tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1935385563918153072024-02-20T01:47:37.229-08:00MizInterpretationDon't mind me, I'm just thinking out loud...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-6846840697102752032013-05-11T00:54:00.001-07:002013-05-11T00:54:29.603-07:00Flashback Friday: Greetings From The D.R.-" All Roads Lead To Cabrera (and to Dorcas Garcia)"<i>Originally Composed 12/31/07</i><br />
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Well, how's everybody? Thank you all so much for your greetings and words of encouragement-they've been much needed and appreciated. I'm still trying to respond to everybody-that's how much email I get (and watch, I'm gonna get back to California and never hear from anyone again!). Though the last 2 ½ months have hands-down been the best experience of my life, they haven't been without challenges, and being me in general can be its own obstacle to happiness at times. But Jehovah is so good, so very, very good in every way; but particularly in that that he loves us. The great thing about being loved by Jehovah is that he can show us that love in so many ways, no matter where we may be in the world, through his Word and his organization, and just the peace of mind that he gives us is incomparable to anything else. You know how sometimes you have a rough moment, and all you need is to know that somebody gets it-that somebody gets you, followed by reassurance that everything is going to be ok? And then you feel like it really will be because whoever's consoling you is not just saying and doing things just to be nice, not even just because they care, but because they know you and understand why things affect you the way you do? Well as we all know, that's the way Jehovah is-he gets all of us, in whatever language we speak (which is great because I can no longer get through my personal prayers in just one language-I start them in English, then they fade into Spanish, and then they just turn into gibberish.)<br />
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The thing about being far away from your home, your comfort zone, is that there is always the possibility of things being strange and unfamiliar to us, which means adjustments in how we do things. Everything isn't super-convenient, and it means learning to work a little harder (which I say never hurt anybody-having to walk everywhere no matter the weather or how much stuff I might be carrying has resulted in me being physically stronger and a little slimmer, I'm happy to report). Periods of heavy rain make field service tough sometimes-it can be dangerous to drive out to the rurals when it's like that, so that's out. Dominicans do not like to get wet, and so if you don't have studies in town that are like, literally, right by your house, it can be hard to find service partners. So, that might mean changes in how you do your service in order to meet your goal. And any time you are away from family and friends who already know you well, especially if you are immersed in a culture different from your own, there is the challenge of understanding each other, of recognizing differences in customs and attitudes, of personalities and feelings being lost in translation. Hey, we feel alone and misunderstood at times in our own language and within our own cultures, don't we? It's all been an eye-opener, and I can see that I'm really not the woman I thought I was. To be fair, I guess in some ways I'm stronger than I'd once thought, but I see more weak areas. So, I mean, I know what my goals are, but some days I wake up and say, can I do this? Am I biting off more than I can chew by working toward making this my life? But Jehovah comforts us, and his spirit overcomes all. It becomes so clear that the rewards of expanding one's service make all the adjusting and struggling and making a fool of oneself so worth it. And it's amazing how, even when there are differences in language and culture, the fruitages of that spirit can help us to see others and ourselves the way that Jehovah does. It's a challenge at times, and its an even bigger challenge to be faced with our own frailties-and experiences like this have a way of showing you who you are, for better or for worse. That "worse" side can get a person down, and it's happened to me more than a few times since I've been here. But I tell you; there is no better feeling than being uplifted be Jehovah once you've been down. And I've had more of that than I even know what to do with.<br />
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OK, got that off my chest. My psychiatrist would be proud.<br />
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Minor road-bumps aside, it's been the best of times over here on the island. Literally, my timing was perfect for coming here. You see, what I didn't know before I came is that, though Cabrera's not what you'd call a tourist-magnet, a lot of brothers and sisters from the U.S. and Canada have been choosing this place to vacation for years. A few of those vacationers loved it so much that they decided to stay, and those who can't live here all year go back and forth, spending part of the year in North America working and saving, and spending the winter and early spring here. There are still others that just pass through for a week or two. Even among the Dominicans, all through town everybody's got family here for the holidays, and the local brothers all have friends and family visiting. Cabrera's such a gorgeous place, and people here are so nice; everybody loves it here. Dorcas and Ramon Garcia, our landlords, are in the congregation with us, and Dorcas is already related to everybody in town (that's not an exaggeration-her maiden name is Pereyra, which is the name on every other business in town, the name of every other household in town, and also the last name of half the congregation. I guess anybody with 14 brothers and sisters and whose mom had 14 brothers and sisters can't really help that). Anyway, between Dorcas' kids and grandkids who visited from the capital, her nephew who lives in Canada with his wife and kids, a family from Nantucket, a group of 12 from Southern California, plus the needgreaters whose half of the year this is, and assorted others, a congregation of about 45 publishers more than tripled last Sunday to a standing-room only attendance of 141.<br />
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They say this happens every year. One elder lamented that the congregation has a very different spirit when it isn't winter…and another young sister went on to "warn" me back in November of what was to come. "There'll be parties, lots of parties, thrown by people you barely see come out of their houses," she said. "Girls who don't usually talk will be social, and they'll all start wearing makeup." She spoke these words as if she was reading from Matthew chapter 24, and I had no idea what she meant by any of it, until it happened . But why all fuss?? I wondered. Another young sister explained the hysteria this way: "Everybody here is our cousin. So if somebody doesn't come from somewhere else, there is nobody to marry. And we ALL want to get married." I appreciated her honesty, and I definitely see what she means. For example: an elder from Missouri met a sister from Canada here a few years back and they got married. Her sister married one of Dorcas' nephews, and this nephew's sister went on to marry a brother who is one of 24 siblings in Cabrera. Meanwhile, the brother from Missouri's cousin is here too, a 21-year old pioneer and ministerial servant, and if the girls here had their way, one of them would snag him and turn this crazy family circle into a trapezoid. My book study conductor, who is from Canada, is here with his Dominican-born wife and daughter…but then somehow his ex-stepmother, also from Canada, is in this same congregation. His wife's cousin is married to a Canadian brother who's somebody else's cousin, but at that point they lost me so I couldn't tell you whose cousin he was if you paid me. Got all that? If you do, I'll send you a prize because I'm still confused.<br />
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I think what's great about all the visitors from North America coming is that it gives these kids a chance to see both sides of the story. While they want to get out of the country, we're all flocking in, some working long hours for part of the year to be able to live here the other part. All of us that have in a material sense (and trust me, I don't have very much, but compared to what some people here have, I'm Oprah) are trying to get rid of the complications that come with living in an affluent country. That family from Nantucket I mentioned consists of a brother, his wife, and their two little boys ages 9 and 5. They've been serving in a Spanish group since their oldest son was about 2, are selling their house and are moving here next year. The sister was telling me that there are a lot of Dominicans that come to Nantucket to work, and how quickly they become Americanized by their 60-hours-per-week jobs. Many a good bible study gets lost to the rat race. They send money to their families here-thus the Escalades and Hummers and Range Rovers you see in the middle of the barrio-but no amount of money can undo the damage done to a family when the father (or mother) is gone for most of the year. Sadly, that has even happened within some congregations. It is interesting to see how, whether the country is rich or poor, materialism can be a snare wherever you go.<br />
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My attitude towards my stuff has definitely changed since I've been here. Within the first week I was here, my phone broke, and I was so upset, but when after seeing how little some brothers live with and are still happy, your attitude changes. You start feeling real dumb about whining over a cell phone. So when my beloved iPod was mortally damaged in last month's tropical storm (you remember, that whole debacle with me coming back from Cabarete on a motorcycle in the rain), I groaned, but was over it pretty quickly. Too busy being happy I got back alive that night. I never want to find myself that attached to any material possession of mine again. I've given away quite a few things since I've been here without even blinking. I hope the brothers don't take that as lack of appreciation for what I have-it isn't that at all. It's just that when you weigh it all out it doesn't matter. Its just stuff. And whatever you have in the way of such "stuff" can be gone in an instant. I don't feel like I've given anything to these brothers and sisters in comparison to what they've given me since I've been here, and I hope I can let them know that.<br />
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I say I'm glad I got here when I did because I got here a good month before most of the other visitors, so I feel like I got a chance to get to know more of the locals personally. And if I hope to come back here I'll need friends. But all life-lessons aside, every day has been like one big party over the last few weeks, and it has been so nice to meet so many from so many different places. I have a new "must-visit" list that includes Missouri, Nantucket, Alaska, Canada, Sweden, Switzerland…and a bunch of cities in So-Cal that I've never even heard of but where I know I'll have friends. Some of the visitors we've had don't even know Spanish, but their efforts to participate at meetings when they visit are really impressive simply in the love it shows for the brothers. And the locals reciprocate, because we have had some great pasaratos (gatherings) lately. But the most fun continues to be in the ministry…riding in the backs of trucks to do campo territory, stopping in a pretty meadow for lunch, enjoying the awe of the brothers and sisters of the natural beauty here, and how excited they are about service, because they've never preached like this; where you get invited into every home, and can talk to anybody you meet. Just like I felt when I first got here. I may be used to it now, even a little spoiled, but it never gets old.<br />
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Crazy experience: One morning before service, I was debating over whether to wear a cute pair of sandals or some comfortable and practical (read: not-so-cute) closed-toe shoes that day. Boy, by the end of the day I was audibly thanking Jehovah for those ugly shoes. After walking up one big dusty hill (actually, they wouldn't let me walk, I rode on the back of a brother's motoconcho), we got to another hill, Alta Loma; they call it, which just looked like jungle to me. Where I come from, that would have been landscape, a photo-op, if you will; but nooooo, somewhere in there was a path leading to the other half of the territory. The only other way to it was to get in the car and go around a couple of towns to get to that back-road. It would have taken too long and used too much gas. So the elder leading the group, Juan Carlos (who, on a side-note, is Dorcas' son-in-law), gave me the option of going back to town with another brother and sister, but this little old man overheard and said, "It's not that bad, she can handle it, there's only a little bit of that walk that's rough." Juan Carlos himself hadn't worked that territory in a while, so he couldn't corroborate or refute what the old man said, and I knew I'd be bored back in town if everyone else was here, so I said, "Aw, I'll make it, if it gets rough, I can use my umbrella as a walking stick." So we started up the ravine, which twisted and turned on a steep incline for a good 25 minutes. We went through rock, mud, bushes and brambles, roots growing above ground and vines-I felt like Indiana Jones. And to tell you the truth, I didn't do too badly. I was glad I brought that umbrella for support because my leg did start to act up, but it was such a beautiful view from up there that it was worth it. I have to give some credit to Juan Carlos and Junior for carrying some of my stuff and offering me their arms every now and then, too. Once we got to the top, we had to head down a ways through a muddy bit of forest, go up over some rock and brush, and then we were there at the road. It was such a relief, because on the way up, every five minutes, Juan Carlos would say, "We're almost there," "Just a little bit more," "Don't pass out yet," and then we'd have to walk more and be nowhere near the end. Where we came out to the road was right next to somebody's house where a bunch of people were sitting on the porch, they couldn't hide their surprise at seeing all these random gringos and Dominicans, in dresses and skirts or slacks and ties, popping out of the bushes one by one. They offered us water and let us rest for a while, and of course, we placed some magazines there. I don't think I've ever sweated so much-yet I've never felt more gorgeous in all my life.<br />
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I'll probably get to send y'all one more transmission from here after this one…and then I come home. 'Till then…<br />
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Love you all,<br />
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April<br />
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P.S.: Remember Pedro, from the last email, who didn't want to talk to us at first? We had our first study with him last week. I wonder if he's related to Dorcas? J<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-39601739677759231032013-05-11T00:50:00.002-07:002013-05-11T00:51:16.021-07:00Flashback Friday: Greetings From The D.R.Part 5-"Getting My Way"<i>Originally Composed 12/19/07<br />
