tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6323083063275252762024-03-13T07:51:03.995-07:00... even the journey is home ...Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-65675437301937234332017-03-23T10:11:00.004-07:002017-03-24T07:19:00.624-07:00the art between usA few days ago, I found myself at an event called "the art between us." It was an eclectic gathering of souls: women shared hard-learned truths in the form of slam-poems, some shared original music, and others, like myself, were just there to listen.<br />
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Though I had planned on scribbling down particularly poignant phrases and sentiments, I found that I was simply too consumed with the performances. I sat for two and a half hours, completely enraptured. Before my eyes, I was seeing women, completely uninhibited and entirely supported, blooming as they told their stories. There's just something about circles of women that has always felt like home to me. </div>
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One woman beautifully articulated her experience growing up as a child with a stutter. When she spoke, her words were so vivid. I pictured her: small, with childlike vulnerability, in her physical education class. She was pulled to the side by a teacher who spoke down to her, telling her that she was limited to one question per class period because her stutter delayed the entire class. Frustrated and hurt, she returned home to her mother that day. And from that day, she and her mother committed to overcoming her stutter together. She detailed the dismay that came with the process, but also the overwhelming gratification when she finally felt heard. Now, removed from the stress of her stutter, she recognizes that her greatest weakness ultimately proved to be her greatest strength. By limiting her ability to speak, she learned to convey her emotions and thoughts powerfully, definitively, succinctly.</div>
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I found myself mesmerized by the transformation she was describing and how it was facilitated through her relationship with her mother. She embodied and described the beauty of accompaniment: what happens when we feel truly safe with another. What happens when we are truly and deeply listened to: how it creates us, makes us unfold and expand. </div>
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Recently I read the book, "The Body Keeps the Score" by Bessel Van Der Kolk. Within it, Van Der Kolk outlines how trauma effects our bodies: how we hold the hurt, the anger, the abuse and neglect within our physical bodies. Van Der Kolk states:<br />
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Traumatized people chronically feel unsafe inside their bodies: The past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort. Their bodies are constantly bombarded by visceral warning signs, and, in an attempt to control these processes, they often become expert at ignoring their gut feelings and in numbing awareness of what is played out inside. </blockquote>
Trauma forces individuals into their primal survival mode: fight or flight, and though they have survived, their escape is thwarted in some way. Consequently, closeness, for traumatized individuals, triggers a sense of danger. Deep intimacy requires deep vulnerability. A close embrace, even, requires that person to allow themselves to experience immobilization without fear. Yet, as Van Derk Kolk argues and what many of us can attest to, what individuals begin to dread the most after experience trauma -- close contact with other people -- is exactly what we need to heal. He states, "being able to feel safe with other people is probably the single most important aspect of mental health; safe connections are fundamental to meaningful and satisfying lives."<br />
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Connections are not as simple as being together. To truly experience accompaniment, we must feel held, to be fully heard and seen. Specifically, from Van Derk Kolk's work, "for our physiology to calm down, heal, and grow, we need a visceral feeling of safety." When we feel safe, heard, and deeply wanted, we begin to tell our stories. As we begin to tell our narrative, we see who we are, and we make sense of what we have endured, and we begin to move forward.<br />
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I do not want to equate the woman's story of overcoming her stutter to one of trauma, but I do want to use her story to exemplify the beauty of relationship. What I want to distill from her story is that closeness, tenderness, and deep listening encourage us to live into our fullest selves, and relieve ourselves of the tyranny of the past. What her story demonstrates is that we are loved into life.<br />
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Truthfully, there have been so many moments that I have been simply amazed at what women around me have accomplished with love. However, one of the most influential experience thus far has been the gathering of the Women's March on Washington. The numbers of people pouring through the streets, determined to be seen, and determined to see each other was simply astounding. Public discourse of the preceding months reminded us of how incredibly common it is to have one's bodily integrity damaged by the hands of another. After such a disruption of peace, it was important to see women reclaim space. The meaning of the march has been debated and disputed, but for me, it was about showing up, and making sure that my sisters knew that I would be their keeper.<br />
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On that day, I was reminded that I must stand by the sides of those I love, and those who are most vulnerable. I was reminded that though it may be the difficult, our calling is to pursue healing by compassionately listening and accompanying individuals through their pain. I was reminded that though I may have to strain myself to hear, I needed to listen to the stories of the women and men around me.<br />
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In Van Der Kolk's book, he ultimately demonstrates four fundamental truths, that he argues aren't recognized by the ways we currently look at trauma and pain. These truths are that:</div>
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<b>(1) </b>our capacity to destroy one another is matched by our capacity to heal one another. Restoring relationships and community is central to restoring well-being; </blockquote>
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<b>(2)</b> language gives us the power to change ourselves and others by communicating our experiences, helping us to define what we know, and finding a common sense of meaning; </blockquote>
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<b>(3) </b>we have the ability to regulate our own physiology, including some of the so-called involuntary functions of the body and brain, through such basic activities as breathing, moving, and touching; and </blockquote>
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<b>(4) </b>we can change social conditions to create environments in which children and adults can feel safe and where they can thrive.</blockquote>
It's tempting in our current sociopolitical environment to want to hasten process and to dismiss seemingly intangible answers to our larger world's problems. It's easy to be the teacher that limits a girl's time to speak for the sake of time management. Being told simply to "listen" to those around you and those far from you does not feel like a solution.<br />
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But truthfully, no one can treat or remedy a tragedy or an abuse. There are no easy solutions. What has been done has been done. Van Der Kolk states that rather, "what can be dealt with are the imprints of the trauma on body, mind, and soul." And loving people, listening to them, marching beside, holding their hand in the dark -- these are actions that change the chemistry of our brains, change the way we tell our story, change the way we see the world and experience our bodies. And this is remarkable.<br />
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Listening is an act of political resistance.<br />
We cultivate resilience by loving.<br />
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If you have spare time, please use it to listen to the stories around you.<br />
If you can bear it, please allow your heart to remain open.<br />
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The greatest social change will happen when we approach it from an informed, intersectional approach. This begins by healing the wounds that we have inflicted on one another: something that can only be solved by loving well and listening hard.<br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0143127748/braipick-20">The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma</a><br />
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Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-68671646828486873502016-11-16T11:17:00.002-08:002016-11-16T11:17:19.637-08:00"The Day After The Election I Did Not Go Outside"<span style="color: #010101; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">by </span><a href="http://thenewinquiry.com/author/hanif-willis-abdurraqib/" style="border-bottom: 1px dotted rgb(0, 102, 153); color: #006699; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">HANIF WILLIS-ABDURRAQIB</a><br />
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<strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">BUT</strong> for a moment, to drive to the soul<br />food spot on Congress ave. where utensils,<br />large & made for the hands of no one living among<br />us, hang on the walls & where the woman behind</div>
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the counter yells out my order before my second<br />foot makes it in the door & where her laugh is like<br />my sister’s or where her laugh is like my mother’s or<br />where her laugh is like my grandmother’s or where her laugh</div>
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is like the laugh of a black woman who knows where the devil<br />is hiding & knows how to shake him loose & in the soul food<br />spot there are no devils but there is plenty sin & where you look<br />at the sweet tea & your dentist gets a chill from miles away &</div>
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where, if the gossip is good enough, the smoke from the kitchen<br />puffs into black halos & someone ain’t getting the catfish they<br />ordered & where all is forgiven & where forgiveness is always<br />dressed in something fried or sweet & where, around a circle</div>
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of spent plates, men with their full bellies & thin gold chains slap<br />cards on a wooden table & where those men ignore the yelling<br />& the marching on the television & where I imagine those men<br />have seen this movie before & know its ending & yet are still</div>
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here to watch it again & where the plates rattle when one of the men shows<br />his hand & says his partner ain’t shit & where I laugh because these men<br />could be my father & around the right table, I am everyone’s child &<br />where the stereo is from the 90s & so is everything that crawls out of it</div>
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& where Lauryn sings how <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">you gon’ win if you ain’t right within</em> & I am<br />oh, I am right within for this small and shrinking moment. I am right<br />within for this newborn praise, because the rain stopped & the clouds<br />gave way earlier & yes, the darkness arrives sooner now & yes,</div>
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the streets were still slick, but on this day, the children were in<br />them, dodging the streetlights on their small bikes & the girls<br />leapt & whipped their long ponytails through the open mouths<br />of two jump ropes & this is the only country they know & it is nothing</div>
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to get free when your only country is freedom & so I say, then:<br />make a border around any place you are loved & call it yours.<br />make a border around those who hold you up & build what<br />you must to keep the devils out. I say, then: I know, I know</div>
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the burning cannot be unseen & on this night I claimed a new<br />& fleeting empire, governed by soul food & loud black children &<br />no one telling them to be quiet. governed by men who lose<br />card games. governed by men who know they ain’t shit & the women</div>
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who know it better but have loved them for too long to stop<br />now. oh country, my new and brief country. how I walk from you<br />full & into the wreckage. how I wish you everywhere now.<br />how I try to taste you in the air instead of blood.</div>
Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-78834150177374027772016-10-06T16:01:00.003-07:002016-10-07T06:28:34.980-07:00the dust settles.Recently, one of my housemates posed the most seemingly benign question toward me.<br />
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We were marching down the street, recanting through memories and noting how delightfully odd it was to feel as though we were exactly where we should be, while also experiencing feelings of simply not being entirely at home. Our conversation drifted into discussing how absurd and perhaps misleading it was to believe that one could ever feel entirely at home in a space. Our pace quickened in time with the intensity of our conversation, and seemingly at the crescendo, he asked me if I had ever felt settled. My steps stalled, and as he repeated his question, the gravity of the subject sank into me and pulled my heart into my stomach.<br />
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Catching up to speed once again, I responded with something relatively chipper, rounded the corner on the sidewalk, and changed the subject.<br />
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But the question barreled through me, and for the last few weeks, it has been lodged in my thoughts, creating static whenever I try to think clearly.<br />
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Had I ever felt settled?<br />
