Monday, May 4, 2009
22:06
To the extent that this blog has ever been a travelogue or research field journal it certainly has transformed into something quite different. My friend Lucy at Cornell suggested I start this blog last May before leaving for Bolivia. It was intended to be a way for me to keep track of my experiences exploring research possibilities in the country and share them with friends and colleagues. The blog was linked to a website of a student group that I belonged to and with which I shared research interests. Soon after returning to Bolivia this year I asked that the link be removed because I no longer wanted to write about my research or graduate work in any direct, descriptive way. Instead I found myself writing about my spiritual struggles, lessons from my past, and the overwhelming, uncertain relationships I developed with the landscapes and people I encountered during field excursions.
It feels like the right time to end this blog now. I don’t want to write about myself anymore as someone in the Andes. I’m sure my location on the Earth will continue to motivate some of the daily discoveries that prompt me to write, but it’s certainly not of principal importance in my life anymore. I’m grateful to anyone who took the time to read the sentences and stories I posted here. It’s been a real gift to have this outlet. And it’s been a humbling experience trying to scrounge the courage to stay honest and share something real knowing someone out there might read it. I haven’t always succeeded. People’s stories keep me going though. Their ascents and their falls, their loves and their fears, their quirks and their hang-ups. Their voices. The more stories I take in the more human I seem to feel. And the more human I feel the closer I get to God. So I believe in stories. I believe in people telling their stories to as many as want to listen. That’s why I want to keep trying my hand at blogging. Check out the new one at:
http://framesfigureground.blogspot.com
Good-bye “Andy in the Andes”.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Drip Dry
Friday, April 24, 2009
7:15AM
In the morning I walked to the beach. Oceans have always been a novelty for someone like me—born and raised in a state with no coastline and somehow fated to work and volunteer in landlocked countries. I had to descend some imposing sea cliffs this day to arrive at the beach from the tourist district of Lima, Peru where I was holing up for a few days. Staying true to my inherent obliviousness, I completely missed a long, winding set of concrete steps leading down to the shoreline and instead hopped a park railing, stumbled down a steep, eroding and lazily-landscaped hillside and spilled out onto a sidewalk to the incredulous stares of several morning joggers. I followed the path a short distance to find it abruptly ended in a construction site. Ducking under fencing and navigating past the giant maws of various dirt-moving contraptions I arrived at a ten-foot high concrete median wall that separated several lanes of heavy, opposing traffic as well as pedestrians from the beach. I followed the shoulderless highway against the flow of traffic for several hundred yards, bobbed and weaved around racing motorists to cross to the other side, and stepped down finally from a raised sidewalk onto a shallow beach of black, polished rock.
There was only one thing left to do at that point—take my pants off. It wasn’t my intention when leaving the house nor was I prepared with a change of clothes, bathing suit or towel. However, after walking down the coast for a half hour I spotted a loan swimmer drifting amongst the deliberate currents of a sheltered inlet. The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to peak over the city cliffs behind me. The morning was cool and slightly humid. And the water called out invitingly. I waded into the crashing surf. The few times I’ve swam in the Pacific Ocean it has always awed and intimidated me. Perhaps because the beaches of Virginia and North Carolina were regular summer destinations of my youth, the Atlantic Ocean feels familiar and approachable. To me however, the Pacific conjures up the esoteric, the hidden; it is a forbidden dream space of secret currents. I’ve always come to it as an outsider, neither having paid the dues of living on its shores nor traded the time and patience to allow its expansiveness to seep into my being. It has therefore revealed nothing of its wisdom to me. As its waves now forced me into a violent dance, tossing me about like an eager child playing a bit too rough with a fragile new doll, the name of these waters suddenly struck me as absurd. A towering wave crashed down overhead propelling me shoreward and planting my face and chest firmly into the rocky sea floor. The feeling was somewhat less than pacifying.
I swam parallel to the beach for long, exhilarating moments allowing a force vast and incomprehensible, an irresistible, ancient will to supplant my own for a time. The sun now high enough in the sky to share some warmth, I eventually made my way back to the beach and stood pale-skinned in my boxers facing the water, my back to Lima’s morning rush hour crowd several yards away. The tide rolled in clawing away the face of a high berm on the rocky beach. The retreating waves dragged with them plump polished pebbles and large, rounded stones creating a raucous, earthly applause amidst incoherent guttural grumblings. Dreadlocked surfers paddled out into the distant breakers. These movements of man and nature began long before I arrived and would carry on undeterred long after I left this place. They weren’t the least bit concerned with the rising and falling tides of my thoughts, words and actions. They fulfilled themselves. The scene felt timeless for a few fleeting instants.
