grateful. Deeply grateful.
Morning Pages. Gallos calling out to the dawn. Coaxing the sun to come out and play. Dogs howling at the moon; daring each other to howl louder and louder while the world of San Marcos La Laguna sleeps. They howl at night and sleep by day. We grow used to the noise. Yesterday, Monday, I spent the afternoon in San Juan. Each Monday we travel to la biblioteca to play for 1 hour 15 minutes, or something longer when we cannot tear ourselves away from what we are doing. (Playing - having fun – sharing – learning and blooming with glue-covered fingers.) Yesterday was particularly beautiful. (I probably say this each week. But this is how Beauty is. She grows, spreads her fingers far and wide. What the world needs -- not the "beauty" of supermodels and latest fashions. The Beauty of Exchange, Sharing, Consciously Creating Harmony Together.) And so, San Juan. Yesterday. We sang a song -- La Palmera; and danced and Smiled and sang again. We played a game. We stretched up high and stretched down low and gathered the positive energy we created in the circle in the palm of our hands. And then we got quiet as we played with this magic ball -- letting it grow bigger and smaller like a heartbeat swelling, rising and falling. And then we compacted the energy into a small dandelion seed and blew it gently across the room to our friend Leire, who began to fly when she received our seeds beneath her wings. Up, up, so full of gratitude for the generous hearts of the children.
She read a story. Actually, no. She did not ‘read’ a story; she told a story with the expression and dedication/energy of an authentic storyteller. El Monstruo de la calle de los colores. La calle de los colores (The street of colors) is not fantastical. It is right here, at the edge of town. (Do you know esta calle? she asked the children.) At first, no. But then, when asked what colors one sees bouncing off the prism windows of this rainbow street, each child eagerly contributed a color or two or eight. Rojo! Anaranjado! Azul! Verde! Amarillo! Morado! Blanco! This is where the Monster lived. He was shaped like a giant, rectangular armware. Like the piece of furniture that often hides an all too often used television and stereo system. It has doors that open to the front.
El Monstruo (Armarion) only left his dark house once a day. Once a day he appeared on la calle de los colores. He walked to buy a newspaper. Each and every day. The children were very curious about this. They wanted to know more about the peculiar Armarion. But when they ran after him, he ran away too, scared. And then he would turn around and scowl and open his peacock feather tail and scare the children in return. Could it be that he was he reading? All day long?
One day, the children were flying a kite near Armarion's home and the kite landed up high on his second story balcony. The children decided to wait until Armarion was sleeping to go and retrieve the kite. When it was time, three children helped hoist one another up to the balcony. When they saw Armarion sleeping, they could not contain their curiosity any longer, and so they went inside, tiptoeing. As they got closer, they realized that Armarion was surrounded by bits of newspaper, torn-up and chewed on. A bowl full of newspaper lay at his feet. He had been eating it like popcorn! Eating all the information without reading a single word. In fact, he did not know how to read. The television had eaten his brain as he sat and ate the newspaper. His heart had grown cold and withdrawn. The children felt the sadness in the gray chill of the lightless room.
One of the children noticed that Armarion wore a necklace of keys around his left wrist. A particularly daring girl took the keys in her hand and began looking for the key that would unlock the front doors of Armarion’s square body – two doors that rested just where his heart would be. When they opened the doors, they were surprised to find another door. They opened it. Inside was another door. And another and another and until little Monica was practically inside the monster. All you could see were her little toes. In the final lock, she placed the last key, which appeared itsy-bitsy even in her tiny fingers and then … They heard it. A song coming from deep inside Armarion. From between the doors burst the brilliant yellow wings of a canary. They had discovered the heart of the monster, who woke with a rumbling, tumbling, grateful smile. “Thank you!” he exclaimed. “My heart is awakening – feeling the sunshine of your smiles for the first time in so many years.”
From that time on, the children who played en la calle de los colores laughed and shared with Armarion, who threw out his television set and began to feel human again. The children would come each week and teach Armarion how to read. They were such good teachers, beginning with simple alphabet and everyday words and then gradually introducing longer, more fantastical and adventurous words, stories and rhymes. And they lived happily, playfully, open-heartedly, there, en la calle de los colores – sharing their gifts, stories and imaginations with a smile.
I didn’t realize I would sit here and tell the whole story. How beautiful, eh? What I originally wanted to share was the art project that followed the story – “La ventana de mi corazón.” “What is inside your heart?” we ask the children as we hand each one a window with a blank landscape on which to draw the beauty of their hearts. Trees, plants, animals, yellow canaries, friends – the children picked up the crayons and drew happily. Isabel draws a man holding a broom. He is very happy that he is able to buy this broom. A broom to sweep his home and feel content with a clean floor? A broom to fly away on? Children are the greatest wonders of the world. Isabel, in her owl-eye wisdom, reminds me to always give thanks for the small blessings in life.
We share our hearts in a circle. One by one, we open the windows for our friends to see. We were shy at first, passing a long, silent moment before daring to open the shades; but little by little, we opened each window and shared the colors and shapes with the whole group – exploring what is inside our hearts. Beauty abounds! The energy of the room is buzzing – and our hearts start dancing, hanging their around our necks with the windows open. And we begin to sing …
“Mi corazón salió a bailar,
Porque lo hace muy bien.
Mi corazón salió a bailar,
Porque lo hace muy bien …
And we dance.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Why Cambalacha?
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.
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.
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.
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