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So I'm staying on a little longer…I realized shortly after my last email that although my return flight from Santo Domingo to New York on the 28 th was guaranteed because I bought a roundtrip ticket, I'm flying standby from New York to San Francisco. Standby. On December 28th. Right smack in between Christmas and New Years' Days. Raise your hands if you've ever had to spend the night, or even spend more than 12 hours, in an airport. Not very much fun is it? Especially when you are already tired and grief-stricken, and I would have been both, because I'd have been leaving a place and people I love, and I would have commenced that journey at 4am. I just couldn't do it. Thankfully, I suppose because of wanting to keep their customers' business, airlines are becoming more flexible about flight changes…and Delta Airlines allowed me to change the date of my return to New York to January 10 th, buying me more possibility of making it onto a flight back to California as well as an additional two weeks to stay here. I won't even pretend to feel inconvenienced. The special English assembly for all the needgreaters and missionaries was this past Sunday, and upon my return from the capital for that, I would have only been left with 11 more days with all my friends here in Cabrera. Knowing I'll be around a little longer makes me at least a little more at peace with coming back to California for a while. I'm doing my best to follow the advice of a good friend and not let the remainder of my time here turn into a countdown, being so upset about the end that I stop enjoying myself. From today I have 21 more days here. But from today, I stop counting. Especially since I just found out that if I were to come back again in 2008 and stay for an extended period of time (which I' m seriously working on doing), I could still keep receiving my Social Security payments. Most brothers and sisters that are here as self-supporting pioneers have to work in their home countries and save for a while and come back and stay here in the DR, back and forth, back and forth. I wouldn't have to even do that. I could just come back here and stay…Hmmm….oh, sorry, I'm doing it again. Thinking so far ahead that I'm forgetting to enjoy this moment. Trust me. I'm learning to think very differently about that type of thing.<br />
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Now, if you think I'm going to go from here into some long, drawn-out, dramatic narrative about Tropical Storm Olga that hit here last week, you're wrong. Not gonna do it. I won't complain about the fact that by the time I got here, the season for this stuff was supposed to have been over, that's why I chose the time period I did. Not going to talk about the fact that we found ourselves in the eye of it, because during the worst of it we were at the beach up northwest of us in Cabarete, or the fact that the wind had trees swinging so wildly and rain coming at such a sharp diagonal that I felt like I was part of a CNN special report. Or how for the first time in two months I'd wished I had a TV here because that way I could start finding out about this stuff ahead of time. Nope, not saying anything. Not even about how we almost didn't get home from Cabarete that day because there were hardly any gua-gua's running, so that the only one we were able to catch only got us about half the way home, leaving us to go the next quarter of the way on motoconchos, in the wind and rain, in the dark (Yeah, that's right, on the back of a motorcycle in the middle of a tropical storm. Don't bother scolding me-I'm not proud of it, I was just desperate to get home and not be stuck on the side of a dark road all night). How finally, at one point, our drivers got too scared to go any further because they were afraid we'd die (I'm so glad we saw eye-to-eye on that), and how I don't know how we'd have made it the rest of the way home and not end up stuck on the side of the road had one of the concho guys not seen a friend of his heading in the direction we needed to go, in a pickup truck. It dropped us off back in Cabrera where there was no light to be found anywhere and the water was coming down so hard and with such force from the simultaneous winds that it hurt. Like I mentioned in a past email, Cabrera's altitude, coastal location, and drainage capacity makes it not so easy to flood, but on that night, even here I walking back to the house and the water was at least covering my feet, because it just came down so fast. But I don't even want to go there-too traumatic. I've never experienced a storm so loud and frightening that it was impossible to sleep through, and I guess it doesn't help that our roof is made of tin. But once again, in the spirit of not complaining, I'd like to focus on the positive and say that I'm glad to be alive. I think a lot of people learned their lesson from the last storm and listened to the evacuation warnings in all the areas that received them. The elders here received a call from the branch telling them to go and check on brothers and sisters and others living in rural areas and/or other places that may have been more adversely affected as soon as the weather allowed them to do so. By the following day, which was last Wednesday, the rains had subsided to only scattered showers, so an elder took me around with him and his wife to go check on some people, and thankfully everyone was ok. This was a blessing considering how many felled trees I saw on the way out into the country that day, and how much of the country I saw underwater on my bus ride to the capital for the assembly some days later. And they called this storm a light one! I guess they gauge that based on the fact that there were fewer casualties and less damage to property. One bible student did sustain some roof damage to her outdoor kitchen, but she, her husband, her three kids, and the fourth one she's got on the way are all present, accounted for, and well. I really enjoyed just being able to be with the elder and his wife and helping in showing all those ones we visited how loved and cared about they are at all times. It was encouraging even for me. <br />
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All of us who had planned to go to the English Special Assembly Day on the 16th had been told that because of the storm, there were so many detours en route to the capital that the trip was going to take an extra two or three hours; meaning a bus ride of around six or seven hours instead of the usual four. I was NOT looking forward to being in a bus that long AT ALL and I almost didn't go. I figured I didn't need to-I'd get the Special Assembly Day with my own circuit this spring and I understand Theocratic information equally well in both languages. But Natalie guilt-tripped me into going, so I was like fine, whatever, packed some sleep-inducing drugs in my overnight bag to endure the bus ride and went. I am SO glad I let her wear me down. I mean, sure, it was the same program as all Special Assembly Days worldwide (or at least in the Americas as far as I know), but all the information was tailored for those serving in the country from other lands, whether as missionaries, special pioneers, International Construction Volunteers, Bethelites, or "needgreaters" helping out on a short- or long-term basis. There were experiences and interviews of brothers and sisters, young and old, from all over the world, serving here in the DR in all such capacities. With the theme being, "We Are The Clay, Jehovah Is Our Potter," the focus mainly was on how these avenues of service can help to shape us, and how we have to keep ourselves focused and in the center of the "wheel" so he can keep shaping us to do even more. We received commendation, encouragement, as well as counsel and reminders; emphasis was placed on the need to apply oneself to learning the language of the country (Spanish) well, no matter if we serve in Spanish, Creole or Sign Language. We were warned to be careful about letting ourselves go in a spiritual sense, thinking we don't need to be as careful because we have expanded our service and therefore fooling ourselves into a false sense of security with our spirituality. Since nobody gets baptized at these assemblies, that talk is replaced by another special talk, and this one's theme was "You Make Me Remember Someone." Some may have already heard that talk, I think it might have been part of the program during a past Circuit Overseer's visit. The talk is based on the biblical references to Aquila and Pricilla, who, apparently, also served as needgreaters in their time, how special they were to Paul, and how we can imitate them even more. After the program, the friends basically took over this restaurant in downtown Santo Domingo called El Canuco, where we ate and danced until a reasonable hour ;)<br />
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I think its worth mentioning what a small world this is, when it comes to being part of Jehovah's organization. At the assembly, I was approached by a sister who recognized me from a wedding that I may or may not have been invited to (yeah, that stuff does come back to haunt you, so I'd re-think it), another from a party I went to in Hollister, CA back in September (man, I'm starting to see a pattern here), then I ran into two that I'd met in Visalia over a year ago (and we were at a wedding too, but to qualify that, there's no question as to whether I was invited that time 'cause I WAS, and besides, I'd met them before that at a friend's home-see, I'm NOT a partymonger!). Then, as I'm talking to one sister, her friend comes up and says, "Hey, are you April?" I almost denied it, I was scared to know where she knew me from. But I 'fessed up, and come to find out, she'd read a few of my "Greetings From DR" episodes through a mutual friend (and you know who you are!) and put the pieces together. Moral of the story: Besides knowing that Jehovah can always see you, most likely, no matter where you are in the world, somebody else who either knows you, or knows somebody who knows somebody who knows you, will be there too. So you might as well just be good, because you can't run and you definitely can't hide. And why would you want to? I've met so many wonderful people on this whole journey, starting from New York all the way down here to the Caribbean. We wouldn't get this anywhere else.<br />
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Awesome experiences of this installment:<br />
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It is sad how spoiled a person can get so easily, in a country where it is so easy to talk about the Bible and about God's kingdom. Every day we meet nice people, who will listen, who appreciate the good news and the hope it brings. Does it mean that everyone will let their life be changed by it? No. Does it mean everybody will become a progressive bible study? Far from it. But just the joy that one gets from having so many opportunities to even open the bible and talk about the hope we have is tremendous, and most of us, at least those who live in North America, are given fewer opportunities to do that in the door-to-door ministry. Everything that comes out of my mouth when preaching and teaching feels more and more real to me. (You know how they say you have to picture yourself in the paradise scene? Well, the other day I actually caught myself daydreaming about hanging out with a family of gorillas, of all things. It's all the preaching, I tell you.) I feel like I can "handle the word of the truth" with much more ability than I ever could before because I use it more frequently than I ever get to back in Cali. Which tells me one thing-I'm probably not looking hard enough for the opportunities. I had a great conversation with the taxi driver over the weekend, and with a Haitian man who gave me his chair to sit in while I waited for the taxi I was able to place some literature…like, seriously, I'm losing count. Today I had an experience that really proved to me that "God's word is alive," and how no amount of fancy explanation we can give compares to its power. We were working in La Entrada, a little town up the road from us, when another sister and I saw a man working on his motorcycle in a lot across from his house. When we asked if he had a few minutes to talk, he said no, which doesn't happen very often, because out here most people say the same thing as if they were reading it from a script: "I always have time for the matters of the Lord, " as if that phrase itself is the password to heaven. But not Pedro. He just kept working on his bike, even when the sister with him tried to lead him in the Dominican way by asking, " You don't have time for the matters of God?" He said that if we talked to him he wouldn't be able to pay attention because he had to hurry up and finish fixing his bike, as he had somewhere to be. Normally, I'd have given him a tract and left the situation alone, but Jehovah's spirit intervened, obviously, because I kept right on talking. At that moment, I remembered an "I'm busy" response that I learned from a pioneer from Florida some months back. I said, "Would you mind if I read you just one scripture and then we'll leave?" So he gives me the go-ahead and I said, "Let me know what you think about this," before reading him John 17:3. "Think about it," I said. "We are always in a hurry, like you are right now. In a way we have to be if we want to make a living, care for our families, etc. But imagine a life with no hurry, no rush. Vida eterna (everlasting life), to do all the things we'd like to and have the time to do them" I said. "But life's not like that right now, is it? We're constantly running, and when we're not, when we do have a free moment finally, we're still anxious or suffering, aren't we?" For the first time since we arrived, he actually looked us in our faces. " Siempre (always)," he answered. "Siempre," I said back to him. "But the life I'm reading to you about is a life without any of that, forever. What do you think?" "Should I pull out a few chairs so you two can sit down for a bit?" was his reply. "That got to you didn't it?" was what came out of the sister that was with me, which kind of threw me for a loop and I didn't know how he was going to take it. "It did," he said meekly. Got him. We told him we'd go finish the street and give him a chance to finish with his bike. We came back to where he was and he pulled out the chairs, and right then the one of the brothers with us pulled up in his truck. The territory was just about done and he was coming to take us back. "Oh no," Pedro said. "You can't leave yet. You said we were going to talk some more." We talked about him, about how his wife left him when he lost his high paying job at a hotel, because she wanted a man that had something, and she took their daughter with her. He talked about how lost he felt, how he'd been looking for some answers. We read him some scriptures and showed him how the only way he was going to find the answers he seeks was by studying the Bible, which he said he didn't even have a copy of. "To be honest," he said later, "when you first showed up I didn't want to hear anything." No, really? I thought. But I'm so glad you came back, he said. I told him that for us to hold back from sharing what we knew was the real solution to mankind's problems would be the same as having the cure for a deadly disease and telling no one. "Well, I want to be cured, then!" he said. Straight out of a Watchtower, isn't it? I left him a Require brochure and we made plans to come back with a brother on Friday. "See you Friday," he said as we waved goodbye. "And don't forget to bring me a Bible!" I was so pumped after that, I walked away and left my purse in his yard, which I didn't realize till we were almost back in Cabrera, and we had to go back. When we got there, he had it in a chair, waiting, with all its contents (which was great, because it contained my camera, ID, passport, money, cards, everything!!!!!)<br />
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Next installment-we'll talk about the pandemonium that has resulted among the local teenagers/young adults in the congregation due to the annual mass-arrival of all the single North Americans this time of year. Thankfully, I don't count. Partially, because I'm black, like most of them, and partially because at 26 years old, as far as they're concerned, I got one foot in the grave already. Thank goodness. <br />
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Till next time…by the way, if y'all ever loved me, you'd keep me, and my goal of returning here, in your prayers. But no pressure. J<br />
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Love,<br />
AprilUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-15051328246316924082013-05-11T00:48:00.000-07:002013-05-11T00:51:32.851-07:00Flashback Friday:Greetings From The D.R.Part 4-"A Time And A Season"<i>Originally Composed 12/3/07</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Life in this part of the world is a mix of strange contradictions. I've sat on my balcony to get relief from the sweltering heat indoors, only to find my neighbors in shorts and sandals, stringing Christmas lights in coconut and palm trees. I've met ranch-hands and registered nurses, lechosa (passion-fruit)-pickers and lawyers, all living in this little coastal town. I've ridden in SUV's and in the beds of pick-up trucks, to teach in dusty rural towns and lush resort areas, to people in airy, three-story vacation palaces, and one-room cement blocks. Strangest to me the fact that as laid-back and slowly as things tend to be taken here, time has flown by so very fast-almost too fast. It makes me sad to think that in less than four weeks; 27 days from now to be exact, I will be on a plane to come home. I have made so many dear new friends in the congregation here in Cabrera-I'm attached especially to the kids here; they all have these smiles that could light the sky and their spirits are equally as bright. They are all learning English in school. You should hear them all practicing their English on us with their sweet little accents. I even sound like them when I speak Spanish now, dropping my S's at the end of words and turning my R's into I's in some other ones-not on purpose, but it just kinda happens like that, you know? My dream would be to stay, right here in this apartment where the cockroaches have come to respect my presence enough not to surface except if they are dying, to carry my groceries home from the market and cook everything on that gas stove, to sit out at nights with my downstairs neighbors, Ramon and Dorcas and talk about the weather, to call this place home and continue to preach about God's kingdom with the Atlantic Ocean as my background, to wake up in the mornings and from afternoon naps to the abstract orchestra of aged roosters reluctantly heralding the new day, meringue and bachata music played in houses and cars, produce trucks in which the driver advertises his goods through a loudspeaker, and motoconchos ripping through the streets…but I cannot say if even by my best efforts that could ever be-my realities unfortunately are not those of others my age. But I have come to love this place beyond my expectations, and it will be very hard to go. So I'm going to try to pretend I'm not leaving in 27 days; but rather, simply wake up and spend each one as richly as possible.<br />
<br />
There were some that got left out of the last email AGAIN, and I am so sorry… but I promise you that the stories I'll tell when I come back will make up for it. (However, if anybody wants to read the emails I've sent out before, just drop me a line and I will gladly resend you the stories from the end of October and November, because I did save them.) Also, I apologize for not responding to any snail-mail I've been sent-to tell you the truth, I just got all letters sent to me in the last two days (Thursday and Friday, November 29 th and 30 th). The postal system is really slow here. I will do my best to sent letters back, but they may not even get to you until after I'm back in the States. But I appreciate everybody's love, support and encouragement, in all forms. It has been much needed and well utilized.<br />
<br />
Let's see…I know it has been a couple of weeks since I've written, so I'm trying to make sure I get you filled in from where I left off as completely as possible. Although the flooding that affected other parts of the country didn't affect us, the rain was getting to everyone, making it nearly impossible to do the long day of preaching in the campo that we planned on doing because of the excess of slippery mud (we sure did try anyway!). The rains are getting farther and fewer between, and I personally am relieved. The kids threw another unannounced party at our house, which I find very flattering still, because it means that the apartment of a couple of foreign pioneers is one of the cool places to be in Cabrera. The following day, November 18th, we went to our first real party here, the (sort-of) wedding reception of Wilkins and Jamie Almonte. Wilkins is Dominican, and he married Jamie, a pioneer from Alaska who came down here to help a few years back, and that's how they met. Wilkins moved to Alaska about halfway through their courtship. They have been married about a year and a half now, but they got married in Alaska and haven't been back here since, until now. So Wilkins' mom, Rina, and RN and bible student attending the congregation here, threw them a surprise reception at her home and invited the whole congregation along with the host of North American visitors who have begun to trickle in over the last few weeks. We had a feast and ate a ton, and I have to say, these folks know how to party; even though the lights went out midway through the night, they lit candles and we kept right) on dancing. I have to admit to being quite proud of myself, as the boys who asked me to dance were kind of hesitant to do so-they all had that "oh-no-I'm-gonna-have-to-teach-the-gringa-what-to-do-out-here-but-let-me-just-pay-her-a-courtesy" look on their faces when doing so. But they all admitted to being impressed with my dancing skills, a fact for which I'd like to take this time to thank Shannon, Jay, Marisol, and everybody I used to roll with back in my days of being a Spanish congregation-groupie, before I became a legitimate Latina. The next week, Natalie gave her first talk in Spanish and did a fabulous job (I think I might have been more nervous for her than she was for herself). It isn't an easy undertaking; as many of us know quite well, getting in front of an audience as it is, but it can be especially traumatic to do so in a language that isn't yours, believe me. <br />
<br />
The day after that, we took two gua-guas and a bus the size of a school bus to Alta Mira, an inland town where Natalie's friend Maria, and Maria's friend Tineke (pronounced Tina-kah), both Canadian girls, are helping out in the local congregation. Once again, one of the main things I've come to love about being in this country is how easy it is to start bible-based conversations pretty much wherever you are. On the gua-gua between Rio San Juan and Puerto Plata, which was so packed that a person's ideas of spatial parameters are destroyed within minutes on-board (on a gua-gua, most likely you will end up with a your arm around a complete stranger or you might go to sleep on their shoulder-that's just how it is and either you deal with it or you walk), I had one arm free with the Spanish Watchtower (La Atalaya) I was studying in hand; the other arm was on the back of the seat around some dude, probably. The girl on the other side of me kept trying to pretend she wasn't reading my Watchtower. She asked me something about switching buses and we started chatting a bit, then I said something to Natalie in English, which puzzled the girl. "You're not Dominican?" she asked in Spanish. I told her I was American and the purpose of my stay in the country, and she commended us for our efforts, then she went on to tell me that her aunt is a Witness in Nagua, not too far from us. We talked more about the importance of studying the Bible, which she said she used to do years ago but for whatever reason, she just kind of drifted away from doing it. We talked until she almost missed her stop right before Puerto Plata. Once we boarded the school bus in Puerto Plata, Natalie struck up a nearly identical conversation with an elderly man who she had asked for directions. He was really nice and equally appreciative. " Cuídense, mis hijas lindas", ("Take care, my lovely daughters"), he says as we off-boarded the bus. <br />
<br />
When we got to Alta Mira, I found myself feeling very thankful to be staying in Cabrera. Not that Alta Mira isn't a lovely town, because it is. It's very hilly and green, kind of like what you'd expect the Andes to look like (actually, I've seen the Andes in real life and the hills in Alta Mira really do look like miniature versions of them). The air is much thinner and crisper there than it is in Cabrera. My issue with it is that it is so hilly, and and the air so much thinner, that for the first time on this whole trip, I found myself physically overwhelmed, which is not a good feeling, especially when everybody else around you is running up and down the hills and talking at normal pace, whereas I'm dragging behind, with my bad leg even stiffer and gasping for air (I can control the asthma better at lower altitudes). I literally wanted to go home. Not back to Cabrera- I mean HOME. But I'm glad I got to see it. It's poorer than Cabrera, so much so that our friends don't even have running running water, though their apartment is actually really cute. A shower consists of boiling a pot of water, pouring it into a bucket with about double that same amount of cool water, and using a pitcher to mete it out on oneself in the actual shower space. Though it was a nice change to bathe in warm water, I'll take my running cold water here any day. And it gets so hot here in Cabrera, warm water would be punishment alot of the time. And nothing beats being able to flush the toilet whenever you feel like it as opposed to doing so once a day to conserve water, as the girls only get two barrels of bathing/flushing/cleaning water a week. <br />
<br />
Of course, in areas like that that are a bit farther from civilization, the ministry is even more productive than it is in a more established town like Cabrera (if you can believe that) where there are more Kingdom proclaimers. The congregation in Alta Mira has somewhere between 11 and 18 publishers, and the girls are operating the sound system and equipment, including microphones. There's plenty of room for growth and they could use a lot of help. When I leave, Natalie will be without a roommate, so she might move out there with the other girls to help. The congregation has two elders, one of whom, along with his wife, is a special pioneer. Here, two or three congregations at at time are assigned every weekend to clean the assembly hall in Via Gonzalez. While we were there, Alta Mira's turn came up, along with the Atlantica congregation from Puerto Plata. It was a lot of fun working there, and the assembly hall is so nice. Because of the climate, the assembly halls in this country are open-air, with just a roof supported by several pillars and beams, and an outdoor baptism pool. The grounds have a smaller buildings with walls and doors with bathrooms, offices, classrooms, dorms (for the Ministerial Training School), and apartments for the travelling overseers. I could see how a person could have trouble concentrating on an assembly program, with all the exquisite landscape around and birds and geckos paying visits. Maybe you just get used to it after a while. <br />
<br />
The other day I was having a bible study with Cindy, single mom. I actually just found out she's going to school in Nagua for her degree in accounting, and even though she's had finals and her son Justin's two years old (enough said!) she's been faithful our studies. Her dad always kind just of sat outside on the porch whenever I showed up, without saying a word. Yesterday when I came he was in the house feeding Justin, and when we started going over the paragraphs, he left the room. Next thing I knew he came back with reading glasses and a bible. He said he wanted to look up the scriptures we were reading because he thought our bible said something different from his. So every time we got to a scripture I had him read it aloud. Sure enough, his version, which I think was the Catholic Valera (I think that's it?) said the same think with sightly different wording, even using the name Jehovah. Next thing I know, he was participating in the study-his grandkids were even helping him find scriptures! Another day I was out and I stopped to talk to a girl named Damari who worked at a colmado (small general store) but was outside on her break. Turns out she'd been studying the bible years ago but moved to the capital to find work, and she said during that time she'd really missed her study, and that she'd like to start up again but she has this crazy work schedule where the only time she could do it would be Sunday evenings after 5 pm. Sunday afternoons are the unofficial congregation Beach Day, but after we come back, Jamie (the aforementioned Alaskan-Dominican) are going to visit her. It never fails-every day that we go out, at least one person in a group gains a new student (that day Jamie and I each got one, and even crazier than that, they both had the same name). <br />
<br />
I'm sorry this letter doesn't have the same jovial tone as my last ones...as reality is setting in that I'll have to go soon, it is getting harder to reflect on how wonderful this all as. I've been preaching up and down the street that I'm moving back, but who am I kidding? I'm tied to the United States by a team of doctors and a box full of prescription medicine and its tearing me apart. It's hard to be face to face with your own frailty, you know? I don't say this to be discouraging or negative-after all, I don't expect this to be my song forever- but I am saying it for those who do have the circumstances to do something that means something-I'm saying it so you'll DO IT. Don't wait until you get to a point in your life where you can't do as much and all you can do is wish that you could. There are tons of things we could all be doing with our time and our money, but experiences like this keep on giving to you long after they are over. So might find it hard to see where the joy is in being in a place where you may or may not have electricity or where you sit in somebody's house drinking coffee and a baby turkey may possibly pop out from under the sofa...but don't knock it 'til you try it. I'm gonna have a time getting back here, but I'm not giving up that easily-y'all know me better than that. I know now that my ultimate goal to serve long-term in a place where there is a greater need for Kingdom proclaimers and a greater appreciation for the fact that humanity needs something better, because what's out there is just not cutting it. This is my prayer, but in the end the answer might be no and I'll have to accept that. But in that instance, if my experience can get somebody else's blood pumping and encourages them to do something bigger than themselves, something that instills more love in their heart for Jehovah and for their neighbor, then I've done something right. <br />
<br />
I love you all. I really do...<br />
<br />
AprilUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-20484128849232132122013-05-11T00:46:00.000-07:002013-05-11T01:02:28.959-07:00Flashback Friday: Greetings From The D.R. Part 3-"Stuffed Like A Gua-Gua On A Holiday."<i>Originally Composed 11/15/2007</i><br />
<br />
From now on, every time I overeat, or if somebody offers me more food, and I'm just not interested, that's going to be my new idiomatic comeback. I'll explain its significance later, after I've brought you all up to speed with regards to the goings-on in the province of Maria Trinidad Sanchez.<br />
<br />
But first off, I'd like to apologize to those of you for whom this is the first email you've received from me since I've been gone. There are some email addresses that I have either just recently obtained, or that I have just added to my address book. So that you can be caught up, I've included a statistical recap of my DR experience so far, at<br />
the end of this letter.<br />
<br />
Last week was the visit of our circuit overseer (would y'all take a<br />
listen at me? "Our" circuit, I say; and I don't even live here, not<br />
yet, anyway), which was kind of like a "spirit week" for the brothers<br />
here in Cabrera. Salvador De Luna, and his wife, Marilyn, were born in<br />
this country and were special pioneers here before they entered the<br />
traveling work twelve years ago. Brother de Luna is a friendly,<br />
youthful man (literally, I mean, like he has braces and everything!)<br />
with a gift for storytelling. And Marilyn is the perfect compliment-he<br />
goes off on his tangents and she just kind of makes a face like, oh<br />
no, here he goes again. Effortlessly hilarious, he immediately puts<br />
people at ease when talks with them, no matter who they are. My mind<br />
didn't wander once during any of the four talks he gave during his<br />
visit. His illustrations are wonderfully simple and effective. In<br />