7:15AM
In the morning I walked to the beach. Oceans have always been a novelty for someone like me—born and raised in a state with no coastline and somehow fated to work and volunteer in landlocked countries. I had to descend some imposing sea cliffs this day to arrive at the beach from the tourist district of Lima, Peru where I was holing up for a few days. Staying true to my inherent obliviousness, I completely missed a long, winding set of concrete steps leading down to the shoreline and instead hopped a park railing, stumbled down a steep, eroding and lazily-landscaped hillside and spilled out onto a sidewalk to the incredulous stares of several morning joggers. I followed the path a short distance to find it abruptly ended in a construction site. Ducking under fencing and navigating past the giant maws of various dirt-moving contraptions I arrived at a ten-foot high concrete median wall that separated several lanes of heavy, opposing traffic as well as pedestrians from the beach. I followed the shoulderless highway against the flow of traffic for several hundred yards, bobbed and weaved around racing motorists to cross to the other side, and stepped down finally from a raised sidewalk onto a shallow beach of black, polished rock.
There was only one thing left to do at that point—take my pants off. It wasn’t my intention when leaving the house nor was I prepared with a change of clothes, bathing suit or towel. However, after walking down the coast for a half hour I spotted a loan swimmer drifting amongst the deliberate currents of a sheltered inlet. The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to peak over the city cliffs behind me. The morning was cool and slightly humid. And the water called out invitingly. I waded into the crashing surf. The few times I’ve swam in the Pacific Ocean it has always awed and intimidated me. Perhaps because the beaches of Virginia and North Carolina were regular summer destinations of my youth, the Atlantic Ocean feels familiar and approachable. To me however, the Pacific conjures up the esoteric, the hidden; it is a forbidden dream space of secret currents. I’ve always come to it as an outsider, neither having paid the dues of living on its shores nor traded the time and patience to allow its expansiveness to seep into my being. It has therefore revealed nothing of its wisdom to me. As its waves now forced me into a violent dance, tossing me about like an eager child playing a bit too rough with a fragile new doll, the name of these waters suddenly struck me as absurd. A towering wave crashed down overhead propelling me shoreward and planting my face and chest firmly into the rocky sea floor. The feeling was somewhat less than pacifying.
I swam parallel to the beach for long, exhilarating moments allowing a force vast and incomprehensible, an irresistible, ancient will to supplant my own for a time. The sun now high enough in the sky to share some warmth, I eventually made my way back to the beach and stood pale-skinned in my boxers facing the water, my back to Lima’s morning rush hour crowd several yards away. The tide rolled in clawing away the face of a high berm on the rocky beach. The retreating waves dragged with them plump polished pebbles and large, rounded stones creating a raucous, earthly applause amidst incoherent guttural grumblings. Dreadlocked surfers paddled out into the distant breakers. These movements of man and nature began long before I arrived and would carry on undeterred long after I left this place. They weren’t the least bit concerned with the rising and falling tides of my thoughts, words and actions. They fulfilled themselves. The scene felt timeless for a few fleeting instants.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Shadow Travelers
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
8:05AM
I left the United States for the first time when I was a sophomore in college. I joined a study abroad program in South Africa and remained there for the entirety of the fall semester. My fellow students from the U.S. and the backpackers I met while traveling there all seemed to share an unspoken, common perspective on the whole business of traveling and leaving one’s home country. On the surface everyone was a beautiful flower child—adventurous, open-minded, and embracing life with loving abandon. We were all free spirits acquiescing to the capricious cosmic current that carried us where it pleased. But the reality was, we just were collecting experiences. Every new point on the map, every mile of bush country traveled, scenic vista captured, novel dish sampled, every hostel hook-up, phrasebook saying, bazaar purchase, and whitewater, high-flying thrill fed that feeling. We felt the gravity of our personal dramas was amplified simply because of our privileged locations far from family, friends and the familiar. We were enlightened, worldly—we floated above the dregs caught in the daily grind. Our “specialness” exalted us. Many folks I met actually made a point of inserting into each and every conversation a tidy list of the countries they had visited. It was a race to tread the four corners and everything in between; and only a select few would finish. I quickly bought into this mindset and soon began polishing my own mental list to enter the competition. I felt horribly inadequate in the presence of other wanderers and frequently envisioned myself fumbling in last place struggling to catch my breath let alone place in this ridiculous race. I wonder if I stopped to ask myself “why all the fuss” during this period?