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I flashed to my most fondly cherished moments: from childhood, to the halls of my high school, that I still know so well. My thoughts traced to sitting on couches with my women friends, cradling souls and teacups, to afternoons spent in Philadelphia with popsicles and sangria. I thought of highlights, of delivering shaky speeches in chapel, to times I safely spoke my truth in women's groups. I thought of holidays with grandparents, whose wrinkles and jokes I know by heart. I thought of crawling in bed with my parents. I thought of families and individuals I loved in Quito. I thought of my host mamo who cared for me so deeply during my cross-cultural study. I thought of the mountains of Oregon and how they enveloped me in their largeness. <br />
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Rationally, because those moments are so deeply entrenched in my soul, I reasoned that they must have been times I felt settled.<br />
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But at my core, had I felt settled? Those were also moments of deep impermanence: childhood was gone in an instant and high school and college seemed to flash by in the blink of an eye. Beyond childhood, the times that I've felt most connected to places and people occurred when I felt keenly aware that my time was limited. Most moments were coupled with the looming unknown of the end of summer, the next semester, the next unfolding chapter.<br />
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In my adult life, I have never decorated a bedroom with the anticipation of staying for longer than a year.<br />
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As I've bounced from context to context, I've often joked with loved ones that I would be happiest if I could pack them up in suitcases and bring them with me throughout each adventure. This is doubtlessly because the moments that I have felt most deeply settled, most deeply known, most deeply at home, is through relationship. The spaces that ground me, the soil that I have sunk my roots deeply into, is my community. The space that I feel settled in is in relationship to people.<br />
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When asked where I feel settled, I cannot point to a place on a map, and I find this alarming sometimes. But I can tell you the exact geography of the bodies of the people who ground me. My home, my sense of being settled, is in the crook of an arm, secured through handholds fastened together through interlocked fingers.<br />
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But relationships would be boring if they were as stagnant and stable as the foundation of a house. Relationships move and are molded, and I wonder if it is safe that my sense of belonging is held exclusively by other people. Further, knowing that so many others hold pieces of my home and that those people are placed all over the globe, I'm terrified. Will I ever feel settled? Will I ever have all the people, all the pieces of my heart in one place?<br />
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The spoken word-poet, Sarah Kay, captured some of my sentiments in a speech delivered at Scripp's College commencement. She states:<br />
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When I am inside writing,<br />
all I can think about is how I should be outside living.<br />
When I am outside living,<br />
all I can do is notice all there is to write about.<br />
When I read about love, I think I should be out loving.<br />
When I love, I think I need to read more.<br />
I am stumbling in pursuit of grace,<br />
I hunt patience with a vengeance.<br />
On the mornings when my brother’s tired muscles<br />
held to the pillow, my father used to tell him,<br />
For every moment you aren’t playing basketball,<br />
someone else is on the court practicing. </blockquote>
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<i>I spend most of my time wondering </i><i>if I should be somewhere else.</i></blockquote>
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I find that I am nearly constantly wondering if I should be somewhere else. I feel plagued by echoes of doubt. I feel drawn to be near familiarity, and then drained of energy when I don't feel challenged enough. I wonder, continuously, if I would feel more settled, more at home, in a different community. And these feelings push me to wonder if a sense of being settled is an indicator of being in line with the Divine.<br />
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Perhaps my continuous uncertainty is why I find myself feeling so comfortable in cities. Cities are transitive -- a fact that I face blatantly with each morning commute on the Metro Red Line: when the arteries of traffic are congested with people flowing in from disparate places. Though I leave my house at the same time every day, and would likely have the same schedule as many, I find that I am almost more surprised when I see a familiar face than when I am surrounded by complete strangers.<br />
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Within a week, the skyline of the city can change: buildings regularly rise up and fall down. Art installments are posted, new food trucks populate the street lining our park each day, patrolmen are rotated into different positions and locations. There are few things that I count on with certainty. It's invigorating to feel as though I'm waking and greeting a new city each day.<br />
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Simultaneously, it's exhausting.<br />
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Sometimes, I close my eyes, and simply meditate on all of the skylines I've woken up to over the last few years. Skylines I've fallen in love with. In each city that I've planted my feet in, I can remember my routes to work. I can picture each dip and dive of the pavement. I remember the faces I past with fleeting regularity.<br />
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Sometimes, I'll walk down the street in a nondescript American town, and the clouds will remind me of the volcano of Cotopaxi, and in an instant, I'll be transported to a home that held me for a mere four months.<br />
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I can't quite articulate the unique form of heartbreak it is to realize that often the places I've loved and left have experienced tremendous pain. Ecuador experienced a volcanic eruption, an earthquake, and resultant tremors after I left. Communities I loved in Georgia have experienced tremendous loss. Turkey and Greece have experienced political turmoil. Bulgaria continues to be the poorest country in the European Union. Colombia chose to continue into the unknown with their peace treaties with the FARC.<br />
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It feels like the entire world is aching, and I feel like I have simply passed through spaces, voraciously moving through experience to experience. In the expansive and all encompassing face of pain, I feel inconsequential. I feel so insignificant when I realize that I lived and loved and left.<br />
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Am I where I'm supposed to be?<br />
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Sarah Kay concludes her poem with these words:<br />
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I have learned to shape the words thank you<br />
with my first breath each morning, my last breath every night.<br />
When the last breath comes, at least I will know I was grateful<br />
for all the places I was so sure I was not supposed to be.<br />
All those places I made it to,<br />
all the loves I held, all the words I wrote.<br />
And even if it is just for one moment,<br />
I know I will be exactly where I am supposed to be.</blockquote>
I am trying to live this: to exercise simple thankfulness for the variety of experiences, people, and places who have shaped me.<br />
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But I have also felt a profound call to be more than transitive in a space. I want to build and shape the skylines that surround us. I want to grow with people and to accompany communities.<br />
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Though I have never felt particularly settled in a place, I have felt a call to contribute more deeply, to act as though each space is my home. I have felt a call to give more profoundly. And perhaps that is what drew me to working for Habitat for Humanity. Before I started working, I read what would be my job description, and was moved when I saw that the title for my responsibilities was: "What you will build."<br />
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I looked at my hands and I thought of how uncomfortable I felt leaving places with only my stories and my love and my poems. And I thought of how gratifying it would be to feel as though I could be a part of something enormous. I thought of how gratifying it would be to build cities and houses and create homes.<br />
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And it has been so invigorating. My organization believes in permanence that is secured through processes of change. We believe in firm foundations, insulated walls, and secure, strong roofs. My organization finds purpose in creating something durable, visibly changing landscapes and definitively changing the course of individual lives and community spirits. Even the language at Habitat promotes building, with certainty, creating with vision. I cannot write or speak haphazardly in my workplace. We refer to our work with phrases like, "heavy lifts." We do not send out brochures, we send out "tool kits." When we look at our job plans, the central, motivating question is, "what will you build?"<br />
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Working at Habitat, I am not allowed the luxury to pass through a place without giving of myself. I am not allowed the luxury of feeling insignificant.<br />
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I am charged to do and be more. I am charged to change skylines. I am asked to build.<br />
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Thinking this way is so entirely unnatural for me. It challenges me. It intimidates me. It invigorates me.<br />
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I know that my contract is for a year, and I know that I still do not feel settled into DC yet, and I know that I have so much more exploring yet to do. Sometimes I feel insecure that I don't yet have clear vision of what being "settled" means to me. Sometimes it feels like an inadequacy that I do not have a defined vision of what I want my future to look like. Sometimes, I downplay the ways that I have given of myself significantly to places.<br />
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But, I have come to recognize that I am continuously building. <br />
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I am establishing permanence, growing roots, creating relationship constantly. I am becoming more settled each day in my body and in my soul. I am building my own home.<br />
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I am building when I write.<br />
I am building every time I hold someone through their process of healing.<br />
I am building every time I act with care.<br />
I am building each time I smile at a familiar face in the subway.<br />
I am building when I send letters.<br />
I am building when I cast my absentee ballot.<br />
I am building when I spend evenings with watercolors, painting flourish.<br />
I am building when I offer my arms and my heart.<br />
I am building as I offer myself to the world.Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-38168205114689276622016-08-16T08:03:00.000-07:002016-08-16T08:06:01.562-07:00Balance: A Reflection on the last two years -- and a launch into the next chapter<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have forever gravitated toward adventure, and my pull to explore and to know difference has made me feel like a restless wanderer. I perceive myself as one who loves deeply, but sporadically, and because of my desire to explore, I never trusted myself to be near to another consistently. The myth that guided my life was that I was my best when I was wandering or discovering. My myth impacted the way that I perceived and understood God: God, to me, existed in the moments when the universe seemed to be wonderfully syncretistic. And those sweet, honeyed moments were sporadic. My moments with God occurred exclusively when I was experiencing newness and delighting in difference. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">My cross-cultural experience was invigorating: I was living into the myth that guided my entire existence. I was moving, constantly, and enjoying myself tremendously. Each day offered new choices and I was able to give of myself in moments with strangers on the streets. I felt stretched and tied to new places each day, and every moment I savored the reality that what I had was only temporary. I was close to the God that existed in blissful and excruciating happiness, but far away from the God that dwelled in suffering. I listened to stories of experiences in Communism, baiting my breath, waiting for the speaker to reveal the joy and the excitement that I expected the story would ultimately hold. When the stories did not hold a silver lining, I found myself unnerved. I wanted my experience to reveal that my God was a God of Goodness. From my juvenile perspective, stories that highlighted suffering were merely incomplete: God was still about to work. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">About three-fourths of the way through my cross-cultural, our group went to visit a mosque in Istanbul. On the bus, I checked my email. I had received an email from my grandmother, telling me that she had been diagnosed with melanoma as well as breast cancer. I shuddered when I saw this message, and immediately, I put my tablet away. I refused to recon with this reality. I took the reality, and stuck it into the back of my mind. I wanted to plunge forward, into a new experience again. More than anything, I wanted to engage with my adventure in the way that I had been before. But I could not. My world and my myth had been shifted. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our cross-cultural group wandered through the mosque. I still remember attempting to engage with the experience in the ways I knew I wanted to. When we walked in through the doors: I romanticized about the details, taking pictures of the design in the doorframe, the carpet, and the windows. As we walked into the mosque, we were asked to take off our shoes, to cover our heads, to don skirts. It was so clear that we were entering into a holy space. The entire mosque was ornate, intimately and carefully decorated. And there I was, entirely vulnerable. I was without my camera, without my notebook, and I felt entirely bare: sock-footed and simply cloaked in fabric that was not my own. Our group was asked to take a seat on the carpet, to take a few moments to marvel at the interior of the mosque. I sat cross-legged on the floor, close to Rachel. Rachel is a woman who has journeyed with me for years, who has proven to me time and time again that I can be steadfast. Having her near me, in my moment of vulnerability caused me to unfurl. Wordlessly, I inched toward her, and knowingly, she enveloped me in her arms. I cried and cried, and in doing so, I let go of my desire to constantly be the most exciting or happiest person in the room. It was in that moment that I bound myself in relationship to Rachel, to my grandmother, and with the harsh realities of life. I finally allowed sadness to reach me at my core.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I spent the next week crying. My tears would come in moments of transition, when I realized that I would not be able to love everyone or all places as deeply as I desired. Suddenly, the impermanence that I had loved so fiercely made me feel deeply discontent. We were travelling through so many different places, and I realized I was only seeing the briefest glimpse into others lives. I craved depth. I wanted to live in the villages we visited. I wanted our hosts to be my family. I wanted to date the people that I flirted with in passing. I felt extreme dissonance between wanting my adventure to continue indefinitely and wanting, and needing, quite desperately, to be home and close to my grandmother. I did what I could: I poured myself out over emails and I let myself be cradled by those who knew me well. I worked on acknowledging when I was not okay. A triumphant moment for me was when I revealed that I was deeply sad. Before my cross cultural experience, I never would have been willing to admit that I was anything less than exuberantly happy. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I became more comfortable, I simultaneously became more appreciative of the stories that I was soaking in. Once I had reckoned with my own suffering and loss, I was able to listen to other’s stories. Before I knew the depths of myself, I was uncomfortable listening to sad stories. I would listen only to interject when I found a silver lining or a happy moment. I could not bear to feel discomfort or sadness for too long. But, I learned to listen, and I learned that we cannot heal without acknowledging the depth of our hurting. And, I realized, that all healing had to happen within the context of a community. Bearing scars is so deeply important, and unites us together. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I came home, and miraculously, my grandmother was cured of both her cancers. When she greeted me at the door of her home, she immediately pulled down her pants to show me her eight inch scar she gained from having her melanoma removed. She laughed about how lopsided she was now, after having her breast removed and the large scarring on her leg. Seeing her, I immediately noticed her sturdy shoulders and her bold rimmed glasses. She was still so familiar to me, still so steadfast, so loving. I came home to her, and I experienced healing as well. I came to know God in the suffering, in the healing, and in the holistic joy that sprang forward in me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I spent a semester rooted at EMU before I felt an overwhelming need to explore again. I wanted to learn another context, and I wanted to learn another story. I applied to work at MCC, and was given an internship in Quito, Ecuador. There, I worked with refugee resettlement. Each day, for a few hours, I would facilitate entrance interviews. In these interviews, we asked refugees to tell their story, and from that, we were able to understand what circumstances they were fleeing from and a bit more about how we could give assistance. Sitting through those stories was often an excruciating experience. When it was difficult for me to listen, I found myself watching their eyes and where they would drift. Or other times I would watch their hands, noticing how they held themselves. I also noticed how consistently I would hear stories encompassing horrific tragedies, and when the stories were winding down, they would say, “All is well, thanks to God.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was astounded to see that the faith of these individuals persevered, although they were experiencing such horrific tragedies. I was humbled, daily, when I realized how little I knew about suffering. I was also humbled to realize how little I knew about the heart of God. And I was most humbled by realizing how little I knew about joy. I spent much of my summer listening. From listening, I saw that the refugees who were ultimately rooted in the community, were the ones who ended up thriving the most. This astounded me: the ones who seemed the most joyful, the most whole, were not necessarily the ones who had been given the most money or the most food. It was the individuals who joined the church, and grew in relationship with the Ecuadorians. The native Ecuadorians that were rooted in the church were also close to their own suffering. When they conversed with the refugees, it was never from a position of privilege or authority. They were existing in an egalitarian, entirely loving community. This was the most beautiful community that I have ever witnessed.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Being in one place for the entirety of this year has been challenging for me. I had told myself, again and again, that it was important for me to be rooted in one place, at least for awhile. I felt as though I needed to deepen important relationships, I felt a deep need to be near. But I have felt stagnant. I felt as though I returned to the suburbs, after living in the jungle. Parts of myself have fallen asleep, parts of myself feel dry. I have felt agitated and restless. I have felt discontent when I hear myself saying that I will be domestically based for the next year. I have felt so stuck. I feel the deepest dissonance about what to do in the next year: I have known that I want to be near to people I love, but I also feel the deepest call to form new relationships. I feel a deep calling to love and to hurt in new ways, and in ways that I do not believe I can achieve within my hometown. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My wonderful grandmother spent the entirety of my Spring Break asking me what my plans were for next year. My answers were unsatisfactory for the both of us. Finally, I told her that I did not know what I wanted, all that I knew was that I needed to be near to heart of hurting. I told her that I wanted to be vulnerable in community, and I wanted to love deeply. I also told her that I wanted to be close to her. I could not bear the thought of being away when she was hurting again. All of my answers were said in earnest, in almost an anguished fashion. At this point, it seemed obvious that our conversation was not going anywhere, because answers were no longer easy or obvious. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">We stopped a gas station, briefly, and when my grandmother and I were alone, she pulled me close to her. She told me, succinctly and definitively, that if I needed to travel and to be elsewhere to be happy, that she wanted me to go. She squeezed my hand, and told me, deliberately, to go. I found myself identifying, fiercely, with the quote from the text that stated, “The problem is partly ideological, for it is impossible to believe wholeheartedly in both balance and commitment at the same time. A thoroughgoing commitment to anything or anybody involves some kind of imbalance.” And now, I take it as integral to my faith. I am continuing on, existing in an awkward imbalance, but trying to love with depth, everywhere I am and am not. </span></div>
Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-84386552951757697232015-10-07T14:56:00.003-07:002015-12-13T14:09:26.662-08:00newness and familiarityI'm seated back in the valley that cradled me for so many years; the weathered Blue Ridge mountains are holding me once again. <br /><br /> I cannot shake one of my most recent memories: winding through roads I know so well, I was taken aback by familiarity. I was almost surprised that everything I knew, was the same. Returning to Harrisonburg, I fell back into relationships that have given me support for years, arms that have held me, eyes that scan me knowingly. I am known, deeply. I am understood, deeply. <br /><br /> I crave the unfamiliar. I feel most comfortable in moments of discomfort, when I am stretched and challenged to bridge into the unknown. Though I love to be loved, with such a depth and so well, I am itching to explore once again.<br /><br />During spare moments, I ramble through travel blogs, read Spanish poetry and allow myself to become consumed with the news of other parts of the world.<div>
<br />I stumbled upon a beautiful sentiment that Mario Benedetti articulated:<br /><br /> “Todavía creo, que nuestro mejor diálogo ha sido el de las miradas.”<br /><br />I still think that our best dialogue was between our glances.</div>
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<br /> What began as an innocent study-break ended up transporting me into a bout of nostalgia. <br /><br /> Instantly, I was thinking of glances that I shared with so many over the past year. With large language barriers, I spent considerable time appreciating people from afar: trying to communicate the beauty I saw with smiles and nods. I knew people by their hands, by eyes that were lined and accented by wrinkles, or by how they traced their scars absentmindedly. I fell in love with the laughter that erupted from small bodies, affirming touches, being greeted by kisses and pulled into hugs. I fell in love with the emotions that mere presence evoked, a knowing that held extreme depth, despite the lack of time.</div>
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<br /> I did feel as though I knew others deeply. I felt as though I saw them for their truest, external nature: I saw delicate flowers, I saw raging oceans, quiet forests, towering mountains, and colorful skies. I saw thunderstorms, I saw lightning.<br /><br /> I saw sunrises. I saw gardens.<br /><br /> All in glances.<br /><br /> I re-engage with this perspective in sporadic, unpredictable moments. Even though I'm blessed with what seems like endless time to engage in meaningful, exploratory conversation, I'm also able to discern images and serenity from mere moments of interaction. In times when my housemates emerge and cluster in the warmth of the kitchen window that spills with sunlight, they are the embodiment of the purest morning. And when I collapse into their arms, they are the calmest waters, and I can drift in and with them.<br /><br /> I am continually amazed by the amount of goodness that the world holds: the discoverable parallels, the syncretistic components to our lives. And I am continually amazed by the depth of emotion that others can evoke through presence. There is beauty, everywhere, that manifests in the most glorious ways. But instead of fixing my gaze, I am determined to continue to look in glances, to continue to marvel at the forests and universes that surround me. I am determined to remember that there are endless unknowables held within those around me. <br /><br /> And I want to continue to employ this perspective of appreciation. Of surveying people like landscapes, always apt to discover a new dimension to their being. <br /><br /> I will find newness within the familiarity of relationships: as people present and unfold before me. <br /><br /> I continue to be transfixed.</div>
Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-53609245248365505222015-08-28T13:52:00.001-07:002015-08-28T13:52:30.361-07:00how to healThere's such beauty in repetitions: reminiscent of breaths in and out, beats of one's heart.<br />
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I left South America a week ago, yesterday. As the plane took off, I repeated to myself, time and time again:<br />
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Thank you and goodbye<br />
Thank you and goodbye<br />
Thank you and goodbye<br />
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Gaining momentum, speeding away, lurching into the next phase of life, I repeated<br />
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Thank you and goodbye<br />
Thank you and goodbye<br />
Thank you and goodbye<br />
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<br />Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-21540076675800551882015-08-07T14:39:00.003-07:002015-08-07T16:12:58.444-07:00SweetnessI discovered some solitude and sweetness this Wednesday, when I stole a few moments away in a coffee shop. I purchased my first latte of the entire summer, one with artistic drapes of caramel over the foamy surface. And I lazed back into a comfy chair, in the corner of the shop. I clasped the warm cup between my hands, enthralled by the variety of indulgent sensations: the warmth, the sweetness, the embrace of the chair, the light that was streaming in from the window. I spent a few moments gathering my thoughts, watching people in the midst of their daily routines, before turning inward for reflection.<br>
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It dawned on me this week that my time here is slipping away. The overwhelming reality is that although afternoons can stretch for glorious lengths, weeks and months seems to pass frighteningly quickly. Immediately when I arrived in Quito, I felt pulled into relationship, swept off my feet with stories, entirely enamored and entirely taken by the people. And in this swirl of motion and emotion, I lost track of time. </div>
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Now, with both feet on the ground, I am trying to discern meaning, trying to decide how the plethora of experiences will impact me and shape my life. </div>
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Last summer, before I left Philadelphia, I met with a spiritual director who encouraged me to view my experiences as raspberries that I would hold in my hands. She told me, ever so carefully, that I should hold these experiences with tenderness and gentleness, lest I squeeze the berries too hard, and spoil them of their vitality. She explained that living in the present moment mandated that we hold all experiences with open hands and open hearts. </div>