Thursday night's service talk, on the subject of "running the race"<br />
that we do in our life course, he mentioned the fact that in our<br />
particular race, we run as team, so if we see somebody fall, we don't<br />
just look down at them like, oh wow, that's a shame, and just keep on<br />
running. Rather, we reach down to help them back up again, so that we<br />
may keep on running, together. During the portion of the pioneer<br />
meeting that included the auxiliary pioneers, he really encouraged the<br />
young people to make full time service their goal, and how that would<br />
really be their road to success. Now, we hear that all the time in the<br />
United States, but the reason that makes such a difference here is<br />
because there tends to be a lot of pressure on young people to be the<br />
ones to get a secondary education and make money to get themselves and<br />
their families out of the poor conditions that many of them are in.<br />
And I see that…there are some beautiful, wonderful kids and preteens<br />
in this congregation; all very friendly and eager to participate in<br />
meetings and in the ministry. But when they get to be around 16, 17,<br />
18…that light in them just, well, dies, I guess. I guess they become<br />
more conscious of their world, the older they become, and they want<br />
more, and with opportunities being few, especially in little country<br />
towns like this one, there seems to be no way out other than (a)<br />
moving to a big city for a university education (if you can afford it)<br />
and/or more abundant job opportunities, or (b) marrying an American or<br />
Canadian and getting out of the country. So he encouraged the young<br />
people who were at that meeting, and at the meetings throughout the<br />
week, to work with the pioneers, and vice versa, so that they could<br />
see the rewards of such a course. At the Thursday talk, he told<br />
parents, He also gave some sobering reminders to the regular pioneers<br />
about their conduct, saying that in this country alone, in the last<br />
year 500 have stopped pioneering, the majority having been removed<br />
from the pioneer list because of unscriptural conduct. That number, he<br />
said, has even come to include some special pioneers. Nobody is exempt<br />
from falling-if we want to be successful at pleasing Jehovah, we all<br />
have to be on our guard, all the time.<br />
<br />
So yeah, I'm sure you want to know if I've fallen again since the last<br />
installment. Basically…yeah. This time I was leaving the Kingdom Hall<br />
after the pioneer meeting, and I'm talking to this sister as we walk<br />
to one of her Bible students' houses, and y'all know I can't<br />
multitask. Plus, there are no laws regulating maintenance of city<br />
streets apparently, so a six-inch-wide crack in the sidewalk is as<br />
common as morning coffee. As I go on and on about how much I love<br />
being in the DR and how all the hardships and adjustments have been<br />
worth it, my sandal gets wedged into one of said six-inch cracks, and<br />
down I go. "I'm ok," I say to the sister, who at it this point was 10<br />
seconds away from having a coronary. She's Canadian but has been here<br />
for many years, and is known worrier who has already been on me since<br />
I got here because I let it slip out that I have MS. In her presence<br />
I'm not allowed to climb stairs, sit in certain chairs, ride in<br />
certain vehicles, use public restrooms, breathe, etc. But I know she's<br />
just being a mother and I love her for it. I just wish I hadn't<br />
decided to have my confrontation with the sidewalk while she was<br />
there. The second I hit the ground, here come the Secret Service, or<br />
at least that's when it looked like when the mass of brothers ran to<br />
help me up. I really tried to just act nonchalant and walk it off.<br />
That's kind of hard when your clothes have tread marks on them (I fell<br />
into the street), and you're bleeding from your knees, elbow, and<br />
hand. But I did attempt it. Matter of fact, I went straight to the<br />
bible study, even though the sister I was with insisted I go home. I<br />
looked like World War III, but I was there, and I was proud of every<br />
scrape. But I will have to watch it from here on out. With the weather<br />
as pretty as it's been, I can't be all scratched up going to the<br />
beach. Band-Aids are not hot.<br />
<br />
I'm going to have to get you some pictures soon, because you really do<br />
need to see how we roll in service. Sometimes the territory in which<br />
we work is in walking distance from the Kingdom Hall, so like a little<br />
parade, you see us with our umbrellas and bags walking through the<br />
town streets…whereas at other times, like last Saturday, when<br />
everybody and their mom showed up because of the special week of<br />
activity we had with the circuit overseer, we go out to work the rural<br />
territory, which may be as far away as a half hour. Most of us don't<br />
have vehicles, so we often find ourselves in situations like the<br />
following: Last week, there were at least 40 people in service and we<br />
had three jeeps that each seat five, that belong to the North American<br />
elders that serve in the congregation, and two small flatbed trucks<br />
that each have two-seater cabs. Technically, we had 19 seats for 40<br />
people. Now, the same traffic and passenger regulations that apply in<br />
the U.S. don't apply here, so with that in mind, I'll tell you, we all<br />
got to the territory at the same time, with 19 seats for 40 people.<br />
You do the math. But that's the norm-which also relates back to my<br />
subject line. Hold on, hold on…I'll get to that.<br />
<br />
It had been super hot this last week, but I love it, because it's so<br />
ridiculously humid that you break a sweat just by blinking, so when<br />
there is a bit of a breeze, it feels absolutely delicious. So by the<br />
weekend, all Natalie and I were up to doing was sitting on our porch.<br />
Plus, our power went out on Friday afternoon and still hadn't come<br />
back on again by Saturday night, and who feels like doing anything<br />
when there's no light? So we just hung out. Dominicans love to just<br />
drop in on each other, so three young guys from the congregation,<br />
Angelito, Alberty and Junior, and Junior's sister Pamela, came by and<br />
sat around with us. The boys asked us if we could cook (Brothers: Why<br />
is that all y'all care about? Do YOU know how to cook? Come make ME<br />
something!). Anyway, I told them that my new specialty was plantains.<br />
They told me to prove it, so I said they could come over for dinner<br />
the following night, which was Sunday. So Sunday rolls around and we<br />
still have no power, so by the light of the sun and some candles<br />
Natalie and I cooked dinner for 5. They were supposed to come at 7pm<br />
(or 7 "Dominican time", which is more like 7:30 or 8) By 7:30 nobody<br />
had showed, and I was just going to call it a night until we get a<br />
knock at the door at 7:45, and it's everybody except the boys. There<br />
were four sisters, Vanessa, Ismeira, Diana, and Dulce, who came with a<br />
package of uncooked spaghetti. Apparently, somebody heard from<br />
somebody who heard from somebody else who heard from Alberty that we<br />
were having a pasarato (party). Then at like, 8 pm, the power came<br />
back on. The streets went bananas. People we hollering, banging on<br />
pots, singing…it was crazy. Just then the boys, plus Diana's brother<br />
Vitico, moseyed on in with their appetites and some CDs. The girls<br />
left and went to the store to get more food, then when they returned<br />
Diana kicked me out of my kitchen and made some delicious Dominican<br />
spaghetti. We ate and danced and hung out on the porch until we got<br />
sleepy. It was the best party that I was not even trying to have.<br />
<br />
So yeah…the gua-gua thing. For those of you who don't know, a gua-gua<br />
is a minibus, kind of like the little Volkswagen vans that were big in<br />
the 70's and 80's. Technically, they seat nine. But as we discussed<br />
previously, that means absolutely nothing to a Dominican with places<br />
to go and people to see (or in the case of our brothers, disciples to<br />
make). Last Monday, which was a Dominican work holiday, Natalie and I<br />
went to Playa Grande, an absolutely stunning beach about 20 minutes<br />
from us, with transparent blue water and miles of lush greenery on its<br />
shores. After swimming and relaxing for a bit (I fell asleep on the<br />
beach and had sand on me for a week afterward), we waited for a<br />
gua-gua to bring us back to town. When it stopped for us, I kid you<br />
not: there were 17 people already on board. I told the driver to keep<br />
going because I wasn't going to fit, and everybody on the gua-gua<br />
laughed "Cabes aquí, mami," said some man who was looking me at me<br />
like I was a smoked turkey, pointing to a space like, two inches wide<br />
next to him ("Cabes aquí means "you fit here," and unfortunately, I<br />
think we get what "mami" means in this context.) I hesitated and<br />
looked over to my left to see what Natalie'd say, but she wasn't<br />
there; she'd already squeezed herself in. Then the driver says,<br />
"¡Apúrese, señora! ¡Súbese!" ("Hurry up, lady, get in!") Natalie<br />
nodded to a tiny-fold out seat across from Casanova, so I sighed and<br />
squeezed myself in. I rode the whole way with my head out the window,<br />
partially because I didn't want to watch that weird guy ogle me, but<br />
mostly because there wasn't room to do much else. The worst part? The<br />
driver stopped once more before dropping us off to pick up three more<br />
people, so we were 22. We couldn't even close the door completely<br />
Getting out was basically like playing Twister. But they get you where<br />
you need to go-we took a gua-gua to go find the young man from the<br />
Peace Corps that I wrote about last time (sadly, he had gone back to<br />
the States the day before we went, we later learned. But maybe he'll<br />
remember that he talked to some Witnesses, and that we were making a<br />
dent here). So that's the gua-gua, and that's why I can appropriately<br />
say "I'm stuffed like a gua-gua on a holiday," or "stuffed like a<br />
flatbed during the CO visit."<br />
<br />
I have a few people I'm calling on here who definitely appear to be<br />
turning into bible students, and two actual bible students who are<br />
doing really well. Their names are Cindy and Rosalva, and they are<br />
both young, single moms. You find quite a few here. The student of<br />
one sister is 19 with three kids ranging from ages 4 to 10 months.<br />
Some of these girls are as young as 13…and it crushes you to see it.<br />
What hurts worse is seeing so many young girls headed that<br />
way-overdeveloped and provocatively dressed, and the way older guys<br />
look at them…once they find themselves in that situation, they need<br />
help. Rosalva accepted a study on the first visit, and Cindy agreed to<br />
study after I brought her a Learning from the Great Teacher book for<br />
her son. I read her Deuteronomy 6:6,7 and explained that before she<br />
could teach her 2-year-old, Justin, anything, it all had to be on her<br />
heart first. So I had her pick one of the questions in the opening of<br />
the Bible Teach book, and she wanted to know why God permits<br />
suffering. She apparently reads the bible on her own, because when we<br />
went over the corresponding chapter, she flipped to the scriptures<br />
with no problem. Rosalva is more of a challenge, not because she is<br />
less interested, but because she lives about a 30-minute gua-gua ride<br />
away. But to make it easier to get to our rural students, Natalie is<br />
going to rent a motoconcho and knows how to drive it, and I, I'm proud<br />
to say, have ridden on the back of one twice at this point! I've even<br />
got the burn-mark on my ankle to prove it, which is very Dominican.<br />
This trip is making a real woman out of me.<br />
<br />
Recap:<br />
<br />
1) Times I've ridden a motoconcho (small motorcycle commonly ridden here): 2<br />
2) Spiders of at least 2 inches in diameter that I've seen in the apartment: 3<br />
3) Parties that other people have thrown in our apartment without<br />
telling us first: 1<br />
4) Haitian Creoles I've been able to witness to: 2<br />
5) Times I have slipped or fallen flat on my face: 3<br />
6) Times I've been bitten by mosquitoes: countless (I'm buying a net<br />
because I'm not trying to get dengue fever<br />
7) Times I've cooked a whole meal with the light of just one candle: 2<br />
8) Times I've played (and won) dominoes, the Dominicans' second<br />
favorite pastime next to baseball: 3<br />
9) Times I've witnessed (and partaken at) the outdoor roasting of an<br />
entire pig: 1<br />
10) Times I've wished I were home: 0<br />
<br />
Not that I don't love all y'all, but this is beginning to feel like it is home…<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
April<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-12267970111639246582013-05-11T00:32:00.002-07:002013-05-11T00:32:20.199-07:00Flashback Friday: Greetings From The D.R. Part 2-"Keeping Our Heads Above Water."<i>Originally Composed 10/31/07<br />
<br />
Foreword: I wrote this email as a draft a few days ago, before we got any real word on the weather situation. Apparently, in the areas of lower elevation, like Santo Domingo, and some other cities, there has been flooding, and three of our brothers have died...the last I heard, the others that were reported missing have been located. But I know that the branch will come out with information that is much more accurate and up to date than what I can report. These things feel so different when they happen physically near to you, than when you just read about them. Believe me. I know you will keep their families-and us, because they say the water might come back harder later this week-in your prayers. I hope the weather report is wrong... we did have a bit of sun today. We'll see what happens. Just know that your Dominican brothers are as fiery and spirited as ever-I love these people.</i><br />
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My dear friend Jonathan informed me this past Monday that the island of Hispaniola, on which the Dominican Republic is located, is currently experiencing a tropical storm. Apparently, some people have been reported dead or missing. And here <br />
I am, having been on the DR's northern coast for a little over a week now, and I had no idea. I just know it's wet, wet, wet-when the rain comes down, it sounds as if a huge bucket's being poured on the roof of where we are. It had been raining on and off since last week, but since it's been pretty much nonstop for the last couple of days. It's slippery in places as a result, and I fell twice in one day last week, once in the morning in the middle of the town square, when Natalie and I were hustling to catch a bus, and again on the balcony when I got home that same afternoon. Both are paved with smooth stone, and I guess the flip-flops I wore were too flat. Slippery ground +flat flip-flops=me, face down on the ground, with a pink and black floral print backpack still strapped to my back, muttering a muffled, "I'm ok!" The mental picture still cracks me up, so go ahead, have fun with it. I didn't get hurt too badly, I sustained a sore arm and hurt pride, but that's about it. Before Natalie could even help me up the first time I fell, a guy screeched his bike to a halt, jumped off, and helped me off the ground. (I guess Dominican guys aren't discriminatory about klutzy girls, because the same guy tried to hit on me later that day. That's the last time I let anybody help me up here.) The winds are strong, and our little town has flooded in places, but I'm telling you, I really wouldn't have thought anything of it had I not been told that there was a tropical storm. I guess it really is true that ignorance is bliss…but at the same time I'm glad to know, because things might worsen, so I can use this as a heads-up so we can prepare ourselves if things do get serious, and so that I can remember to pray for our brothers in other parts of the island that were more adversely affected, like in the Capital, where they have poor drainage and lower elevation. I have to say, I'm a little disappointed about the change in the weather (thought it is far from cold here-I still have no need for a jacket). It makes service tough some days, and its also a challenge to go, well, anywhere, because everywhere we go we walk, unless somebody has a motoconcho, and that still does little to help me, because I don't care if I have seen whole families riding on one bikes around town, I'm not in denial about being an Amazon girl. If Natalie has already hopped on back of the bike, I'm not getting on, because I refuse to be the reason that we're moving too slow. But I am still enjoying myself, as the weather is not what I came for, and I am reminded of that every time I get to speak to an appreciative person in the ministry, attend a meeting, or spend time getting to know the brothers and sisters here.<br />