The outward self can “have” much, “enjoy” much, “accomplish” much, but in the end all its possessions, joys and accomplishments are nothing, and the outer self is, itself, nothing: a shadow, a garment that is cast off and consumed by decay.
The guests at the backpacker hostels I’ve been staying at over the past week in Peru while trying to scrounge up a visa to get back into Bolivia seem to have gotten younger since the last time I did this bum-around-foreign-lands thing. They don’t seem all that wise and free-spirited to me anymore despite their best attempts at apathy. I’ve been getting earfuls of country lists again and mystifying accounts of unique experiences viewing saturated attractions that these folks would have distinguish them from the thousands of other tourists packing travel agency offices to sign up to hike the same trail, ride the same rapids, and view the same ancient ruins.
For pride, which is the inordinate attribution of goods and values and glories to one’s own contingent and exterior self, cannot exist where one is incapable of reflecting on a separate “self” living apart from God.
This week I’m thrown back into that world from a time when I was different, younger, more immature. How I’ve grown! How I’ve matured! How far I've come! And yet this world from my past feels uncomfortably familiar. Fortunately, hundreds of miles of overland bus travel allow one to ponder the “uncomfortably familiar” as well as every other minute mental formation that bubbles up from the unconscious aether. I’ve come to see I’ve exchanged one golden idol for an equally vacuous substitute. My ego’s appetite hasn’t abated in the least. In fact, it’s grown, if not changed its diet. Though still amusing, travels and adventures no longer sate it. Sexual gymnastics and the intrigue of romance aren’t enough to satisfy it. Harvesting worldliness is no longer sufficient to glorify it.
I’m still busy seeking my merit badges though. Each one whose sole purpose is to praise this marvelous space suit I stepped into at birth. Greed for prestige: a praised publication, a winning idea, a glistening degree, a fancy title. Lust for knowledge: another article read, a colleague conferred with, a piece of datum extracted, a novel statistic pocketed. Pride: a bit of resume slipped into conversation, comparisons of talent and will with friends and colleagues, a lovely book shelf full of complex and diverse knowledge, the rush of praise, the thrill of achievement, the descent into spiritual self-righteousness. All iron-on Boy Scout badges I seek with a fervor that burns, but does not purify.
How can a man be proud of anything when he is no longer able to reflect upon himself or realize himself or know himself? Morally speaking he is annihilated, because the source and agent and term of all his acts is God. To think that a man could be proud of this joy, once it had discovered him and delivered him, would be like saying: “This man is proud because the air is free.” “This other man is proud because the sea is wet.”
[These men] see God. He does their will, because His will is their own. He does all that they want, because He is the One Who desires all their desires.
I’m beginning to see my body and personality more and more these days as a marionette. And the “I”, the third eye, that is neither my body nor my personality, is the manipulator. This shift in consciousness unfailingly brings my awareness to the millions and insidiously subtle machinations of my ego that manifest every moment of every day. It exposes the chains that bind me firmly to the whims of this “outward self” and to the leash carried by my wayward master that pulls me along an endless path I’m convinced will lead to pleasure and fulfillment. I feel myself slowly wakening to an acknowledgement of the suffering I impose on myself every time I attempt to raise myself above another person either through thoughts or words; every time I chase fulfillment in the purely (or partly) selfish; every time I write a word in this blog to bring praise to the mind that conjured it or the personality that cradled it. What empty pleasure! What a vain struggle! What divine grace to be given the courage to begin to step out from the shadows and travel the Way having embraced true, timeless, selfless joy.
Let us throw off the pieces of the world like clothing and enter naked into wisdom. For this is what all hearts pray for when they cry: “Thy will be done.”
The italicized text in this entry was taken from the book “New Seeds of Contemplation” by Thomas Merton.