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This image was transformative for me, and I continue to try to hold relationships and memories loosely and lovingly. </div>
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But when I consider this summer, the image of raspberries is inaccurate. Comparatively, when I consider what I am taking from this summer, I think of incredible sweetness. I am not holding raspberries tenderly, I am holding chunks of juicy, gorgeous mango. I am holding fruit that is overflowing from my hands: exotic and delightful. I have juice running down my arms, the entire way to my elbows. And truthfully, I am not completely sure how to hold it, but I am sure that I can exalt this experience as entirely beautiful and entirely good. </div>
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I had a summer of sweetness. Not the kind of sweetness that I am used to. I am used to summertime sweetness in the forms of artificially-flavored popsicles and sugary lemonade, offering relief from the humidity and heat radiating from pavements. </div>
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This summer exposed me to sweetness that I haven't known before. An intensely natural sweetness, intensely human, intensely real. A kind of sweetness that I can liken to fruit that has matured and ripened, and now is finally ready to be consumed and share its rich flavor. </div>
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And I certainly encountered a variety of experiences that I can liken to fruit: fruit that hadn't yet matured, fruits with bruises, and fruits that were now blossoming into new springs of life. This breadth of experiences reminded me of growth and of process. Viewing people in various stages of life, dealing with different difficulties demonstrated for me, time and time again, that we are on journeys. It demonstrated that failure is not fatal, that time can heal, and that truly, relationships are transformative. </div>
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When I arrived, I was an outsider. I couldn't speak a word of Spanish when I arrived. In a metaphorical, yet real sense, I was handling foreign fruit.</div>
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This summer, I learned to humble myself. I came to my context full of answers, full of ideas of how I could give to this community, full of confidence. </div>
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But immediately, upon realizing how difficult it was to convey even the simplest of sentiments, I realized that this summer I would be a learner instead of a teacher. </div>
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Assuming the role of a listener was transformative. I listened, I observed. And I found myself completely taken by all of the ways that attention was given to detail. Watching the world around me and processing internally, I found myself taken aback by all the gestures of love that were conveyed silently. Details that I would have otherwise dismissed had I not been primed to pay attention. </div>
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My first morning, and for all following mornings, I was amazed at the care and dedication that my host mother took to cut up individual fruits for me and the family to enjoy over breakfast. It was so pleasurable for me to take note of such things, and when I began to look around, I saw these moments and these actions everywhere. </div>
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I was completely taken by the details that I saw in the everyday. I observed entrance interviews, when people would come and spill over with experiences. Forced to simply listen, unable to comfort or communicate, I felt as though I finally took time to truly pay attention. Instead of thinking of how I would respond to their questions, I paid attention to the ways that they told their stories. I watched as mothers would pour out horrific narratives, while attending to their children. I watched as men took deep breaths before plunging into their own narratives. I watched as tears slipped out of eyes. I observed hope flicker in their eyes as well. I saw bravery, I saw strength, I saw resilience, in nearly a tangible way. </div>
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I wanted to document these moments, somehow. Those moments when I was surprised by vitality, or hope, endurance, kindness, or vulnerability. These moments when I was completely astounded by the beauty that I saw in people. Somehow, I wanted to capture what I saw, especially if I was unable to communicate directly to them with words. When moments presented themselves, I tried to capture photographs of beaming smiles, of tired eyes, of brave mothers and fathers, and of joyful children. But everything seemed to pale in comparison to the radiant beauty of the people themselves. I was simply in awe, routinely, of the individuals I encountered everyday. A deeper level of looking and seeing was instilled me. </div>
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I was amazed, again, when I realized how much deeper I could fall in love, how much more beauty I saw. As my relationships deepened, my understanding deepened, and I began to appreciate the beauty of congregants of the church and of the refugees at a deeper level. When I knew the stories of torture, of fleeing, of extreme pain, contrasted with the current reality of a beaming woman in my presence, her smile had different significance. Understanding the growth that individuals had endured helped me to appreciate their current sweetness on an entirely new level. </div>
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Each smile, each laugh, each song, each dance, assumed a different complexity when I understood the journey that had been travelled to attain that happiness. </div>
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I was humbled to realize how little I know about suffering, and I was humbled to realize how little I knew about joy. It was only through giving attention to detail, listening to stories completely, and journeying alongside others that I was able to embrace this fullness of humanity: one with unbearable pain, but also one with unspeakable sweetness. One of my absolute favorite poets, Mary Oliver, once wondered, "Isn't it wonderful how the way the world holds both the deeply serious and the unexpectedly mirthful?" And this is something that I question today, as I am amazed by the provision of the Divine and the depth of experience that a single soul can hold. </div>
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As I am preparing to walk away from this experience, I have distilled one conviction that I will carry with me: I am determined to never take sweetness for granted again. But instead, I will realize that each honeyed, full taste is a miracle in itself: a journey to ripeness. I will give attention to the process and nurture those on their journey. And, somehow, I will continue to hold these candied bits, these beautiful experiences in my hands, determining significance, processing moments, picking apart significance as I go along. </div>
Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-413538329254546912015-07-30T19:05:00.001-07:002015-07-30T19:05:36.788-07:00"Estoy bien... Gracias a Dios"When refugees come for their "entrance" interview, they are always asked a standard question of simply, "how are you?" This question follows the part of the interview when we invite the individual to share whatever circumstances they have endured en route to Ecuador. Often, there is a lengthy pause before we will receive a response. Their eyes typically move toward the window, toward the sky. This pause, this consideration, is heavy. But within moments, following a few deep breaths, they will redirect their eyes toward us, and time and time again, they will share that they are well, thanks to God.<div><br></div><div>These responses are honest, as ensured by their lengthy consideration. And their assessment that they are well, despite frequently lacking fundamental necessities, reconnects me with my most raw and primal humanity. </div><div><br></div><div>After recounting horrific accounts and after detailing how little material items they possess, stating that they are well is a testament to resilience. Their words are chosen carefully and intentionally. Their words are powerful, and reveal much more than what they are formally articulating.</div><div><br></div><div>These assessments that they are well are quiet revolutions: stating that despite circumstance, they will go on. I am learning, with each repetition, that the heart of life is good. I am learning that real evil does exist, but so does real goodness. And I am learning about our capacities for joy. We can be wounded, we can be destitute, but our capacity to thrive can be restored. </div><div><br></div><div>Relationship have proven to be huge motivators for refugees to search for better circumstance and to continue on. Caring for another, tending for their needs, leads people through difficulty. It's apparent in their stories, and it's apparent in their company: when you see a mother pick the choice piece of bread for their child, when you see a couple tightly squeeze clasped hands together, when you listen to a story of siblings refusing to leave the other's side. </div><div><br></div><div>Truthfully, we need very little. This is a fact we experience most indisputably when in relationship. For example, when we are hungry, but know that our companion is hungry as well, we choose to half our portions, and are satisfied with considerably less. </div><div><br></div><div>I believe, in the deepest part of my being, that we are created in the image of God. This image is an image of relationship: mother, spirit, child. Therefore, we are living into our missional purpose on earth when we care for another. Living into our calling has a generative energy -- rejuvenating for even the most parched souls. The persons sitting across the table from me in their entrance interviews, spilling stories of oppression and violence, are commonly wrapped up in relationship: with their families, with their significant others, with the divine. And it is these relationships that give resilience, it is these relationships that ensure their determination to continue on.</div><div><br></div><div>I've realized, time and time again, as I assess what basic needs our project can fulfill for these people, that they are truly the ones telling me what I need to thrive.</div><div><br></div><div>This week, I've had the privilege of exploring Ecuador with my family by my side. Each moment has been precious, even sacred. Having them here, experiencing my world, has been incredible. We've been indulging, but I realize that what has made this time rich has been their simple presence. I hold this reality with tenderness. I am incredibly, incredibly privileged -- this is a fact that has been made resoundingly clear this summer. One element of my privilege is my family. And I've realized this summer that my needs are very little-- but the company of my family, the engagement in relationship, is what keeps me rooted and what keeps me growing. </div><div><br></div><div>And I am endlessly appreciative of this realization. </div><div><br></div><div>All in all: I am well, and the heart of life is good, gracias a Dios.</div>Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-20283192066875608132015-07-21T13:27:00.001-07:002015-07-21T13:55:50.984-07:00Love liberatesUnable to sleep last night, I turned to a familiar remedy: perusing the Internet. I ended up on YouTube, binging through Maya Angelou's spoken word. I was entirely captivated by one of her videos, simply titled, "love liberates." She articulated this idea with different anecdotal stories and experiences. But resoundingly, she repeated, "love liberates."<br />
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With each repetition of this simple phrase, I found myself appreciating the sentiment more and more. And I found myself considering all of the recent experiences I've had that demonstrate this entirely.<br />
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Yesterday, I delivered a monthly allotment of food to a couple who currently cannot leave their home for health reasons. Despite their overwhelming health problems and resultant inability to work, their resilience is incredible. On nights when they are feeling capable, they will scavenge through the city, looking through other people's trash, seeking out treasures.<br />
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And truthfully, they have seen potential where others cannot. They scowl when they see things going to waste. They have been able to furnish their entire one-room apartment with things that they have reclaimed. With considerable pride, the woman pointed to a shelf, beaming as she claimed that everything had been found in the trash. Their home is composed of thousands of different objects, creating the most intricate space imaginable. Everything works in relationship to provide for necessities. The cardboard around the walls functions as headboards, but also for insulation.<br />
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Love liberates. Love gives second chances. Love sees potential.<br />
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Right now, the man has lost sight in one of his eyes. He suffers from cataracts, and in time, his doctor has assured him, the cloud will move, and his sight will be restored. But now, he waits in a haphazard state, unable to work, unable to provide food. With eye patches limiting his sight even further, he has been puttering around the room, tinkering with his things.<br />
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This couple is bound in relationship. Together, they demonstrate to one another the capacity for restoration, displayed in the potential they see in their things and the potential that they see in one another. They give to one another in simple but profound ways, by preparing coffee for one another, by moving things around for clearer paths. They assisted one another in their respective walks. Together, in a foreign country, and in spaces where they cannot see, they are safe with one another. Love has liberated them to trust in the unknown.<br />