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I am so impressed by how these brothers and sisters persevere in the midst of the poverty here-it completely shames and humbles me. Everybody is willing to share what little he or she has. Even the locals are like that. In service last Saturday, in the gorgeous, grassy, coastal pueblo of Baoba, where cows roam freely and wild turkeys run around looking at you as if you're the one that looks funny (or maybe that only happened to me), I met a 90-year-old woman who lives in a one-room shack, but she still didn't hesitate to invite me in. Dominicans are very proud of their island. They know what they have in the sense that this is one of the last paradisaic places on earth, and won't hesitate to tell you how sorry they are for you for not being from here. Then you get the people living in shanty homes with dirt floors, but have flat-screen TV's and iPods. Appearance is important-I've seen some people who wear the same outfit every time you see them, but that outfit is clean and pressed-and EVERY GIRL HAS HER HAIR DONE! That is not an exaggeration, and I have even begun to feel a bit self-conscious about my wild curls. But back to the brothers and sisters, who are a bit more balanced in priorities. We were at the Kingdom Hall on Thursday for the School and Service Meeting, and the power went out. We were without light and sound for about 45 seconds before everything was up and running again, because the brothers set up a generator system using-of all things-a car battery. I love Jehovah's Witnesses! We always have a plan. Last night the Martinez family had us over for a pig roast. They set up a makeshift rotisserie in an open field in the concrete frame of what looked like was formerly a house, and had the swine turning on a big stick over a fire (pictures below). When it was done, we went back to the house where they sliced it up and served it with rice, plantains, and yucca. Their humble home felt like a mansion, so rich with people and happy sounds. I tend to relish in my privacy these days, but being here makes me see that we really do need to create more opportunities to be with the brothers while it is relatively easy to do so. It'll be harder to do that as the system winds down. Easy access to TV, Internet, or the ability to just hop in the car or on public transportation to do things, even just the convenience of having a bedside lamp that you know will turn on when you flip the switch, making staying in bed with a good book on a rainy day all the more easy to do, are all great things that I look forward to utilizing upon my return, but they can also cause us to withdraw from one another and remain in our own respective worlds if we don't make the effort not to. Life is so much richer when good friends are included in it.<br />
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At this time, I would really like to highlight the importance of camping. What does this have to do with the chronicles of my island adventure? Well, I had previously completely underestimated my survival skills, but necessity has proven me to be more savage than I thought I was, and I think that years of camping trips have helped in that. For one thing, I have become quite skilled at doing things by candlelight or with no light at all. I am now the Grand Master of cooking on the gas stove and oven (I think lighting it is my favorite part-and no, I am not a pyromaniac). That may not be a big deal to some, but these are not the gas stoves that many of us are used to-think gas stove, the year I was born. Yeah. We have this primitive little washing machine that we have to carry to the bathtub, full with water, add soap to, then start, at which point it agitates the clothes to wash them, switch to the drain valve to get rid of the dirty water, then refill the washer again with plain clean water to rinse everything. There is no spin cycle, so everything is taken out by hand, and wrung out. I just keep telling myself how toned my arms will be when I come home. It is such a low-power washer that a lot of things are just better off washed by hand, which I do. The nice part is hanging everything out on the clothesline to dry. It hangs over our balcony, so going out there and hanging things, while looking at the goings-on of the barrio and greeting the neighbors has something of a novel, romantic appeal. (I'm a nerd. You knew that already.)<br />
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Its two weeks until my payday, so I am definitely eating like a local right now. I have mastered the art of beans, rice and plantains (which I have to say I make pretty well, for being a Bay Area girl). Unless somebody has us over to eat, that's been dinner-for breakfast we have eggs, yogurt, salami, and fruit. Last Wednesday we splurged (spending about $12 between the two of us) by going out for pizza and beer at a restaurant in town called Chorri Pan. I think it's the best pepperoni pizza I've had, plus they make this garlic paste to dip it in that is "crazy delicious," as Nat would say. But mostly, we eat really simply. You can get pretty good fruit and vegetables around here, and cheaply at that. But they have to be washed with soap and bleached first, which we've been doing as we buy things. A lot of things are hard to get here in town, so we went to San Francisco de Marcorís, where they have a Super Wal-Mart-like store called La Sirena, and they have EVERYTHING. Next time I come out here I won't pack so much stuff, especially not toiletries or beauty products, because they even have an Esteé Lauder counter there. It's about an hour's trip on the bus, but it's worth it, because you can find a wider variety of packaged food items (my cherished find: Aunt Jemima pancake mix) or fresh vegetables and meats that you don't have to be as concerned about eating as what is sold locally, lots of cleaning products and housewares like we have at home, and they have clothes and electronics, too. I'll probably go back before the assembly in December and grab some cheap shoes or something.<br />
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A couple of interesting experiences:<br />
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1) Natalie and I have been trying to get the early-morning street work ball rolling out here (so far its just me and her, but maybe some of the teenagers will jump on the bandwagon while they're off on holiday or something. Anyway, we go sit on the park benches and talk to people passing by. It is amazing how people are about all things Bible-related here. The first time we did it, a sister visiting from Santiago showed us how they do it in the city, and it's so easy. All we do is, as people pass by, we holler, "Mi amigo, ¿te gusta leer la Biblia?" (Rough translation: "My friend, do you like to read the bible?") and EVERYBODY says yes. So we tell them we have something for them, and they actually walk over and come get the tract or whatever we offer, and are very appreciative. Many even stop to read the literature. We offered a tract to one man, and he said he didn't read English. Turns out he is Haitian, and there are quite a few in this town especially. The sister from Santiago happened to have a tract in Haitian Creole, and he was so happy when I gave it to him that he sat down and read the whole thing with his friends. Then he came back over to where we were sitting, and asked us if we had more for him to read. I felt so bad telling him no. I let him read the message in the Good News for All Nations book, but he still wanted more. So I'm going to try to see if I can get him some literature at the meeting (none of you just happen to have Haitian Creole literature that you could send me do you?) There is a Bible student who regularly attends the meetings named James, and he's from Haiti but speaks Spanish, too, so I'm going to see if he can teach me a greeting in that language, if I'm going to be meeting more Creole speakers. From the looks of things, I'll need it.<br />
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2) The other night, at the Internet café in town (which is where we have to go to use the Internet and sometimes either we don't have time to go, or it's closed, or the signal is out, that's why my emails are so sporadic-sorry about that!) a guy came in who, to me, looked and spoke just like a regular Dominican, started talking to Natalie in perfect, non-accented English. He asked if we were American, if we lived there in town, etc. Turns out he's from Oklahoma but has been living in the DR as part of the Peace Corps for a few years, save the times he's gone home for weddings and funerals. Nat told him about the work we are doing here as Witnesses, how we help people understand the Bible, and show them how its principles can help them to help themselves. He began to tell us how, basically he has started to become disillusioned with the work he's doing with the Peace Corps, because, as he put it, there are like 3,000 different charitable organizations here, and as much money and clothes they give, and as many houses are built, it doesn't seem to make a dent in the conditions here, because people's mentality doesn't change. According to him (and a few others with who we have spoken), a lot of people just want a handout, the root of which comes from ineffective government. He said he's come to realize that whatever is done by organizations isn't enough to change the infrastructure of and entire country. As Natalie told him, "You can't legislate people's hearts." At that point the power went out at the Internet spot and we had to leave, but fortunately, he told us what part of town he's living in, and, being that it really isn't hard to locate people, we're going over there to invite him to this Sunday's public talk and Watchtower, which I think will be great sine for one thing, the CO will be there, and also, the Watchtower is talking about ways we can show mercy. This one's a work in progress; no dramatic, climactic, assembly-worthy finish yet, but I'll keep you posted. It just shows though, how fertile the ground is here, how many opportunities can arise in places like this, and really, wherever we are, if we look for them.<br />
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I guess that wraps up my Dominican Chronicles for this week. I hope every one of you is well, wherever you may be, and if this tropical storm doesn't turn into a hurricane and wash me away, you'll be hearing another set of stories from me next week.<br />
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Love you all,<br />
<br />
April<br />
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P.S.: I tried to send pictures, but for some reason I can't attach them. I'll send you all a link where you can see them all next time. Sorry about that :(<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-2682314291247179292013-05-11T00:25:00.003-07:002013-05-11T00:28:54.636-07:00Flashback Friday: Greetings From the DR<i>In anticipation for my upcoming trip to Nicaragua, I dug up some of the reports I sent to my friends and family from my last needgreating experience in the Dominican Republic in 2007-2008. It'll be interesting to see if the tone of my chronicles will reflect a change now that I'm older and wiser. No, I didn't type that last line with a straight face.</i><br />
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Originally composed on 10/24/07<br />
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Ok, so I got here alive. We established that. Cool.<br />
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On Monday, October 22, after 5 interesting (yet fun) days in New York (getting lost, being harassed on the subway, spending time with old friends and bonding with new ones, etc.) I boarded the plane that would bring me to DR's capital, Santo Domingo. I mention this because my DR experience really did begin on that plane. There were alot of Dominicans from NY on that plane...making it the loudest, rowdiest, most unorthodox plane ride I have ever experienced-and I loved every minute of it. As soon as the "Fasten Seatbelt" light went off, people were up and about, socializing, helping each other with babies, guys getting girls' phone numbers, etc. Living in California you just don't see a whole lot of Black people who are native Spanish speakers (although we know they exist), so I have to say I was a bit in awe to see all these people who looked like me speaking the fastest Spanish you'll ever hear.<br />
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Across the aisle from me on the plane I saw a pretty woman in her 60's, talking to the woman in the seat next to her. She was holding what looked like a bible, and she appeared to be showing the other lady something in the bible. I kept looking, and when she put the bible down in the seat next to her, I could see it more closely. Sure enough, it was a New World Translation. I knew it. When the other lady that was having the bible explained to her got up to go to the lavatory, I asked the one with the Bible if she was a witness, and of course, she was. Her name is Josefina, she lives in the Bronx, but was born and raised in Santo Domingo. She was on her way to visit her cousin, who is a pioneer there. Josefina comes from about three generations of faithful servants of Jehovah. When I told her why I was going to DR, she was so happy, and kept saying what a wonderful thing I was doing. I commended her for Witnessing to the lady, and I gave Josefina a Bible Teach book in Spanish to give to the other lady (I happened to have some in my carry-on bag-that NEVER happens!), and she placed it as soon as the lady got back to her seat. Josefina gave me some money to donate for the book...then another $20 because she thought I'd need it for my expenses. I fought her on it, but she insisted, and just thinking about everything that I had just witnessed made me cry. I think sometimes we need reminder that Jehovah's people are working hard and loving each other everywhere you go, not just in your own area. She even helped me with the immigration stuff I needed to take care of after I got off the plane.<br />
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Natalie, my roommate here in DR, was at the airport when I got there. But we didn't see the Bethelite who was supposed to pick us up. So we split up and walked around looking for him, and whern I met back up with Natalie, we had found him, standing there holding up a sign that said: "Watchtower Transportacion: April Gantt" (he let me keep the sign). We went to Bethel, where we got to attend the family Watchtower study (and I commented!!!), and then got a good night's sleep in our really nice room (they even had a food basket and sodas in the fridge for us). We went to morning worship, took a tour of the branch (on which they are currently doing construction to add additional buildings). It's already a gorgeous place, with lots of greenery, and embellishment of coral (which this island is mostly composed of.). Have you ever seen a Bethel branch with a swimming pool? Yeah, its that hot here, even in the fall. Nonetheless, this country is so beautiful.<br />