8:05AM
I left the United States for the first time when I was a sophomore in college. I joined a study abroad program in South Africa and remained there for the entirety of the fall semester. My fellow students from the U.S. and the backpackers I met while traveling there all seemed to share an unspoken, common perspective on the whole business of traveling and leaving one’s home country. On the surface everyone was a beautiful flower child—adventurous, open-minded, and embracing life with loving abandon. We were all free spirits acquiescing to the capricious cosmic current that carried us where it pleased. But the reality was, we just were collecting experiences. Every new point on the map, every mile of bush country traveled, scenic vista captured, novel dish sampled, every hostel hook-up, phrasebook saying, bazaar purchase, and whitewater, high-flying thrill fed that feeling. We felt the gravity of our personal dramas was amplified simply because of our privileged locations far from family, friends and the familiar. We were enlightened, worldly—we floated above the dregs caught in the daily grind. Our “specialness” exalted us. Many folks I met actually made a point of inserting into each and every conversation a tidy list of the countries they had visited. It was a race to tread the four corners and everything in between; and only a select few would finish. I quickly bought into this mindset and soon began polishing my own mental list to enter the competition. I felt horribly inadequate in the presence of other wanderers and frequently envisioned myself fumbling in last place struggling to catch my breath let alone place in this ridiculous race. I wonder if I stopped to ask myself “why all the fuss” during this period?
The outward self can “have” much, “enjoy” much, “accomplish” much, but in the end all its possessions, joys and accomplishments are nothing, and the outer self is, itself, nothing: a shadow, a garment that is cast off and consumed by decay.
The guests at the backpacker hostels I’ve been staying at over the past week in Peru while trying to scrounge up a visa to get back into Bolivia seem to have gotten younger since the last time I did this bum-around-foreign-lands thing. They don’t seem all that wise and free-spirited to me anymore despite their best attempts at apathy. I’ve been getting earfuls of country lists again and mystifying accounts of unique experiences viewing saturated attractions that these folks would have distinguish them from the thousands of other tourists packing travel agency offices to sign up to hike the same trail, ride the same rapids, and view the same ancient ruins.
For pride, which is the inordinate attribution of goods and values and glories to one’s own contingent and exterior self, cannot exist where one is incapable of reflecting on a separate “self” living apart from God.
This week I’m thrown back into that world from a time when I was different, younger, more immature. How I’ve grown! How I’ve matured! How far I've come! And yet this world from my past feels uncomfortably familiar. Fortunately, hundreds of miles of overland bus travel allow one to ponder the “uncomfortably familiar” as well as every other minute mental formation that bubbles up from the unconscious aether. I’ve come to see I’ve exchanged one golden idol for an equally vacuous substitute. My ego’s appetite hasn’t abated in the least. In fact, it’s grown, if not changed its diet. Though still amusing, travels and adventures no longer sate it. Sexual gymnastics and the intrigue of romance aren’t enough to satisfy it. Harvesting worldliness is no longer sufficient to glorify it.
I’m still busy seeking my merit badges though. Each one whose sole purpose is to praise this marvelous space suit I stepped into at birth. Greed for prestige: a praised publication, a winning idea, a glistening degree, a fancy title. Lust for knowledge: another article read, a colleague conferred with, a piece of datum extracted, a novel statistic pocketed. Pride: a bit of resume slipped into conversation, comparisons of talent and will with friends and colleagues, a lovely book shelf full of complex and diverse knowledge, the rush of praise, the thrill of achievement, the descent into spiritual self-righteousness. All iron-on Boy Scout badges I seek with a fervor that burns, but does not purify.
How can a man be proud of anything when he is no longer able to reflect upon himself or realize himself or know himself? Morally speaking he is annihilated, because the source and agent and term of all his acts is God. To think that a man could be proud of this joy, once it had discovered him and delivered him, would be like saying: “This man is proud because the air is free.” “This other man is proud because the sea is wet.”
[These men] see God. He does their will, because His will is their own. He does all that they want, because He is the One Who desires all their desires.
I’m beginning to see my body and personality more and more these days as a marionette. And the “I”, the third eye, that is neither my body nor my personality, is the manipulator. This shift in consciousness unfailingly brings my awareness to the millions and insidiously subtle machinations of my ego that manifest every moment of every day. It exposes the chains that bind me firmly to the whims of this “outward self” and to the leash carried by my wayward master that pulls me along an endless path I’m convinced will lead to pleasure and fulfillment. I feel myself slowly wakening to an acknowledgement of the suffering I impose on myself every time I attempt to raise myself above another person either through thoughts or words; every time I chase fulfillment in the purely (or partly) selfish; every time I write a word in this blog to bring praise to the mind that conjured it or the personality that cradled it. What empty pleasure! What a vain struggle! What divine grace to be given the courage to begin to step out from the shadows and travel the Way having embraced true, timeless, selfless joy.