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It takes a certain level of unabashed confidence to assert that I was acting in love when I delivered food to this beautiful family. But I do believe that I was acting in love, and I do believe that the project I am working for is motivated by love. And I do believe that I witnessed a ripple of liberation because of love, when I saw that the security of food enabled this man to care for a bird he discovered with a broken wing. The man put out precious crumbles of bread, wooing the bird in for its nourishment. The bird has now taken up residence behind a broken washing machine, fittingly beside so many other things waiting to be praised and polished into their highest selves.<br />
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Love liberates us to live into our highest selves. Ultimately, the highest expression of love will be the bird's freedom, after it has been loved into a full life once again. Love provides security to venture into the unknown - one hand outstretched into the darkness, the other clutching the hand of another.<br />
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Also, if you're interested in hearing Maya's gorgeous words... here's a link:<br />
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Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-81411124719208996142015-07-04T11:23:00.001-07:002015-07-04T22:06:27.655-07:00bloom.<p dir="ltr">A number of Sundays ago, my host sister delivered the word at church. She began her sermon by showing a time-lapse video of plants growing, accompanied by gorgeous instrumental music. As the music swelled, the flowers bloomed. For the entire clip, I was completely transfixed. I only broke my gaze briefly to glance around, and noticed that everyone in the room was silent and still, completely mesmerized by this process. </p>
<p dir="ltr">When the clip finished, I sat spinning for a few breaths. The beauty of the process of growth was overwhelming, a testament to life and creation. My sister gently spoke - breaking the stillness with intentional words. She provided a narrative to what we had just witnessed: noting that what originally seemed so vulnerable had grown to encompass a unique and incredible beauty. Further, she noted the processes that occurred that were imperceptible, like symbiotic relationships, nutrition from roots and the necessary warmth from the sun. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It's impossible to see this process of growth unassisted, and naturally, we frequently appreciate flowers solely in their mature state. Perhaps we do the same with people, noting solely the highlights of their being, ignoring the strains they dealt with in order to attain their current status. And perhaps we are unable to appreciate the power of potential we hold before we come to fruition. </p>
<p dir="ltr">My sister drew a metaphor of community for us: we are the plants, in different phases of growth, leaning into the sunshine, blooming at different moments. We assist one another as we become new creations, simply by our being. Some elements of nature are more instrumental in our growth, but everyone in our community serves an important purpose.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Since this Sunday, which truly was many Sundays ago, I've been preoccupied with ideas of process and growth and the lessons of flowers. And truthfully I've been a tad consumed and guilty of being enormously existential.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But i have had serious observations. I've been touched as I witness the care that it takes to tend to house plants: the consideration and the awareness. I've been amazed at the complexity of front yard garden ecosystems. And I've been surprised to see potted plants in the most destitute of locations. When visiting refugee families, I understand that the material items in the house are the bare necessities. Seeing a succulent or a single blooming rose on an otherwise bare windowsill has continued to strike me. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And I've been unsure of exactly what meaning to make of it all. At first, i thought of the care that it took to maintain the plants, and then, how dedicated people were to finding beauty in circumstance. I thought of the plants as indicative of resilience, a determination to bloom, despite the dirt that the beauty emerges from.</p>
<p dir="ltr">These little plantitas can be understood metaphorically as the refugee families themselves, uprooted and oftentimes solitary. A surprisingly gorgeous occurrence, growing and blooming in unfamiliar ground. Their bold colors often stand out in contrast to cement walls and dirt floors, they are unmistakable. </p>
<p dir="ltr">They are beautiful, but truly, they would flourish even greater if planted in the soil, amongst others. In a place where they can stretch their roots deep and cross pollinate with others. The growth of plants reflects a truth we know: we are made for community. </p>
<p dir="ltr">With variety and diversity, soils grow richer. Simply by being in communion with others different from ourselves, we are stretched. We encompass deeper colors, we grow to new heights. Parts of our potential would remain dormant in our souls if we chose not to engage in relationship. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Quito Mennonite Church has shown me the most radical hospitality, the most sincere inclusion, they've invited me to grow roots. Glancing around during a church service, I see people from every walk of life, similarly growing roots, inching toward the river of life. And I see people flourishing: dancing, brimming with joy, entirely uninhibited, completely blooming. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It is an absolute privilege to grow in this community of love.<br>
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Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-11156445847915877402015-06-12T14:31:00.000-07:002015-06-12T14:31:04.886-07:00sacred spacesMost mornings, I wander into work, only partially awake. I stretch into awareness slowly, but first, I bumble around the kitchen, making myself coffee and giving myself simple, easily completed tasks. I engage in this dance with the rest of the staff, gently exchanging conversation, recognizing the fragility of the stillness of morning. We aren't too demanding of one another during these moments, we recognize the sacredness of the quiet.<br />
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An hour or so later, we will have our days mapped out. As of late, typically a group of us will be assigned to check up on families and individuals who qualify for subsidies to start their own businesses. We go to their place of business, or their home, and we ask how they are thriving -- or what they need in order to bloom.<br />
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Upon receiving our assignments, we will be in motion, the morning stillness will be broken as we head into whatever the day holds.<br />
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We charge onto public buses, where we are crammed in like sardines, desperately seeking air flow. In stark contrast to our previous modes of being, in this space, we are now guarded, hyper-aware. On particularly long bus rides, the flood of people will gradually wane, and the entire atmosphere is transformed. Suddenly, I find myself immersed in a space profoundly personal. Glancing around, I'll make faces at babbling toddlers, watch mothers take measured but rejuvenating breaths, and watch eyes scan morning newspapers. I feel endeared and deeply connected to everyone, as I recognize the humanity of these strangers during their oddly intimate moments.<br />
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Another jolt occurs when we arrive at our stop. We get lost in a maze of people. And then we wait to meet with our assigned person. This can take up to half an hour, as we are running on South American time. Never in a rush, we are given opportunity for deep exhales.</div>
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When we make contact with our person, we are invariably swung into arms, swept into kisses, greeted with welcomes. Afterward, we begin the trek to find their home. Trouncing through unknown territory, we trust in one another.</div>
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And then we are welcomed into homes. Sometimes greeted by barking dogs and other vivacious family members, other times startled by stark conditions. </div>
<br />Crossing the threshold into another's house is by far my most cherished moment. It's a vulnerable expression of love and hospitality, and each time I feel endlessly blessed by it. <br /><br />I love scanning the walls, and asking about decorations. Every piece of art is intentional, they each hold a story. Framed moments, framed emotions, framed legacies. <br /><br />In the homes of refugees, I love seeing the art of their home country framed, posted in spaces that are frequently considered. Despite the violence that their home countries hold, they also recognize the beauty that their country holds, the beauty that they hold -- the beauty of potential. This way of remembering and honoring who they are, where they come from, what they are capable of, has left me astounded.<br /><br />Our deeply personal moments and our deeply personal places are profoundly sacred. Each divine moment I witness I breathe out a prayer of thankfulness. It is with thankfulness that I continue to seek out the decoration of souls, the fabric of beings, the sacredness in the midst of the busy. And I'll fall deeper and deeper in love with each peek, knowing that there is a depth of being that I may never be privilege to know -- content with mere moments.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>
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Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-21527030013703420082015-05-27T08:28:00.002-07:002015-05-28T06:16:13.129-07:00Comida -- de Colombia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When we traveled through Europe, one of the most obnoxious habits of taking pictures of food proved to be the most interesting in retrospect. </div>
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Therefore, although I will doubtlessly drive myself insane, I have dedicated myself to documenting meals. </div>
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Food in Colombia. Goodness. Breakfasts are tiny but savory, lunches are giant, and stretched over two hour periods, and suppers are small- typically fruit, tea, and possibly a piece of bread, late at night. It's easy to fall into this pattern, and exploring the food has been so fun. </div>
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Breakfasts with our host, Carolina, have typically been arepas with hot chocolate, and tons and tons of fresh papaya and banana. Bananas from Colombia have ruined imported bananas in America for me - I know this already. The sweetness is incomparable. </div>
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Lunches are giant. You begin with soup (something to warm you up) -- which you pair with half a banana. Following you have some kind of juice -- my favorite was mango. Then you have meat, rice, potato, plantain, and some form of avocado. </div>
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The last day in Colombia, Carolina treated me to a traditional Colombian breakfast. We went to a small panaderia and I ordered "changua especial." It is a soup, constituted with bread, egg, milk, and cheese. It is completely and entirely delicious. </div>
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Lastly, Caro took Janet and me out for dinner-- the most glorious ensalada de frutas. </div>
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Colombia -- you've been sweet.</div>
<br />Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-75662037753050284472015-05-26T21:17:00.003-07:002015-05-27T20:24:07.764-07:00knowing where you come from // going and doing<div>
For the entire first month of summer, I grounded myself.</div>
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I came home and I grew roots that sank deep into the ground.</div>
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I spent two weeks with my grandparents and cousin, a time devoted to traveling around to places of significance from their childhoods and early life. Jeni and I leaned into hear whispered stories, held wrinkled and aging hands, and delicately paged through old documents in pursuit of finding a complete story. Throughout, we relished in the discovery of additional complexity -- we were encountering stories that were not our own, but were intrinsically a part of who we are.</div>
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Following our travel, we returned to my grandparent's home-front, where we putzed around the garden, giggled through old photographs, lazed in the sunshine, sipped tea, chased ducks, waded in the pond, and enjoyed elongated evenings of card games and stories. Beyond these indulgences, we began to experience the first exciting elements of summertime: dinners constituted by vegetables plucked from the garden, more hours of sunshine, and refreshing, terrifying thunderstorms. </div>
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I felt cradled in relationship, loved to my core. </div>
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I was surrounded by the mountains that hold my heart, the places of my childhood, fed the food that nourished my soul. Simultaneously, I was handed a narrative from my grandparents that spoke of the necessity of meaningful work derived from God's call. They instructed me to work hard and to seek to serve, to not be satisfied with comfort, but to continually give more of myself. It was imperative that I believed in my capacity to give and to serve. </div>
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Nearly all the stories my grandparents shared with me contained an element of risk. I come from a rich history of people willing to trust in the unknown, to give everything to God and to trust in relationship. </div>
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As I prepared to embark on my next adventure, I found myself heavily resonating with a quote by Jack Keroac, when he wondered, “What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.” </div>
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It seemed profoundly unnatural to leave home, but I realized that I am grounded not to a place, but to my people, to the legacy of giving and listening and loving. </div>
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I was given the opportunity to intern this summer for an MCC church project in Quito, Ecuador, and I am excited to give by listening. I am excited to serve, I am excited to grow. With deep roots, I am stretching to new skies.</div>