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We rode the bus to Cabrera (which is my residence right now) on Tuesday afternoon, and after freshening up, we went to bookstudy. Our conductor is a Canadian brother named Ryan Koyvisto. He's been here 13 years, and in the last few, he managed to marry a gorgeous Dominican sister named Kenya, and they have a beautiful baby girl named Kiara. (That will NOT happen to me, by the way, but they are a beautiful family, and obviously a great asset to the congregation here). The family who's house we use for the bookstudy has a little boy named Davison, who was born blind. But that kid is sharp. He reads Braille, comments just based on what he hears in is always on target. He has to feel around to see who people are, but after a few times, he knows everybody. I was ready to kidnap him and bring him back to the states immediately-he's just too cute! I experienced my first DR blackout at bookstudy. It appears that they're prepared, because this happens every day. I think that within maybe three minutes, we had two candles and a flashlight, and the show went on.<br />
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So far I love this place-except the visitors we get at the apartment at night. There is a ginormous spider living in the bathroom, and the biggest roaches you'll ever see (we had one show up last night the size of, well, I can't think of anything of comparable size, but its like an two inches wide and two and a half inches long). And they fly. I was horrified. Natalie is a soldier at this point because she didn't even flinch. I don't know WHAT I'm going to do. I guess I have to try to get things done early and be in bed by nightfall because that's when they come out. I guess I've already learned on thing about myself- I'm more of a girl than I thought, because I do NOT like seeing large bugs share my space! But other than that, everybody's really nice, the living is simple, the pace is laid-back, and its just really cool to have to go to open-air markets to buy food, and bleach vegetables, and live like a missionary, even for a little while. I feel bad for poor Natalie though. She's so all-American in her appearance that the guys won't leave her alone. I blend in fine, so I'm not having problems yet. But I can't wait to go to service tomorrow. Its too early to miss home, but I do wish I could share this experience with more of the people that I love. Next email should include pictures. In the meantime, you can write me, either via email or at our address:<br />
Calle Maximo Acosta 12, Cabrera, Province Maria Trinidad Sanchez, Dominican Republic<br />
Natalie just got a package from her parents today, so apparently, the mail system works. But if anybody DOES decide to send me a package of anything (not that I'm soliciting, but just in case...), the best way to send it is registered mail, that way I have to sign for it. "But I'm loving everything about this so far, and I'm thankful to Jehovah, and to everybody that helped me do this, either materially or just by encouraging me to reach out and achieve my goals even if they do seem crazy. I'm gonna get home now, so we can cook before the power goes out :)<br />
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Love you all,<br />
<br />
AprilUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-61676941682781590172013-03-19T18:01:00.003-07:002013-05-11T01:03:46.283-07:00Only Jehovah Knows<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmeP4Svthjx_1-I-Fbuv9DfVKFw0B4IJbMBCP_E7azh-EyWPJSNwC1j1HssoL2hu4HrI_33MaILoH8Z1YRcBOiDOFzalFgvNDC-5MUoar8Nd-JxBkbDhihObOeecLMyhuCX1faZQ3WFDh/s1600/cloud.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDmeP4Svthjx_1-I-Fbuv9DfVKFw0B4IJbMBCP_E7azh-EyWPJSNwC1j1HssoL2hu4HrI_33MaILoH8Z1YRcBOiDOFzalFgvNDC-5MUoar8Nd-JxBkbDhihObOeecLMyhuCX1faZQ3WFDh/s320/cloud.jpg" /></a><br />
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<i>(Disclaimer: I'm going to try to keep this short. I think I say so much normally that I wear myself out and exhaust my word reserves to the point that I can't write any more for the next eleven months. More often than not, it really is true that less is more.)</i><br />
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Nearly every variable of my life is about to change, all at once. Ask me how I feel about that. Everyone else does, every single day. I actually wish someone would do me a favor and <i>tell</i> me how I feel about it for a change. Because I really have NO IDEA.<br />
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A few entries back I sobbed to the world about my dreams of moving to a country where there is a greater need for Kingdom publishers, and how it seemed to me to be a dream simply too far beyond the bounds of my personal circumstances. Well, I allowed myself to be inspired and encouraged by many incredible individuals-as well as by the loving program of spiritual feeding we have at our disposal-to keep fighting for a blessing. By means of a series of maneuvers that could only have been divinely orchestrated, on May 22 of this year I will be on a plane to Nicaragua for six months. I'm leaving my job, my family, my friends, my congregation-and my heart-here in the U.S. and heading off to a place I only know from books and anecdotes. Government restrictions only allow a foreigner to stay in the country six consecutive months without residency. A lot can happen in six months. I can vouch for that just by revisiting the last six months leading up to this moment. <br />
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Six months ago I had no definite plans to go anywhere or do anything outside of my standard routine. Six months ago my family was unitedly serving Jehovah. Six months ago I was debating with myself over whether to return to school in order to change jobs or to earn more in my current position. Now here I am, running far, far away; leaving behind a family bruised by the grievous effects of a disfellowshipping, walking away from the place where I've been employed for the last five years with no game plan for how I will support myself upon returning permanently. And a month ago I was fine with that. In fact, I had pretty much made up my mind that if I didn't have to, I wasn't returning long term. I'd just leave Nicaragua after six months as required by its federal law, come home to visit my parents, pick up some medicine, see a few doctors, hit a few Bay Area parties, and head on back. The unknown was sounding so, SO good to me. Sure, I'd miss everyone, but I was off to start a new and exciting life in Jehovah's service, completely breaking free of all monotony and even having the opportunity to reinvent myself among people who didn't know me and for whom my reputation had not preceded me. It was my turn. I didn't know EXACTLY how things would go but I knew it would be new. And that was exactly what I wanted. I was more than ready to let go.<br />
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Reality has a strange way of hiding in the bushes and popping out to scare you just when you are feeling blissfully secure. As my plans become finalized I can see that there are still many unknowns; the outcome of which I won't even know until I actually get to where I am going. In just over two months, my friend and future roommate, Danielle, and I will be there but we still have yet to find suitable long-term accommodations. I had a minor flareup of MS about a month ago which has left me wary about how my health will fare in the Nicaraguan climate. Other needgreaters have alerted us to many additional challenges which, though outweighed by the spiritual blessings, are still likelihoods that call into question whether or not I am truly as prepared (or as brave) as I thought that I was for third-world living (i.e. security concerns and illnesses such as malaria and dysentery). I even find myself doubting my own spiritual qualifications in the face of the needs of the congregation I will be assisting. To paraphrase the prophet Jeremiah, I am suddenly feeling like I'm "but a girl." <br />
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On top of all that-at the height of my excitement, I've begun having some issues with my heart that no cardiologist in the world could address. As I alluded to before, at the moment I leave my family in a somewhat injured state. While remaining here would do very little to change things, I still walk away uneasy. I can't help it. It's tough to to know that everyone is having a hard time and you can't even BE there to hold a hand. And here's a biggie: although I had come to the point in my life where the last thing on my mind was going from being a "me" to being an "us," THAT happened as well (see last year's post "Exiting the Friend Zone." Yeah, I didn't get to leave, I was kidnapped!). I wasn't looking for it, but it happened. It <i>is</i> happening, present-tense, and just as I walk out the door. It's been a lovely surprise thus far, but my best efforts to keep us as simply "friends with possibilities" are failing miserably, which leaves me with worries that were not previously an issue-like how many tears I'll cry during that last exchange, if the distance will help or hurt our budding courtship; what I'll be coming home to in six months, if I'll have anything to come home to at all, or if it was wise to let anything start in the first place. And the hardest reality of all to take? The cold truth that the only way to resolve ANY of my doubts is to let this show run its course from the first act to the last; letting time reveal what Jehovah's will is. That is perfectly logical. I just don't know if I can take the suspense. <i>Jehovah, please help me out where I need faith!</i><br />
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Receiving this blessing and privilege is clearly the answer to many, many prayers. And apparently it will take even more of them to see it through. I have to do this. Not going is not an option I'm willing to entertain even briefly-my appreciation for Jehovah's kindness in my behalf simply won't allow it. I've wanted this for so long, and I don't think I could get past the regret if I let an opportunity like this pass me by. But it's strange-I have a whole binder full of articles about "stepping over into Macedonia" that all make reference to how much trust in Jehovah is needed to do something like this. I have read them all over and over again for many months. However it is only now that I am seeing that my own trust in Jehovah is about to be put to the test in ways I hadn't imagined. I've always been sort of an anxious person but I never knew just how bad my anxiety was, and how much I need to improve in leaving things in Jehovah's hands until right now. Whatever area of my life that I still believe I'm controlling, will soon be under the direct hand of Jehovah. Which really is the best place for my affairs to possibly be. Today, though, I'm feeling panicked like the sorry mortal that I am. Nevertheless, here we go. I'm about to be reset-and the only way I'll ever meet the person that I have the potential to be is to sit back, <i>try</i> to relax...and obey.<br />
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Oh, and I failed at keeping this short. Again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-24090047413749968072012-04-15T00:53:00.001-07:002012-04-15T22:29:43.164-07:00Scenes From the Battle LinesThis week has found me drained and comparatively unproductive. That happens to everyone from time to time. This time, however, is different. I've literally been having to drag myself out of bed every morning. Everything I do requires extra effort-taking a shower, washing dishes, getting out of the car, remembering how to determine alphabetical order when filing. The muscles in my face are weak and my words-be them English or Spanish-are constantly tripping out of my mouth like newborn horses struggling to take their first clumsy steps. All I want to do is sleep. I feel like I'm about 80 years old. It's not the first time, and it most certainly will not be the last. <br />
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Here's my simple explanation of what multiple sclerosis is: you have an electrical appliance, say, for example, a lamp. Its cord plugs into an outlet in the wall in order to channel electricity into it and allow it to turn on and function. That electricity is channeled through the wires contained in that cord; however, those wires are not exposed, rather, they are protected by a coating of plastic or some other versatile material. What happens if there is a break in that plastic? That leaves the wires exposed and dangerously vulnerable to power shortages. Basically, power will not be conducted properly, the lamp won't work, in addition, the cord is now an active fire hazard.<br />
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The nerves in the brain and spinal cord are like those electrical cords. They send signals to every part of the body and tell them what to do; whether it be alerting the skin to sense heat or clod, or telling the legs to walk, even reminding the respiratory system to initiate the breathing process. The coating on those "cords" is called myelin. In a person with MS, the myelin is damaged the same way the plastic sheath of an electrical cord may be torn, and it results in similar problems for daily functioning. As a result, I struggle with my balance, I often stutter, I have memory problems, my vision blurs from time to time, I get spasms and numbness in my limbs. But what affects me the most is that the constant war going on in my body causes me to have periods of extreme fatigue. There are times when the best place for me to be is in bed. I have a hard time permitting myself to have those kinds of days. But lately, I just really haven't had much of a choice.<br />
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I was diagnosed with this disease 8 years ago; I'm not new to this. And I've lived through stages that were much worse. Ironically, it was a little easier to deal with emotionally when I was bound to a wheelchair. Back then it was obvious what I could and couldn't do. Now that I'm in remission and have had about 80% of my function back for a while, I have moments where I feel so healthy and normal that I completely forget, and those injections of interferon beta that I have to take 3 times a week feel as routine as brushing my teeth. I have a full and busy life, in which the disease takes a back seat. It's a footnote, not a chapter. <br />
<br />
Or so I tell myself, and most of the people around me probably see it that way as well. I'm not dying- I look fine and have all my limbs. I'm not incapacitated; I just walk funny, and I have that cool disabled parking placard that makes trips to San Francisco so much more pleasant. Most of the time I would rather things just be that simple. I know I've got a "thing" going on, and it doesn't disrupt my life very much, so I'll just pretend it isn't there. Plus, it is very difficult to explain an "invisible" and uncommon illness to people without them thinking you are a hypochondriac or just plain lazy. Either you are a lazy hypochondriac, or you are perpetually broken and can't do ANYTHING. It can be hard for others to comprehend, and frustrating and alienating for me to try to explain...so most of the time, I don't. I usually just push myself to the limit, so that I may look and feel like a normal young adult, no questions asked. <br />
<br />
This has really been one of those weeks that has not lent itself to keeping up appearances at all. As I mentioned at that outset, I've been struggling even to perform the simplest tasks. This is what is known as an exacerbation, commonly known in MS terms as a "flare-up." Flare-ups occur without warning, and can vary both in frequency and intensity. The only thing I can really do is try to rest through these attacks. However, I do admit that emotionally it is very difficult for me to allow myself these periods. And it's just as hard for me to take the simple preventative measure of slowing down a bit. I'm 31. Nothing should be slow yet. I'm surrounded by older people remind me of that constantly. These are the times I resent this disease the most, not so much because I lack strength to do what I'd like-though that's also an issue-but because I find myself forced to explain it to those I have to let down. I just don't like discussing it. Why, I don't quite know. <br />
<br />