Let us throw off the pieces of the world like clothing and enter naked into wisdom. For this is what all hearts pray for when they cry: “Thy will be done.”
The italicized text in this entry was taken from the book “New Seeds of Contemplation” by Thomas Merton.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Comforts
16:27
An old man draws slow and steady on a pipe,
wisps of tobacco smoke tumble out around him.
The air smells of vanilla.
His skin folds loosely around his bones.
His eyes twinkle at the horizon,
the sky now a familiar face.
The days wane but he smiles because
he knows this eternal moment is broad
and endlessly renewing.
I wake up on the living room sofa.
A fever has set in, and
a dull ache creeps through my body.
I feel a cool hand on my forehead stroking it.
My groggy, 7-year-old eyes look up to see my mother.
She is soft and open, her eyes reflect concern.
“How do you feel, hun?” she asks me.
I am the most loved and protected boy on the planet, Mum.
The night altar is laid solemn before the empty pews.
A lone lamp casts its light
throwing eerie shadows on the holy crucifix.
A teenager sits head bowed in prayer;
the silence is deep and complete.
It tunes his ear to the Lord and the Lord makes himself known.
His faith has not yet faltered,
the temptations of life have not yet worn and broken him.
His chest gently rises and falls.
He is home.
Still lifes are all that remain now
in the far reaches of my memory.
A forest green plastic cup
with a brim that bows out slightly.
A reclining chair and the daily crossword puzzle.
An assured two-handed grip
on the inside bar of the steering wheel
as we drive to church on a carefree Sunday morning.
I've longed to know you for so long now—
you’re the only loss I’ve felt.
In my low moments I think of you watching
and feel ashamed;
in my high moments I reach out to grasp your steady hand
to know you’re with me.
But I always think of you and smile, Pap,
and wonder if you’re proud of me.
Joni Mitchell’s voice.
Three brothers slurp cherry slushies from the 7-11
on a mild summer evening.
The world is calm, predictable
and asks nothing of them.
They grin red-stained smiles;
their imaginations dance.
Grass stains and diving boards,
comic books and fantasy worlds fill their heads.
There is neither the burden of politics
nor the sting of righteous pride to weigh on them;
only innocent awe and wonderment.
A distant world where magic reigns
and strange creatures hide in the shadows.
A world of secrets and adventure,
a world created solely by imagination and
what passes between nerdy friends at a kitchen table.
An escape from reality.
The open country ahead and
the excitement of the unknown as a cast of characters
plunges into this world of mystery.
She turns to me and smiles in the half light.
I pass my arm around her waist,
pull her close.
I can feel the silkiness of her skin under her shirt.
I inhale.
She whispers softly in my ear,
the warmth of her breath fills me completely.
The moon is brilliant.
A steel city at the meeting of three rivers.
Black and gold banners, blue collars turning white,
smiles and friends, familiar feelings and family.
A secret tongue for those who know:
gumbands and nebby neighbors,
jag-offs and jagger bushes,
slippy roads and runnin’ cricks,
redding up and worshin’ clothes.
The Stillers, Pens and Bucos,
DVE, the T and EP,
mullets, pierogies, yins ‘n at.
The spot on Earth closest to my heart.
The only place I call home.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Naïve killers
Saturday, February 21, 2009
10:05
I love killing mosquitoes. Probably not that revealing of an admission. I’d imagine most folks have no qualms about squashing the things. However, I seem to take a certain pleasure from it and recent experience has led me to question why.
A little less than two years ago I spent 10 weeks working in
I remember the afternoon medical session during the week-long orientation we received upon first arriving in the country. The doctor leading the session raised the prospect of us contracting all sorts of scary illnesses. Nearly all were vector borne, transmitted by mosquitoes. Dengue fever in particular was a threat in
I had brought with me a ten-week supply of Mefloquine, a rather potent anti-malarial drug with the well-known side effect of inducing intense dreams, often nightmarish and psychotic. Individuals with depression or a history of psychosis are usually prescribed an alternative drug. I’d taken the drug before however, and actually enjoyed the vivid dreams. Going to bed was like sinking into stadium seating at a movie theater and preparing for a cinematic adventure. Whatever the unknown, long-term side effects were, I was willing to chance it.