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Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-69594169525145761502015-04-04T11:38:00.000-07:002015-04-04T11:38:52.892-07:00MusingsPaging through an abandoned book on the enneagram, I stumbled across this Rumi poem:<br />
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"The way of love is not<br />
a subtle argument.<br />
The door there<br />
is devastation.<br />
Birds make great sky-circles<br />
of their freedom.<br />
How do they learn it?<br />
The fall, and falling,<br />
they're given wings."<br />
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Swell with courage, take the plunge, discover your wings, discover your capacity the fly and thrive. The terror of love is great, but the rewards are plenty.Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-19880557890470059312014-11-18T23:52:00.001-08:002015-01-11T17:11:50.821-08:00Ривнобо: village of angels.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<br />Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-15790070804383764322014-11-10T09:08:00.001-08:002014-11-12T12:29:57.787-08:00"I'm not a missionary"<p dir="ltr">She stomped onto the bus, long, loose red curls swinging from side to side, framing her weathered face. With a gruff expression, she brought us to attention with a shout of "hello." She leaned against the side of a seat, resting momentarily. After gathering herself, she stood up straighter, emboldened, and shouted forth what information she deemed critical for us to know: "let's get one thing straight: I am not a missionary, so don't call me that." </p>
<p dir="ltr">This proclamation was bold and instantaneously, I loved this woman. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Despite her disassociation with the term "missionary" the work Sylvia* devotes herself to is bringing forward the kingdom of God. She moved to Bulgaria and has loved and been loved by the people for the duration of her time here. She is an anomaly: after her organization failed to provide her adequate funds, the Bulgarians supplemented her salary and supported her. This is completely unheard of and testifies to her work ethic and cultural sensitivity. Currently, she is working at one of the few Syrian refugee camps. For two days, she briefly allowed us into her world.</p>
<p dir="ltr">When we first entered the camp, everyone was forced to acknowledge a spirit of despair that permeated our beings. Our surroundings reinforced what we felt intuitively: the sky was dark, full of foreboding clouds, our feet sank into the soggy ground, and the land was stacked with rows and rows of temporary housing. The air was slightly damp and I noticed how quickly my fingers and toes seemed to turn to ice. </p>
<p dir="ltr">We stood at the gate, freezing, gaping at our surroundings for what felt like an eternity. Finally, our group was herded into another building to meet with the camp director. The residents at the camp had been informed that a group of Americans were coming and had formed a large group, waiting to see us. We marched through the clump of people, holding one another close. I looked up occasionally, stealing glances that I had been warned against. My eyes met blank faces of young men, older men, children, mothers. I remember the collective large, dark eyes. They did not look at me expectantly nor defensively, I was merely being observed and I have never felt more vulnerable. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I found myself ushered into a classroom reserved for the camp administration. The room had buzzing fluorescent lights, gleaming desks, and our muddy shoes squeaked as we trod over shining linoleum tiles. Enticed by the prospect of a view, I wandered toward the window. Looking out, I saw the large group of residents slowly making their way back into the grid of temporary housing, smoke billowing up from trash fires, I saw the wall that separated the camp from the city. On the horizon, I could see the outlines of communist block buildings. All I could see was oppression-- current and historical traumas. And none of it felt real.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The week before, our group was exploring the city of Veliknovo, Turnovo. While in Turnovo, we had the opportunity to meet with several different men who shared ideas and perspective with us at the university. I felt particularly impacted by Marian's discussion. He adamantly insisted that humanity is at its best when it is engaging in relationship. </p>
<p dir="ltr">As Westerners, we can find ourselves wrapped up in our individuality - thinking only of ourselves in a cyclic and destructive way. After establishing the prominence of this tendency, Marian asked us, in the most gentle and unassuming way, "what is the cost to love?" Our simple answer was a whispered response of, "nothing." Marian continued, and telling us of the beauty that abounds when we break out of these cyclic mentalities. The most basic reward of relationship are the eyes of another, acting as mirrors for us to see ourselves. As we engage further, synergy of people and energy is produced. We learn how to give and be given to. The synergy molds us, changing us for the better. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I could not escape Marian's words that day in the camp. I could not escape the vacant stares. I was nervous to engage with the residents.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Our group was organized into two groups before we left the classroom. A handful of us assembled groups of shoes to be dispersed to family groups. The rest of us spent the day slushing through mud, dragging metal bed frames from one building to the next, then assembling the beds. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Initially, we were watched as we carried the bed frames from building to building. The residents were curious about us, but withdrawn. An hour into the process, several young boys had enough of simply observing us. They joined in, happily running through the mud, meeting us as we emerged out of one building, taking the bed frames from our loaded arms, carrying the weight themselves. The boys were ecstatic -- invigorated by the work and the opportunity to simply do. Each time they met me with expectant, outreached arms, eager to shoulder the burden of the heavy metal frames. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The next day, our group organized games and activities for the children in the camp. We found ourselves in a similar classroom as the day before, one that felt completely surreal and entirely unused. We threw down crayons, markers, facepaint, balloons, and candies onto the shiny, unblemished desks. Children and mothers flooded in, and in moments, the room was transformed. The room, once stale, now housed squealing children, proud mothers, and all of the resultant joyful noise. I thought of the synergy that Marian spoke so passionately of -- here, I could see it blooming. </p>
<p dir="ltr">For the hour, I painted faces of the residents. I was given the opportunity to give all of my attention to each child in the seat right in front of me. I tried to give safety and affirmation to each person as I traced simple hearts onto pure cheeks. The smiles I received in return made me swell with affection. I will cherish those exchanges for the rest of my life.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Throughout, I considered the paradigm shift that I experienced. I moved from fearfully stealing glances and seeing vacant stares to learning how to maintain meaningful eye contact. Before establishing relationship with the residents, I hated my reflection in their eyes. In that mirror, I saw my privilege and felt nothing but guilt. As the relationship evolved, so did the reflection. I began to appreciate the ways that I could give and be given to. I hope that my eyes mirrored back the beauty that I saw, the resilience, the hope. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I will also never forget Sylvia's initial greeting: she does not proclaim to be the sole giver. She engages in relationship. She stands beside the hurting. She makes room for synergy by not claiming superiority. She is not found in vacant classrooms -- she will be found trekking through the mud, delivering shoes, exchanging smiles, giving meaningful squeezes. Within Sylvia's synergistic relationships, she is constantly moving, constantly changing, constantly learning. She is constantly giving, constantly engaging in relationship, constantly learning how to love more fully. </p><p dir="ltr"><br></p><p dir="ltr">*Name changed</p>
Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-29156313181227825322014-10-22T12:34:00.000-07:002015-01-11T17:19:15.469-08:00Free travel -- from Barcelona to Dublin<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17.9400005340576px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Travel is little beds and cramped bathrooms. It’s old television sets and slow Internet connections. Travel is extraordinary conversations with ordinary people. It’s waiters, gas station attendants, and housekeepers becoming the most interesting people in the world. It’s churches that are compelling enough to enter. It’s McDonald’s being a luxury. It’s the realization that you may have been born in the wrong country. Travel is a smile that leads to a conversation in broken English. It’s the epiphany that pretty girls smile the same way all over the world. Travel is tipping 10% and being embraced for it. Travel is the same white T-shirt again tomorrow. Travel is flowing in the back of a bus with giggly strangers. It’s a street full of bearded backpackers looking down at maps. Travel is wishing for one more bite of whatever that just was. It’s the rediscovery of walking somewhere. It’s sharing a bottle of liquor on an overnight train with a new friend. Travel is ‘Maybe I don’t have to do it that way when I get back home.”</i></span><br />
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<br />Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-51299060551080559302014-10-21T09:16:00.000-07:002014-10-23T12:43:17.418-07:00"Go conquer the world."<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Our time in Plovdiv is over, the whirlwind of excitement and newness has settled. More than halfway into our semester, the energy of the trip has calmed into a dull roar. As I reflect on the multitude of learnings that I gathered throughout our time in Plovdiv, I quickly realize that the significant learning came out of my relationship with my mamo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I want to convey all of who my mamo is -- but quite frankly, everytime I have attempted to, I find myself frustrated by how incomplete the description seems. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Throughout my two and a half week stay, I was baffled in the best way by my mamo. I was amazed by her crazy, vivacious energy. I was honored by her authenticity and vulnerability. I was cradled by her warmth. And somehow, each day I felt blessed by revelations she shared with me, wisdom that was imparted, and ways of being that she displayed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Most of our time in Plovdiv was dedicated to intensive language learning. Resultantly, at the end of the day, when I lugged my windbeaten and cold body back home, I felt entirely drained. I would creep in the door and within moments my mamo would pop out from behind he kitchen door, spreading light through the dark hallway, greeting me with genuine warmth. I would then be ushered into the kitchen, handed hot tea and a delicious plate of dinner. Within minutes, I would feel restored and found myself pouring out the events of the day, asking questions, and swapping stories. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">What seemed remarkable to me was that I consistently felt so tired in the evenings, but I also consistently caught myself feeling invigorated by our conversations. I would anticipate going to bed early, only to realize that I could not possibly tear myself away from the conversation at hand. I was happily rooted in that central, sacred space.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Our conversations were not always entirely fluid, as neither of I were fluent in the other'a foreign toungue. But truthfully</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">, her character spoke so loudly that it was simply not necessary. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">My mamo is profoundly maternal and protective, and I experienced this whenever we crossed a street, as she searched for my hand. I experienced it when she encouraged me to put on another sweater, to put on socks, to eat another helping of food. I experienced it when she adamantly insisted we learn how to make banitsa. I experienced this love, this desire for my own betterment, every evening as we struggled through my homework. As she piled on additional work so that I could "correctly learn" Bulgarian, as she tirelessly repeated lines with me, as she patiently enunciated words, and she looked over my homework assignments, it was clear that she cared, ever so deeply, that I understood fully.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">With the same intense love, she has fierce tenderness, which I saw every morning, as she wooed in birds with crumbs of bread.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">She told me directly that the most beautiful part of life is to love an be loved in return. I spent the week opening myself up to her love, and only hoped that I too, could give in such beautiful ways.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">This relationship of loving and being loved is not restrained to our relationships with others -- but also our relationship with life. I watched my mamo open her arms and heart to the world. I listened to my mamo's stories of continuously bearing her soul, giving herself completely, safe in the knowledge that God would provide. A musician by trade and endlessly theatrical, she demonstrated, time and time again, that pouring energy out into the universe only reaped bountiful returns. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Evenings spent seated at the kitchen table, practicing lines for the Bulgarian rendition of "Little Red Riding Hood" seem to epitomize the values my mamo so vehemently espoused. I was assigned the part of the wolf, and time and time again, she encouraged me to say my lines viciously and with conviction. Whenever I'm feeling small, I will remember my mamo roaring, "BE A WOLF. YOU ARE WOLF WOMAN." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Practicing lines with my mamo reminded her of adventures performing, and stories of craziness and extravagance bubbles out of her. Her experiences as a performer taught her a considerable amount about presentation of self. She encouraged me to be unapologetic in my line delivery. She reminded me that I might feel silly, but the audience would love it. She encouraged me to devote my full self, my entire heart, my whole being into expression -- I would benefit as would everyone involved. </span></div>