Perhaps because verbalizing it makes it harder to ignore. But realistically I can't pretend it it isn't there, the way a small child might cover her eyes and believe that no one else can ser her. I have to keep looking this thing in the eyes if I'm to keep it in submission and live my life. I know it's a reality I didn't ask for, so why should I be ashamed? I suppose I don't like the fact that it leaves me open to however people may view me, perhaps as someone useless and defective, or someone making excuses for herself. I can't do anything about it either way. Everyone won't understand; yet I suppose I simple must trust that, as my mother says, "they are required to love you anyway." The only thing I can control is how I view myself. I do the best I can, and some days, that "best" produces a lot; other days my "best" may barely eke out a fraction of what I'd hoped to achieve. I'm a functioning person with some malfunctioning parts. But when I really give it some thought, aren't we all? Defects, limitations, illnesses (whatever their nature) are not what we are; they are simply hurdles with which we must all contend. At least, for right now.<br />
<b><br />
<i>Here's a video for my "visual" friends:</i></b><br />
<br />
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qgySDmRRzxY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-9788393623122779082012-04-09T01:34:00.003-07:002012-04-09T09:47:28.897-07:00Exiting "The Friend Zone"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwjefS3CqpY8ElNsP9h7SDvBdLR2E8Y1WSSY9dErPsEvrhRSbpSqZwPS_Y6BHi2djseodAyLu1lxnKbnrC6lszcn_dDhYscn9DsNhjPUk149pywxvsTXafCUxfdDisnoO4ysUZWZnfXrk/s1600/la+foto%25281%2529+darker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwjefS3CqpY8ElNsP9h7SDvBdLR2E8Y1WSSY9dErPsEvrhRSbpSqZwPS_Y6BHi2djseodAyLu1lxnKbnrC6lszcn_dDhYscn9DsNhjPUk149pywxvsTXafCUxfdDisnoO4ysUZWZnfXrk/s320/la+foto%25281%2529+darker.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Sigh</i>. Here we go...<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm typically an open book, both in person, and in writing. Despite popular opinion, I don't air ALL my dirty laundry-I give just enough brutally honest tidbits about myself to allow those around me to know who I am beyond the shadow of a doubt-and to show them that I probably can relate to whatever they're going through at a given moment because I've likely felt something similar. It allows me to connect with even the least likely of persons, and that makes me feel great. But this subject-this "relationship" stuff-is hard to address openly. I doubt I'm the only stable single person who feels that way. Talking about your love life (or lack thereof) leaves you feeling dangerously vulnerable. You can only discuss it with certain people because everyone else starts feeling bad for you and immediately trying to find people to set you up with, when all you'd hoped to do is an emotional detox. So with most people, I don't even go there, or I keep my comments broad and generalized. Even in more intimate settings I can give the impression that I have that area of my life <i>somewhat</i> under control despite my faults, mishaps, and troubles; either by cracking some jokes, or going into some long-winded monologue about how "I-don't-need-a-man" or "men-can't-handle-me" or whatever declaration of false bravado I can quickly think of to keep me appearing intact. In weaker moments, I may revert to a rhythmic tirade of male-bashing, because that's easy and makes for good laughs-or in the company of friends of both sexes, spirited yet good-natured debates. In extreme circumstances, I may just change the subject if it starts to get TOO real. But you know me little better now than when I began chronicling my adulthood. In writing, I don't put up a front. I can't. And, especially for my younger readers, it may be better this way. This way, you learn VERY well, complete with flashing red lights and black-and-yellow "CAUTION" tape, what NOT to do. You may view me differently after reading this; you may even respect me less. But I need to say all this in order to make sense of it myself, so bear with me.<br />
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Cutting to the chase, so to speak, I have been a long-term resident of "The Friend Zone" for many, many years. I'll explain. The "Friend Zone" describes a state in which a single person is strictly viewed by one or more members of the opposite sex within their potential dating pool, as a platonic friend, without the possibility of that friendship evolving into anything more. Based solely on my observation, many times individuals may end up here because they've been <i>placed</i> there ("He's like my brother, I could NEVER see him any other way"). And granted, it is completely legitimate to only feel friendly affection for someone of the opposite sex. It is an unfortunate, yet common turn of events when in a friendship, one party begins to feel something more and the other doesn't. And we've received much information over the years to help us keep our opposite-sex friendships healthy and balanced and therefore minimize the risk of heartbreak. But unrequited romantic feelings are inevitably going to develop from time to time despite even the best efforts to be careful. We are striving every day to be the best people we can-so of course we're going to have qualities that attract us to one another. But it isn't possible for us to all be in love with each other at the same time. The level to which that sting of disappointment affects us depends highly on the measures each party takes moving forward. That's one definition of what it means to be in "The Friend Zone," and that typically happens against the will of the person considered to be perpetually platonic. But there remains yet another definition-one that is completely avoidable.<br />
<br />
Up until about last week, I sounded like a broken record, airing the same complaint over and over again about men: "What, do I have a sign on my head that says, 'Buddy'? Why does every guy I meet immediately treat me like their sister-or worse yet, their <i>brother</i>? (looking exaggeratedly down my own blouse) I am still a woman, aren't I?" What I say about my dealings with the opposite sex is true. In no time, pretty much any single brother I meet is telling me his whole life story and asking me for advice about the NEXT girl, while I'm sitting there having to mentally tear down the white picket fence I imagined for us and trying to figure out how we ever even got to this point. I loved and continue to love having brothers as friends, but to have every single person you've been interested in romantically since the year 2000, practically want you to be the best man in their wedding to someone else is bound to give a girl a complex. What was wrong with these men? I'm not terrible to look at, they obviously enjoy my company and hold me in high esteem, and I have the cell phone records to prove that if necessary. Emotionally speaking, they're on me like white on rice...only for it all to end with, "You'll make a great wife for someone, someday." REALLY?<br />
<br />
I've driven everyone close to me half crazy with the fact that I'm constantly finding myself in these situations and then asking "why" for the next 3 years until the next person comes along to initiate the cycle all over again. I've been blaming the guys this whole time, thinking maybe I'm just attracted to men with issues, who are just too dumb to see a good thing when it's right in front of them. After all, Mom and Dad have known one another since they were seven years old, and they've enjoyed over 30 years of happy marriage. Wouldn't someone want to be with their "best friend"? We could skip all the layers of trying to impress each other and just realize that since we like to be around each other so much, we could make this a permanent setup. Why not? I've been frustrated and confused about this whole thing for so long I think it's put wrinkles on my forehead. But recently, finally, and much to both my relief as well as embarrassment, the veil has been lifted; the mystery solved: It's not them, it's ME. I PUT MYSELF IN THE FRIEND ZONE.<br />
<br />
Now, people have warned me about this for years, and either I didn't get it, or I just didn't agree. I'm a friendly person. Was I supposed to just shut down and turn into a giggling fool in the presence of the opposite sex so as to be viewed as a woman? It wasn't going to happen, and I was highly insulted at the notion. Friendly and social is what I am; I didn't see anyone else around me having to change who<i> they </i>were. It just never seemed fair, so I went on as I was...overly familiar with every brother I met, from the MOMENT we met, slapping them on the back after a hearty laugh, draping my arm over their shoulder, referring to THEM as MY brother, drawing them into weighty conversation until they couldn't help but bare their souls. It's a great deal they get, really: That comfort of getting to enjoy a warmth that's too youthful to be motherly, not critical enough to be sisterly, less discreet or cautious than every most other "girly" girls they know...almost like having one of your boys around, except there's a pretty dress and you can dance together at parties. And the best part is, it'll always be this way-always this open, always this comfortable. She is never going to fall in love with you. Yep, guys were hitting the jackpot by finding me. Why WOULD they ever see me as anything else? My behavior made it clear from the start that there was no romantic potential; I was just a super-cool girl who was good at being "one of the guys." How dare I fall in love with any of them! <br />
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Now that the truth of this has hit me like a ton of bricks (hurled at me from the general direction of my friends and family-thanks a lot, I both love AND hate you all) at a juncture in my life where being in denial could literally be bad for my health, I've had to reluctantly (and quite shamefully) accept that I've been doing this to myself for as long as I can remember. I used to read all that information in the publications about how to have appropriate boundaries in friendships and say, "Mmm-hmm, here it is, clear as day, yet "they" STILL do this to me." Nobody did anything to me that I didn't allow or even unwittingly encourage. I see that now. And in order to end the cycle, obviously things must change. But being any other way would completely foreign, unnatural and terrifying. I've enjoyed and benefitted tremendously from being single and if that's how things continue, I'll be just fine. But the idea that I've been sabotaging myself from possibly making a connection is not something for which I'd like to spend the rest of my life kicking myself. I've been trying to figure out how I got here. Where did I lose my way? Oh...oh yeah. I remember now. <br />
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Being an overweight, nerdy adolescent often leads to success in adulthood, but can do some long-term psychological damage, I tell you. I'd have crushes on boys and just be convinced that if they ever found out how I felt, they'd laugh me out of town or turn up their noses in disgust. I had lots of pretty friends at whom all the boys would practically knock me over to look. What I noticed early on, though, was that while everyone was ogling my cute friends, the same boys were actually enjoying being around ME. They'd ask me to introduce them to my girlfriends, but at the moment of truth, they were all too nervous and self conscious and sweaty-palmed to know what to say to one another other than "hi" and "bye". Since I knew none of them were interested in me it was easy for me to just be myself and enjoy the friendships. And I did, every last one of them. Of course it hurt a little if I ever started to like one of them as more than a friend and have to listen to them pining over so-and-so, but they way I saw it, this level of intimacy would probably be the closet thing I'd ever have to a real relationship, so I might as well go all in. And that's exactly what I've been doing down to this day.<br />
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Except I'm not an adolescent anymore. I actually have plenty to offer in a relationship. But no one will ever know that until I put away my high school letterman jacket and start behaving like the woman I am. That's quite clear now. But it frightens me to no end to consider what that could possibly imply. I fear that if I don't do what I've always done, brothers won't talk to me at all. I had to sit here and stare at that line for another 5 minutes after typing it to let that reality sink in. Wow. I'm terrified. I just imagine myself sitting alone, crickets chirping in the background, wondering what happened to my life. I really don't know how I'm going to do this. So I'm afraid I can't end this entry on a triumphant high, completely resolute and equipped with a plan of execution because I still don't quite know what "change" entirely implies for me. I can only hope that my warning is taken seriously: KNOW YOUR WORTH, because you will be valued at the price you place on yourself, and once that's done, it is quite difficult to undo. I will say this, however: half the battle is won. At least now, I can stop asking, "Why?"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-69576757969352599452011-11-19T01:28:00.000-08:002011-11-19T02:28:01.401-08:00"Other"I'm following a friend on Twitter who just referred to himself in one of his tweets as an "instigator." It made me laugh, because I know it to have been proven true on many occasions. I wonder, though, if that's what how he really defines himself. I mean, using a noun to describe yourself is tantamount to pronouncing a finite sentence on your own personality; as it implies that whatever you are saying about yourself is as much <i>who</i> you are as your gender or your race. Yet, whether we do it out loud, in writing or in theory, we all tend to define ourselves-and one other-in very specific, narrow, and unforgiving terms. Just seems easier that way. After all, categorizing others saves us the trouble of spending the time necessary to get to know their ins and outs. And which of us wants to be left at the mercy of what someone else thinks we are, right? Wouldn't it allow us more control to just TELL people who we are, and that way no one gets disappointed?<br />
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My mother does a terrible job of hiding the sadness in her voice when she recounts the following incident: When I was seven years old, I woke up one morning and announced that I was going to be PERFECT. I was not going to make a single mistake that entire day. If I explain why I undertook such an endeavor, I will lose my audience AND my composure-but suffice it to say, my ambition was writing checks that my organism could not pay. By the time I'd made it to the bathroom to get ready for school, I'd already dropped a few things on the floor and was inconsolably devastated. Mom's been losing sleep over my mental stability ever since. Poor thing. But I refuse to believe I was (or am) the only one unsatisfied with who they are. No one is completely comfortable with imperfection, I don't care WHAT they tell you. Granted, most of us eventually come to accept that we won't be the best at <i>everything</i> but it's safe to say that we would all like to be known for excelling or being consistently good at at <i>something</i>. It could be a skill, a talent, or the demonstration of some virtue or quality. It creates a fixed sense of identity, which in turn provides a comforting illusion of security. <br />
<br />