That summer I shared a sparsely furnished dorm room at the Xavier Institute of Social Service with a fellow graduate student named Tomo. Tomo, two other students and I worked as a team that summer on our particular internship assignment. Tomo was an unflappable, subdued, and carefree fellow. I couldn’t keep up with his intellect or work ethic, but I also couldn’t grasp how someone performing at that level could be so unfettered by concern or worry as to almost seem whimsical at times. Tomo and I became quick friends and traveled together a good bit that summer. He always got a kick out of the many quirks that came packaged with my anal personality. When settling down in whatever room we happened to be staying in, I’d pull toiletries and clothes from my bag and arrange them at right angles on my respective shelf, drawer, or bunk. Tomo called it “setting up shop”. I was particularly anal about mosquito bite prevention. My bed net in our room at the Xavier Institute was locked down 24-7, tucked under the mattress at all corners at all times. I had a routine for getting in and out of the thing so as to minimize the likelihood of mosquito penetration. The shower room adjacent to our dorm room had an open window with no screen or glass. Naturally, mosquitoes found their way in and in no small number. I developed a 3-minute shower routine to cut down on exposure time. I wore long pants. Most mornings after getting dressed I’d coat myself down with a layer of Deet. This was all endlessly amusing to Tomo who seemed immune to structure, routine, and any fear of environmental hazard. And yet, with all my precautions, the inevitable mosquito bite would appear now and again. Tomo made sure to remind me at those times that infection with dengue was highly probable.
___________________________________________
The personable, pretty doctor at the Cornell Travel Medicine clinic calmly plunged the needle into my arm. A weakened strain of the yellow fever virus made its way through my body.
“Will you be traveling to any low-lying regions while visiting
“No,” I told her with a smile. “I’ll be up in the mountains above 2500 meters.”
I smiled because I knew what that meant. No mosquitoes. She traced her finger along a thick black line on a map of
“West of this line there’s no need to take malaria medication,” she informed me. “You’ll be high enough were it’s not a problem.”
“Thank you.” I said. I smiled big and wide.
______________________________________________
Female mosquitoes are the hematophages, the blood-feeders. They’ve evolved quite elaborate mechanisms for injecting their saliva into their host and extracting a blood meal—a meal which they do not even require for their own survival, but which supplies them with a surplus of iron needed for reproduction. The seemingly simple blend of proteins in the mosquito saliva disrupts the host’s immune response in ways we still do not fully understand. A mosquito's peculiar physiology allows them to carry and transmit viruses and parasites without contracting the diseases themselves—like some naïve messenger of destruction, intent on her task, unquestioning and diligent, unaware of the horrific consequences of her actions. Malaria, yellow fever, dengue fever, Rift Valley fever,
I returned to
I spent the rest of that night and the next two nights engaged in combat with midnight mosquitoes. I don’t know how much sleep I lost or how many I killed, but I emerged from my room the morning of the fourth day battle weary, and somehow unsettled. My window was now closed and bolted shut. Splattered, flattened mosquito remains plastered my bedroom walls in odd patterns. I approached my host family incredulously, feeling more than a little betrayed at not having been warned about this obvious threat. They told me that during the rainy season mosquitoes venture even into the highlands. My naïveté was bolstered by my stay in
On the night table next to my bed is a copy of the Tao Te Ching, the ancient holy book from the 5th century B.C. Tucked inside it is a tri-folded, cream-colored certificate confirming that on a day in April three years ago I committed myself to following five practices, five trainings. The first of them reads in part:
I am determined not to kill, not to let other kills, and not to support any act of killing in the world, in my thinking, and in my way of life.