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Thankfully, not all of life is a performance, but regardless of context, the same reciprocal relationship of giving and being given to remains. My mamo reflected that some nights she performed, "the entire room would be crowded, and I knew no one was listening. Other nights, one person would be sitting alone, so I would sing with everything I had, I'd give them my heart." </div>
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Every action is meaningful. My mamo taught me to love without the expectation of being loved in return. To trust that by leaning into the goodness of creation, the universe will continue to reveal the beautiful and synchronistic elements that are so entrancing. She taught me to love with bold tenderness, to live unapologetically.</div>
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Throughout our stay in Plovdiv, I found myself considering the quote, "love life, engage with it, give it everything you've got. Because life gives back, tenfold, what you put into it." Never before had I seen a person live into this quote more fully. In the core of my being, I am thankful to have witnessed the way my mamo is bringing more light into the world. </div>
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When she squeezed me a final goodbye, she whispered to me, "Go, conquer the world." Excited by the love she poured into me, I take this challenge on, head first. </div>
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Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-85314327756817381752014-10-08T16:50:00.001-07:002015-01-11T17:14:31.711-08:00A dozen (or more) doors<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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Caught up in the contrast -- the ornate and the desecrated. </div>
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Photos from my iPhone.</div>
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<br />Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-84939177078697384742014-10-06T04:42:00.000-07:002014-10-23T12:44:39.357-07:00On heartbeats and other rythmns<div dir="ltr">
*Our last week in Bansko was packed full of dance lessons. Everyday, circa 11 o'clock, we would trounce down the main road, bubbling with excitement and silliness. For an hour, we would stumble and trip, trying to mimic the complicated motions, giggling with each mistake. Our ever-patient instructor would woo us back into the rythmn with consistent repetitions of, "raz, va, tre -- raz, va, tre." We conquered traditional dances together joyfully, albeit sloppily. Quickly, the hour would expire and we would once again plunder up the street, sweaty and content. As we engaged and explored this component of culture -- something entirely foreign and completely separate from us -- our energy level remained high and utterly giddy. </div>
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It's invigorating to interact with anything that feels entirely unknown, as exemplified by our giddiness during and post dance lessons. </div>
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The unknown is novel, fresh, and enticing. Our group has exchanged many stretched smiles as we experience the peculiarities of Bulgarian culture. One moment in particular continues to linger with me: as we were lounging on the patio, a passing elderly man scolded us in his native tongue. Our professor translated that he had told us to flip off our backs and onto our bellies, lest we chill our kidneys. With wide eyes, we gasped with laughter, nearly in disbelief. It felt completely surreal and absolutely delightful. </div>
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When our group dispersed into pairs for our homestays in Plovdiv, many of us were able to further explore the unfamiliar. The first night, while my arms were being stacked with wool blankets to take to my bedroom, I listened to stern warnings from my host mother against chilling drafts. Although I felt entirely unaffected by my mamo's fearful rhetoric, I loved listening. I recalled learning in our preparatory class of the significance of drafts in Bulgarian culture. I can still picture myself, eyes scanning a textbook page, nose crinkled in amusement. I wondered how seriously such a ludicrous belief could possibly be maintained, but adored the mere thought nonetheless. </div>
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The next morning, over breakfast, I loved listening to my mamo emphatically explaining how my body needed the particular fats that could only be found in her home - churned butter. She looked at me urgently as she elaborated on the biology of my body. Further on in the meal, I struggled to maintain a serious demeanor as she explained how her fresh homemade yogurt would cure me off all ills, arms waving. The sincerity and authenticity of her appeals warmed my heart. Pushing aside my reservations about unpasteurized milk products and my general avoidance of excess fat, I indulged in breakfast with slathered bread and thick, milky yogurt. </div>
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I was anxious to join the larger group once again, as I could feel the adventures of recent encounters bubbling inside of me. These experiences felt so fresh, so real. Once reunited, we gushed with one another. Everyone had similar experiences. Together, we were high on life and experience, full of tales of charades, awkward translations and interactions. It was all so lovely. We agreed, joyfully, that we were finally feeling as though we were engaging with the culture. We were tickled by the peculiarities and pressing forward into the unknown.</div>
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A few days later, as a group, we went to the Old Town center to see Traditional Bulgarian music and dancing. We were familiar with the dancing and singing, but merely from fuzzy YouTube clips streamed in a classroom. We had ogled at the gorgeous intricacy of the outfits and impressed by the quick pace of the footwork. Furthermore, after classes, we knew that the dances were difficult. </div>
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But we did not know the story, the soul, the true beauty of the dance. After waiting out the rain, the musicians and the singers resumed, full force. Songs that are now familiar for me took on new life as the singers brought forth tremendous energy. The traditional songs are supposed to be nearly yelled, and that night, the sheer force of their voices was tremendous. The dancers circled in, and for the first time, we were able to witness why the intricate designs and flashy colors of the dresses were chosen. The entire ensemble, entirely synchronized, told story after story through dance and song. </div>
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As the group continued on, my host mamo excitedly explained the significance of the lyrics, the movement, the outfits to our group. She tapped her legs to the beat while mouthing to me, "raz, va, tre, raz, va, tre." Every time she reminded me of the tempo, I felt invited into the unknown. Here, my mamo guided my hand to find the pulse of the Bulgarian culture. However, for the first time, this unknown did not illicit pure elation. Instead, I felt suddenly timid. This culture was not something I could take lightly. The story of the Bulgarians is real and incredibly beautiful. Witnessing the fruits of this society was humbling, as I realized my status as a guest.</div>
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I sat on the edge of my seat for the entire show. I felt breathless. When the last bow was taken, I hardly felt inclined to move. I likely would have sat, starstruck by the event for the entire night. But my mamo grabbed my arm and tugged me down the ancient steps of the amphitheater quickly. The rest of the audience similarly swarmed the stage. Together, we created a giant dance line that weaved and warped to include as many people as possible. The band played, loudly and proudly, and my mamo stomped out the steps of the dance, turning back to encourage me to join in. I tried to follow, tried to recall the steps from lessons, but still found myself making mistakes. Regardless, I plunged forward. Everyone around me stomped to the same rythmn, while beaming at one another. My fingers had found the pulse, and the heart of the culture was throbbing, full of vivacious energy. Meanwhile, I managed through the steps, but I was mostly carried by those around me. </div>
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This intense celebration, the joy, the pride, was simply amazing. I was humbled, in the most incredible way. I realized, while being carried along, that I don't know all the steps, I don't hold every piece of the puzzle. Before, I was interacting with the unknown at a surface level, amused by actions that I understood only in an academic way. Now, surrounded and fully immersed in the unknown, I am relearning how to be a learner. I am learning how to walk with questions and abandon presumptions. Once again, I am focusing on open hands, eager to receive. </div>
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I likely will never possess a harrowing fear of the cold. I'll likely also never have the same understanding of the body and health. But I will stretch myself into the unfamiliar, lunge into the unknown, seek out a rythmn in the madness, and continue to engage, engage, engage.</div>
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<br />Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-79247196314025597322014-10-02T13:30:00.001-07:002015-01-11T17:16:10.141-08:00pLOVEdiv<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
The most intriguing and beautiful part of Plovdiv is indisputably its layers. The past, present, and future is melded together in the architecture and the people. The city has a university, the main road sits atop of Roman ruins, the restored (and some not so restored) 19th century buildings are used commercially by many Western industries, and the entire city pulses with creativity. The remnants of communism still remain, as do reminders of legacies of empiricism: exemplified by the skyline full of communist bloc buildings and Russian statues. Further, the entire city is coated in graffiti and street art. I am reminded, on every street corner, that we carry our histories. </div>
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Serendipitously, as I pondered this thought, I read the Yogi wisdom found on my tea bag. It stated, "love what is to come by loving what has been."</div>
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Blessings from a city that embraces its shadows and its sunshine.</div>
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The Old City -- Ivan Teofilov</div>
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Your ancient tiers climb among through stars,</div>
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small blue donkeys graze the silence, </div>
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a Roman street twists down among the wedding candles,</div>
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a cry of woman's flesh issues from the clock,</div>
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purple landowners recline in their deep houses,</div>
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they can hear the pig, the hen, the train, the mouse.</div>
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The darkness is rising, its pupils sensual and quick,</div>
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the wedding veil flies on the chimneys breath, </div>
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the blue donkeys scamper on moonlit roofs.</div>
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Saints with bleeding lambs soar up</div>
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From white churches to meet the wedding veils,</div>
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leopards with eyes of amber watch the gates.</div>
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Bacchantes with satin headbands pour</div>
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Fragrant myrrh from bronze jars among the boxwoods.</div>
<br />Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-70001443918378294252014-09-15T08:40:00.001-07:002014-09-15T08:40:11.108-07:00On letting go and diving deep<p dir="ltr">The past four days have flown by -- with the most gorgeous rush of sights, sounds, tastes. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Our time, while spent leisurely, packed in significant learning and a multitude of adventures. One my more notable areas of learning was that I needed to abandon my preconceived ideas of what would happen day to day. While I pride myself for being easygoing and spontaneous, I cannot deny the pleasure I find clutching a schedule or itemizing a to-do list. I thoroughly enjoy piecing together my days, scheming and dreaming nights before of pre-planned outings. Many a night, I have fallen asleep smiling, enthralled with excitement for what the next day will hold.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It has been emphasized ad nauseum that to be a good traveller, one must let go of assumptions. In order to make room for the fullness of experience, one has to plunge headfirst, no hands barred, into the culture. Regardless of the pervasiveness of this message, nights before our departure for Greece I still fell asleep with idyllic, romanticized visions dancing round my head.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Greece challenged me. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The island of Thassos received our group with open arms and encircled us in the fullest embrace, each day bringing forth more joy than I could have conceived. But not in the ways I had anticipated. I was forced to put down my itetentiary of events. Instead, I learned to hold my hands open, eager to see what the Great Divine would provide.</p>