Sounded easy enough at the time. I didn’t consider myself a killer. But I struggle now, as I have in the past (albeit to a lesser degree) with the consequences of my actions when killing mosquitoes. These creatures cause so much death and suffering in the world and their existence seems so bereft of meaning. It’s so difficult for me to drum up even a whisper of compassion for their plight. But yet at times, the faintest of whispers creeps in. It hasn’t stayed my hand yet, but I wonder at the suffering they cause and if perhaps there’s some purpose for it. I certainly wouldn’t give it to anyone, but then again, there it is. And I’m left questioning it. I know it’s not given me to know the “why” in this game, but my nature draws me in to ask the question anyway. To the extent that I have to make choices about what actions to take in this life, understanding that “why” would provide such a useful map to guide me. But I suppose that’s what giving yourself wholly over to compassion, to God, is all about. A leap of faith. I fear I’ll spend my entire life on the precipice frozen in doubt and confusion. Especially when it comes to mosquitoes.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
A Familiar Blanket
Saturday, January 31, 2009
18:54
We climbed and the mountain flexed. A hazy blue veil draped the sentinel peaks on the distant horizon. Brown and shadow gave way to myriad shades of earth tones the closer the landscape drew to our vehicle. Purple-flowering potato plants and brilliant yellow wildflowers wove intricate patterns in all directions. The dusty hill country I had known six months ago had been restored by the recent summer rains into a canvas of verdant canyons and lush pastures. As I looked out over this stunning scene my mind filter forced a discernment of areas and edges, light and shadow, and crests and troughs. The separateness of form was unquestionable—to my mind. But when I took a breath and listened from a deeper place that view lost focus. Now, an unimaginably thick, earthen blanket stretched out for endless miles, doubled over in places like a scrunched up rug to form arching ridges, pulled taut elsewhere revealing broad, flat plains, and even extending to the continental shelves and plunging into the depths of the ocean. From this vantage point, the rocky soil of the road under our tires was the same as that which lay covered in snow at this moment in my hometown many thousands of miles away. The crops it bore undifferentiated from my flesh and bone, and the rivers that finally carried it to the sea no different from the blood that coursed through me. It felt like home. But I didn’t really experience that. As profound as the imagery was at the time, it was still only my mind at play. Through the mind all knowledge is possible. Unfortunately though, you cannot know Truth. You can only be it.
__________________________________________
4x4 utility trucks, the modern-day incarnation of hunter-gather masculinity, are depicted as unstoppable mammoth machines on the TV ads that break up Sunday afternoon football broadcasts. They clamber up the sides of volcanoes, navigate glacial fields, and explode through fireballs and wrecking balls. The one I rode in, however, seemed more like a pesky flea as it circled the switchbacks of the dirt road that led us higher and higher on the back of this behemoth landform. The mountain didn’t even take notice of us. It was nice to be breathing mountain air again, thin as it was. I wasn’t yet weary from the long, bumpy ride and the work ahead wasn’t threatening. I arrived in Bolivia about two weeks ago with the intent to stay planted here for most of the year to continue my research from last summer. The familiarity of the country upon first arriving was unsettling. My host parents met me at the airport with hugs and kisses, once home, they led me to the modest bedroom I stayed in the previous year, and then swiftly sat me down to a full lunch spread in their backyard garden. We talked about simple things. I remembered the smell of their house, the shouts of the fruit peddler from the street outside, and the gentle hospitality of these people.
I then hopped in a taxi to the office of World Neighbors, the non-governmental organization with which I’m working here. I was again met with smiles, hugs, and handshakes. Some faces were familiar, others were new. Their team is quite small: four office staff, a driver, and the director. The driver, Edgar, an affable fellow, had been hired only after I’d left last July. He refers to himself somewhat disparagingly as a gringo, a term I thought was reserved for foreigners. His skin is pale, he keeps an impeccably cropped moustache, and he speaks as if he just finished gargling gravel. When addressing you he ends his sentences by stating your name in a desperately pleading tone, as if he would gladly hurl himself off a cliff if you would only take to heart whatever it is he’s suggesting to you. He’s got the soul of a servant I seek.
It was as if I hadn’t left this place.
The strangeness of my comfort here soon wore off and I was left with the comfort alone. Not long after my arrival we left for a week-long trip to northern Potosí, the area of the Bolivia where World Neighbors dedicates the lion’s share of its time. The communities of the region are largely isolated farming hamlets scattered over rugged, eroded terrain that reaches altitudes of over 16,000 feet. Poverty is ubiquitous and infant mortality rates rival those of sub-Saharan Africa. And so we drove the seven hours to this place through endless mountainous terrain, freeze frames of farmers tending fields and mixed flocks of sheep and llama passing by our windows as we traveled back through centuries. We did our work for the week. Yesmina, the soft-spoken, kind-hearted World Neighbors nutritionist, and I collected data on hundreds of young children from various health posts and hospitals. We did our work and left. And throughout this I continue to ask myself the same question. The same question I’ve been asking myself for seven years. What am I doing in this place?
18:54
We climbed and the mountain flexed. A hazy blue veil draped the sentinel peaks on the distant horizon. Brown and shadow gave way to myriad shades of earth tones the closer the landscape drew to our vehicle. Purple-flowering potato plants and brilliant yellow wildflowers wove intricate patterns in all directions. The dusty hill country I had known six months ago had been restored by the recent summer rains into a canvas of verdant canyons and lush pastures. As I looked out over this stunning scene my mind filter forced a discernment of areas and edges, light and shadow, and crests and troughs. The separateness of form was unquestionable—to my mind. But when I took a breath and listened from a deeper place that view lost focus. Now, an unimaginably thick, earthen blanket stretched out for endless miles, doubled over in places like a scrunched up rug to form arching ridges, pulled taut elsewhere revealing broad, flat plains, and even extending to the continental shelves and plunging into the depths of the ocean. From this vantage point, the rocky soil of the road under our tires was the same as that which lay covered in snow at this moment in my hometown many thousands of miles away. The crops it bore undifferentiated from my flesh and bone, and the rivers that finally carried it to the sea no different from the blood that coursed through me. It felt like home. But I didn’t really experience that. As profound as the imagery was at the time, it was still only my mind at play. Through the mind all knowledge is possible. Unfortunately though, you cannot know Truth. You can only be it.
__________________________________________
4x4 utility trucks, the modern-day incarnation of hunter-gather masculinity, are depicted as unstoppable mammoth machines on the TV ads that break up Sunday afternoon football broadcasts. They clamber up the sides of volcanoes, navigate glacial fields, and explode through fireballs and wrecking balls. The one I rode in, however, seemed more like a pesky flea as it circled the switchbacks of the dirt road that led us higher and higher on the back of this behemoth landform. The mountain didn’t even take notice of us. It was nice to be breathing mountain air again, thin as it was. I wasn’t yet weary from the long, bumpy ride and the work ahead wasn’t threatening. I arrived in Bolivia about two weeks ago with the intent to stay planted here for most of the year to continue my research from last summer. The familiarity of the country upon first arriving was unsettling. My host parents met me at the airport with hugs and kisses, once home, they led me to the modest bedroom I stayed in the previous year, and then swiftly sat me down to a full lunch spread in their backyard garden. We talked about simple things. I remembered the smell of their house, the shouts of the fruit peddler from the street outside, and the gentle hospitality of these people.
I then hopped in a taxi to the office of World Neighbors, the non-governmental organization with which I’m working here. I was again met with smiles, hugs, and handshakes. Some faces were familiar, others were new. Their team is quite small: four office staff, a driver, and the director. The driver, Edgar, an affable fellow, had been hired only after I’d left last July. He refers to himself somewhat disparagingly as a gringo, a term I thought was reserved for foreigners. His skin is pale, he keeps an impeccably cropped moustache, and he speaks as if he just finished gargling gravel. When addressing you he ends his sentences by stating your name in a desperately pleading tone, as if he would gladly hurl himself off a cliff if you would only take to heart whatever it is he’s suggesting to you. He’s got the soul of a servant I seek.
It was as if I hadn’t left this place.
The strangeness of my comfort here soon wore off and I was left with the comfort alone. Not long after my arrival we left for a week-long trip to northern Potosí, the area of the Bolivia where World Neighbors dedicates the lion’s share of its time. The communities of the region are largely isolated farming hamlets scattered over rugged, eroded terrain that reaches altitudes of over 16,000 feet. Poverty is ubiquitous and infant mortality rates rival those of sub-Saharan Africa. And so we drove the seven hours to this place through endless mountainous terrain, freeze frames of farmers tending fields and mixed flocks of sheep and llama passing by our windows as we traveled back through centuries. We did our work for the week. Yesmina, the soft-spoken, kind-hearted World Neighbors nutritionist, and I collected data on hundreds of young children from various health posts and hospitals. We did our work and left. And throughout this I continue to ask myself the same question. The same question I’ve been asking myself for seven years. What am I doing in this place?
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