<p dir="ltr">But not without struggle.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The first night over dinner, our leader shared stories of his previous visits to Thassos. He recalled his absolute favorite memory: renting mopeds and driving along the coast and into the mountains, stopping to let the beauty of the surrounds resonate in his soul. Even better, he enticingly added, we could rent the mopeds quite cheaply. Instantly, I envisioned what the next day would hold.  </p>
<p dir="ltr">In the morning, a large group of students charged down the street until we reached the bike shop. While the owner finished a sale with another couple, the group collectively ogled over the bikes, choosing which color and size they wanted, pairing off couples to ride together. The moment the owner was free, the group turned to him expectantly. One brave soul stated our intentions. The man's eyes bugged, asked to see motorcycle licenses, and smugly smirked when disappointed, we turned away. The group diffused from the store, upset and sulking. However, the men in our group stayed behind, conversing with the owner.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Twenty minutes later, while walking down the street, I was startled by the revving of engines. Immediately to my left, I saw three bikes jetting off, mounted by my male peers. We concluded with certainty that the owner only did business with men.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Furiously, I stormed to the shop once again, determined that my competence and capacity would be acknowledged. My dream of scooting around the island had to come to fruition. The resultant conversation left me feeling debased, as he asked how long I had driven a motor vehicle, voice full of condescension. After explaining that he simply did not trust women, he suggested I rent a bicycle.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I left, fuming. After angrily stomping, I was able to let go of my frustration. Returning to my normal state, I determined that regardless of what activities I engaged in, I would enjoy myself.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Several women in the group joined me in my alternative day. We engaged in a little retail therapy, and then set out to find lunch. Meandering down the boardwalk, we settled on an outdoor restaurant with a clear view of the beach.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Immediately, the store owner swooped onto our table. He was aged, relaxed, and spoke English well. Curious, he asked us about ourselves. He then launched into a story from his younger years, sharing about how he fell in love with an American woman, and how they unfortunately never came to be. Because of this tender memory, he always tried to be especially hospitable to Americans. He brought us traditional Greek dishes and a special dessert on the house, and then lowered our bill so that it could be split evenly between the five of us. While this man may have had ulterior motives, his act of kindness restored each of us. Feeling full and refreshed, we set out to the beach for the afternoon.</p>
<p dir="ltr">On the beach, we were followed by a wave of hospitality and kindness. Amongst ourselves, we continually referenced how lovely the entire day was, the patriarchal moped owner a distant memory. Our afternoon was spent soaking in sunshine and laughter, occasional walks down the beach, and a barefoot rock scramble to a gorgeous peak.</p>
<p dir="ltr">When we had had enough of the beach, we decided to explore the town. The entire street bustled with activity: cars, tourists, vendors, stray animals. As I weaved through traffic halted at a red light, a moped driver whipped off their helmet, revealing a familiar, beaming face. Excitedly, my friend exclaimed, "Hanna! This is serendipity! This is meant to be! Hop on!" </p>
<p dir="ltr">And I did. As we made our way into the countryside, wind whipping around us, the sun setting on our side, I raised my arms in the air. I felt entirely content, entirely free. </p>
<p dir="ltr">We pulled over to capture the sun setting over the Aegean Sea. Afterwards, we hit a pothole as we tried to peel away and we toppled over. Unharmed with the exception of a few minor scrapes, we laughed and pulled our bodies and bike back upright. I noticed a puddle of red liquid, so stopped my friend and tried to assess which of us was bleeding. The liquid turned out to be the motor oil, and now that the tank was nearly empty, the engine would not turn over. Meeting eyes, we realized we were in for an adventure. Undaunted, we managed to get it to start. Smiling uncontrollably, chests puffed with pride, ee jumped back on. Pausing at the brink of the highway, my friend asked if we should turn around or go farther. Eagerly, and perhaps against better judgement, I urged her to continue on.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The next pull off was even more picturesque than the last. We stopped to gawk at the gorgeous landscape and to have our picture taken. When we returned to the bike, it refused to start. I felt my heart drop. Once again, my friend and I met eyes, now acknowledging that we were absolutely in for an adventure. </p>
<p dir="ltr">We waved down passing bikers: a middle aged German mechanic and his college-aged daughter. My friend went with the man to buy oil, and I stayed with the bike and his daughter. She sweetly obliged to small talk as we waited. Watching the sun set, I was struck by how wonderful it was to feel so united with a stranger. The father returned with the oil and my friend, helped us, and waited until we were driving away, safe again on the road. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Driving away, I once again was flooded with adrenaline. Trusting in the goodness of people and feeling confident in our capacity to problem-solve left me full of pure happiness.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I left my desire for control on the road behind me. Screeching with absolute elation, I permanently resigned myself to be a passenger. Forevermore, I will let the Spirit of God direct me into bounty and beauty.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I spent the next few days saying "yes" to having stray kittens as roommates, to nights of dancing, to running into the sea water late at night. Together we got fabulously lost, found our way again, and had life-giving conversations with locals. We sought out the treasures of the island: the people and places. In all, we dove deep. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Open hands, open hearts. </p>
Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-88706966844119557532014-09-13T01:16:00.001-07:002015-01-11T17:17:27.214-08:00Greece: A Photo Montage<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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The past few gorgeous days from the lens of my iPhone. </div>
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Endless beauty, laughter, love, and excitement. Greece, you were so good to us.</div>
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Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-18826468883029455782014-09-07T04:50:00.001-07:002014-09-07T04:50:38.971-07:00Free days = mountain galavantsYesterday, we had a "free day" -- we planned to hike up to a cute hotel hidden in the mountains. <div><br></div><div>Together, we trekked up, crossing little obstacles, with only one fall into the creek. We then spent a few hours sitting around the hotel, eating delicious food, enjoying the company and commentary of our waitress, talking and laughing together. </div><div><br></div><div>As we ventured down, we took a slower pace, and stopped for mini-adventures, like plunging into the waterfall. Once we got back into town, we wandered into a commotion surrounding a wedding. We eagerly joined in with the other townspeople to celebrate with honeyed white sesame rolls.</div><div><br></div><div>All in all, a great day in the mountains.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-6qK6EIkmswM/VAxGciwynxI/AAAAAAAAAi8/4MlmeXDajTY/s640/blogger-image-359477531.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-6qK6EIkmswM/VAxGciwynxI/AAAAAAAAAi8/4MlmeXDajTY/s640/blogger-image-359477531.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-v2ebwWwft0I/VAxGhmBhg7I/AAAAAAAAAjk/O26BnzGLW70/s640/blogger-image--467904206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-v2ebwWwft0I/VAxGhmBhg7I/AAAAAAAAAjk/O26BnzGLW70/s640/blogger-image--467904206.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-KBM4i3Qppz8/VAxGf278tBI/AAAAAAAAAjU/VsopEQsFmLM/s640/blogger-image--448554063.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-KBM4i3Qppz8/VAxGf278tBI/AAAAAAAAAjU/VsopEQsFmLM/s640/blogger-image--448554063.jpg"></a></div><br><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-iblWxHSuWwU/VAxGgiCDjpI/AAAAAAAAAjc/qUMZysMns20/s640/blogger-image-1804145780.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-iblWxHSuWwU/VAxGgiCDjpI/AAAAAAAAAjc/qUMZysMns20/s640/blogger-image-1804145780.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-j-mun1aYb7M/VAxGdqaUz6I/AAAAAAAAAjE/RrcMWuBq-oY/s640/blogger-image--1429453721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-j-mun1aYb7M/VAxGdqaUz6I/AAAAAAAAAjE/RrcMWuBq-oY/s640/blogger-image--1429453721.jpg"></a></div><br></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wTenZJ3cGnc/VAxGenZsbDI/AAAAAAAAAjM/-rX5C87B_EA/s640/blogger-image-1047871374.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wTenZJ3cGnc/VAxGenZsbDI/AAAAAAAAAjM/-rX5C87B_EA/s640/blogger-image-1047871374.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-632308306327525276.post-72125704931789303052014-09-04T22:39:00.001-07:002014-09-06T12:02:09.476-07:00The stories of soreness<div dir="ltr">
There is something so gratifying about sore muscles. I believe it's the way our bodies continue to hold the stories of previous days. Reminders of heavy burdens or accomplishments that gradually fade away, but not without a demand of consideration. </div>
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This morning, my arms ached. Stretching, I instantly pictured myself yesterday: swinging a laughing Roma girl around in a circle, tossing children in the air, using my arms to pull kids up into the fullest possible embrace. </div>
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For the past two days, our cross cultural group has been working a day camp for Roma children. There were about 25 kids, ranging in age from 5 to 15. </div>
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Day camp in the Balkans differs significantly from camps in the states. I had expected much more structure and programming, necessitating a hustled pace while herding children from activity to activity. Instead, we took walks and played on the playground. Our entirely unstructured time turned into arm wrestling tournaments, impromptu volleyball or soccer games, photo shoots, and quests for four-leaf clovers. We would maybe accomplish one or two pre-planned activities throughout the entire 7 hours.</div>
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One of the intentional activities we accomplished was giving the children time to draw a picture to symbolize a significant story from their life. Afterwards, they shared their stories with the larger group. </div>
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The Roma people have been marginalized and oppressed in Bulgaria. They have adamantly refused to be assimilated into mainstream society and are resultantly downwardly mobile. To say the very least, the Roma are not provided any human dignity from Bulgarian society at large. Most Roma do not complete school. Many, after being ostracized and traumatized, resort to lives of crime. This cycle of poverty and crime reinforces Bulgarian stereotypes, and makes a restored relationship seem nearly impossible. </div>
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Because the Roma are not traditionally educated, spoken narratives and stories take on special significance. Knowledge of their histories enforces their identity and provides space for belonging. In our two-day camp, we had hoped to affirm their identity and capacities. </div>
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The stories the children shared were not narratives of oppression or histories of their ancestors. Rather, like one would expect from most kids, they were stories of fun games, injuries, and sports. Our campers did not present their heaviest burdens to us. Instead, they gave to us in smiles, in silliness, and in grace as we stumbled through the most basic Bulgarian phrases. </div>
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The campers did not verbally communicate any of their trauma. However, they communicated their trauma physically. Mere hours after we were introduced, and after our physical boundaries were breeched, they began to voraciously seek after affection. As we stood in a circle, socializing, one girl made rounds, hugging each of us multiple times. Touch was central to our interactions. Campers would approach us, arms wide, eyes expectant, eager to receive hugs. It was clear many had been deprived of touch, and now that it was available, they pounced on every opportunity for connection.</div>
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So, as a group, we held them near. We tried to squeeze as much love into the fourteen hours as we possibly could. With every touch, we sought to affirm their importance, dignity, and worth. Merely conveying that we acknowledged their presence shed light into an otherwise dark reality. </div>
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Now, as I flex and my muscles ache in adamant protest, I recognize the heavy burdens that I held for the duration of the camp. As my body limbers, I also recognize my own privilege: that I can set down the weight and move along into my regular routine, unrestrained by unfair societal hierarchies. The Roma will continue to be weighed down, growth crippled, movement impaired.</div>
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So, broken hearted, we gave love in as many ways as we could. We gave, and we were given to, many times over. My hope is that this relationship will not be constrained to our group, but that the world can also appreciate and recognize the beauty of the Roma people. The beauty that beamed up at me through a silly, toothy grin can bring so much light into the world.</div>
Hannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00146130065503075373noreply@blogger.com0