My weight could continue to balloon to the size of Montana, but as long as I was the "smart one," I was still good for something. So I threw myself into academics. It took me years to accept that occasionally a 'B' might find itself mixed in with my string of A's and that sometimes, someone WOULD have a higher GPA than I did. I also came to realize that I wasn't entirely comfortable with the implications of being the "smart one." The "smart one" was responsible for knowing everything about any random subject at any given time. While I did have a stellar memory and impressive reading comprehension, if the book I'd read that day was about Shakespeare and not about quantum physics, I'd be able to tell you everything about the former and absolutely nothing about the latter. In plain English-some days I just was not going to sound that smart. Also, a nerd is ALWAYS supposed to be a nerd, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. She can't dance, or listen to hip-hop, or enjoy completing silly quizzes in teenage magazines, or laugh at anything without it containing an intellectual double-meaning. So, upon seeing that I couldn't fill the role of being a nerd to perfection, I reluctantly retired. That was alright-because if I wasn't the smart one, I could be the mature mother hen. I put on the work-hat of the wise old lady who always gave sage advice...except she was three months younger than you and was in your fourth period computer class. I listened to EVERYONE'S problems, from grade crises to family problems, breakups and diets, and I ALWAYS had an answer. Literally, people would submit their problems to me in first period gym, and by the end of the school day I'd have a completed written commentary addressing and resolving their issues. It felt good to be counted on to know something, to have something meaningful to say, and to be looked up to. But that, too, ran it's course. The days when my brain and hormones suddenly remembered that I was only 16 years old, and <i>I</i> felt like having a bad day, created a general sense of discomfort for all my peers. I was supposed to have all the answers, so what was anyone to say to comfort <i>me</i>?<br />
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There were glitches with every subsequent superhero identity I tried to take on from then on out: Party-Girl-April, Junior Executive-April, Day-To-Night-Barbie-April(complete with outfits that easily transitioned from early morning field-service-wear to practical work clothing to sparkly club attire. Yep. You read that right.). I had my Mary J. Blige phase when I decided I was never taking any mess from anybody (that one I actually miss). There was Big Pimpin' April, classically surrounded by upwards of 10 dudes at a time, which was fun until I realized that none of them actually remembered that I was a GIRL. My conscience didn't put up with my Touret's phase for very long(wantonly saying whatever was in my head simply for shock value, that is. I think I must have still been trying to get my meds right back then.). I had my Jill Scott/Erykah Badu "Deep-Girl" phase with my headwraps and candles; turning every congregation talent show into a finger-snapping poetry slam. I think even when I spoke in service it sounded as if I were rapping. That directly preceded the Faux Black Latina Phase (Salsa dancing every weekend and speaking with an accent although I didn't even really speak Spanish yet). Then I got sick and I wanted to be known as The Inspiration. Every conversation became an unsolicited motivational speech. Even when I started thinking like an adult and focusing on the important things, I wanted to be known as the Responsible Pioneer-on alert like some kind of theocratic paramedic. Always there, whether it was practical or realistic or possible for me to do so or not. It wasn't so much that I wanted to be someone I wasn't-I just wanted to be extraordinary somehow, and each of these "personas" reflected a dear part of myself that I wanted to make bigger and better and shinier, someone I could count on people loving and therefore, someone <i>I</i> could love.<br />
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A few of the major problems on this identity quest were as follows: No one can be just one predictable way all the time, no matter who you are "supposed" to be. Humans are fluid products of their emotions, upbringing and environment, and it takes a lot of discipline that most of us don't have to react robotically to a situation, especially for reasons other than moral obligation or spiritual devotion. In other words, if you are trying to work against the natural grain of your personality for any reason other than to please God-who actually gives the strength to be better than what our nature dictates that we are-we won't last long at all. Number two: Forcing yourself into a box or a type so that you always belong somewhere and so that no one can reject you is a way of enslaving yourself to fear and to other people's expectations. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to conclude that THAT isn't healthy. Thirdly, there are many, many facets to all our personalities, and depending on our surroundings, the conditions, and the company we keep, those facets either shine or become dull depending on how we try to fashion ourselves. Either way, they are always there. I was ALL the people I was trying to be, in some split-second in time, in some corner of my psyche. I believe we all have a teeny bit of multiple personality disorder, and we are all just trying to get everyone in there to get along long enough not to mess things up too badly. But the BIGGEST and most dangerous problem in a search for self, like mine, is how easy it is to underestimate and put aside the one thing that can make the abstract parts of an imperfect human harmonize into something beautiful-Godly fear. I've loved Jehovah my whole life, but there have been moments when, simply put, I've found myself so panicked and lost and desperate to see clearly who I am that I forget: That IS who I am! Having a life that revolves around keeping that love strong and pleasing Jehovah is what makes the good parts of us better and the not-so-good parts sit down and shut up (at least most of the time). We have to give ourselves and one another the opportunity to see that phenomenon in action. Serving Jehovah is the glue. I try to go any other way and I fall apart, and I'm in a million pieces all over North America, wearing who-knows-what.<br />
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So to my friend, the "Instigator"; to my loudmouths, and crybabies; prudes, and intellectuals; clowns and ditzes; mama's boys and complicated women: these are things we DO and FEEL-they aren't who we are. May we let serving Jehovah-and loving and forgiving one another-define WHO WE ARE. There's no form to fill out and submit declaring that we've finally figured ourselves out. And if there were, there really would be no need to pick a category, we could just check "other". Or, even better: rip the form up, and just LIVE.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-87667192747118243772011-07-12T00:03:00.000-07:002011-07-15T13:30:20.881-07:00Unraveling...On PurposeThe number 30 is an airtight alibi. It is, because I say so.<br />
<br />
I reached 30 years of age on April 7th of this year, and because an unwritten rule states that I was supposed to either have an epiphany or a psychotic episode at that point, I knew I would eventually write about it. But I wouldn't do it right away. I'm a logical person. All my 206 bones are still present and accounted for. When I examine my skin, I see that it has regenerated itself into pretty much the same pattern consistently, save a few new lines. The perfectly circular birthmark on the outside of my left ankle is still in the same spot; the little mole on my left ring finger hasn't moved a millimeter. My DNA double-helix has done nothing different in the last 30 years, so why would anything climactic happen to me between the night of April 6th and the morning of April 7th? Knowing that made me decide to wait to write about turning 30. I felt that there would be nothing to tell. And there really was <i>nothing to tell</i>. <br />
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At this point I have been 30 for three months. Absolutely nothing is different in my life. My body is the same; my circumstances, unchanged...I'm walking around with the same intellectual and emotional makeup. I didn't suddenly feel the need to sit out the dance, or lose my love of learning, or stop caring about my physical appearance, or cease to get misty-eyed watching YouTube videos of baby animal antics. But something has altered. The difference is nothing decidedly dramatic. I simply discovered that turning 30 is a wonderful excuse to start running my life differently, in ways I'd previously been afraid to. I know that what I do and how I choose to live are my decisions and have been for some time, but I'll be the first to admit that I've been a serial people-pleaser my entire life for reasons I won't bore anyone with on a Monday night. The reasons don't in fact matter on the grand scale. The more I have lived and grown, the more clear it has become that living to stay in everyone else's good graces is frustrating, futile, and potentially fatal. I've known that I needed to change for a long time. I just never knew how. And I know that the courage to do what one has to do should not depend on a number. But guess what? <i>I</i> needed a number. I read once that a deadline is what separates a dream from a goal. It has been my dream to be a strong and genuine version of myself for a very long time. It seems safe to say that 30 was my unnofficial deadline. <br />
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It's not that I haven't been myself up to now...I can't be anyone <i>but </i>myself. But I had a policy of, "I'm gonna be me-as long as it's ok with YOU" that was gradually eroding at my happiness and self-worth without even my knowledge of it. This is not to say that from now on I'm going to be putting myself or my desires first and foremost in everything. I know that emotionally and spiritually that kind of thinking would be equally detrimental. Real does not have to equal rude. It simply means being honest with myself about my motives and feelings. It means having the humility to listen to input and suggestions, but at the end of the day being able to weigh all factors and make a decision between myself and my Father without waiting for unanimous acceptance or veto by others. It's having the courage to back away from influences, situations, and-if necessary-<i>people</i> whose presence in my life doesn't make me better. Unless my faith or integrity are on the line there is no need to be a martyr and suffer unnecessarily. There is far too much inevitable pain that must be endured and coped with for me to add needless budens to my already aching back.<br />
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Some of you are reading this and shaking your heads in confusion, possibly saying to yourselves, "So?? I've BEEN living my life this way...I don't put up with crap, people just have to take me as I am, blah blah blah..." My response: Good for you. No disrespect intended, but that's <i>you</i>, not me. I don't apologize for being a late bloomer. I'm not apologizing for anything else about myself that isn't morally or spiritually wrong. Like all steps, everyone takes theirs when they are ready. And yes, being labeled with the number 30 has made it easier for me to tell the world that although I love and respect my fellow man I need to take care of myself in order to serve my God and have a measure of sanity. I needed the failures and the breakdowns to prove to myself that I couldn't keep going at the same pace. I needed these years to learn who I was and who I wanted to be before I could dig my heels into the ground and insist on having the breathing room to be that person. And I needed time to learn how to do it without alienating the people I love, because in doing that I wouldn't be remaining true to who I am,either. <br />
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I vacilate not; anyone who works out can tell you that strength and balance are indelibly linked. My new favorite saying that I myself coined, sacreligious though it may sound, is this: "Jesus was no sucker." The greatest man ever to have walked the earth was known for his surpassing love, approachableness and self-sacrifice, but he wasn't a fool that blindly let himself be taken advantage of because he was scared everyone would leave him. He wasn't participating in a popularity contest. He had the courage to do what was right, and what to do what needed to be done in order to accomplish the purpose for which he came whether anybody liked it or not. That's what I'm trying to become. Incidentally, he presented himself for his assignment when he was 30. Seems my timing is pretty good after all.<br />
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Some who have had dealings with me over the years will be taken aback to find that I don't say "yes" as quickly as I used to, or that I'm a bit more vocal about my opinions than I formerly let on. I expect people to wonder if I've been taking my meds, or if I'm experiencing extnded PMS. And I that's going to bother me. Perhaps I won't get as many phone calls or invitations, and I anticipate it being uncomfortable at first. But ultimately, I have to get past the initial strain. I'm having to make some choices that are not what I've been used to. But it's about time, and so far, it doesn't feel too terrible. Blame it on the number 30, I suppose...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-49306003759964239162011-03-17T21:32:00.000-07:002011-03-18T01:03:52.908-07:00Just beyond my reach...I'll spare you all my normal frilly introductions and just cut straight to the chase: I am MAD. I was sad yesterday, but the sadness has changed it's shape and now it's just anger. This may or may not make sense to anyone, but it is the truth. I am angry at my own body, and it's not because I'm not shaped like Kim Kardashian (although that wouldn't be such a terrible thing). It's because I'm sick, although I feel fine. Wow. I've never actually seen what those words look like in print. <i>I'm sick</i>. I almost want to laugh, but I'll probably cry and throw things instead. <br />
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None of this is new. I've alluded many times to the fact that I have multiple sclerosis (MS) and rapid cycling bipolar disorder. Yep, that's me, crippled and crazy. It's practically dance floor conversation for me now. ("You dance really well, where did you learn to meringue?" "Thanks! You know at one point I wasn't ever supposed to walk again and that I tried to kill myself six times before I was 20?" "Really? That's awesome! So what congregation did you say you were in?") But thanks to modern medicine and a steady spiritual routine, I'm fine emotionally. I have my moments but they are no more extreme than those of anyone else living in these end times. I manage, and I consider myself a happy person. And as a result of the mental and emotional journey I've taken over the years, I'm much more sensitive to others, which, I believe, has contributed to me having so many wonderful friends that I don't quite deserve but for whom I am eternally grateful. And not only can I walk (doctors weren't sure I would again), but I can dance, run, do boy push-ups....I'm in better shape now than I was before my diagnosis. Ok, sure. I have a limp, my vision gets blurry sometimes, my left hand or leg may suddenly not want to move for 5 seconds...but compared to how things were, all of that is minor. I went through a lot of physical therapy to get to this point. Some people with relapsing-remitting MS never get back to doing this well after a flare-up; I went from paralysis to hiking and swimming. I was able to get right back into the full time ministry, and Jehovah has allowed my damaged brain to learn Spanish fluently and even pick up some things in a few other languages here and there. I never would have seen any of this for myself a few years ago.<br />
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The funny thing about blessings, though, is that we enjoy receiving them so much that sometimes we just want more of them. I've always admired missionaries and traveling overseers from a distance...and I've had a small taste of that life by moving to the Spanish congregation and by having the opportunity to serve unassigned territory here and in a temporary assignment abroad. I love that life-simple; focused mainly on service and on loving the brothers and sisters. And that's what I want. It's been my goal for some time now to move to a country where there is greater need. I have no husband, I have the stamina and the desire-no time like the present, right? I look around and so many would love to "step over into Macedonia," as the Bible puts it, but their circumstances don't allow it. I've been feeling good for a long time. And though I love my congregation and am happy about what Jehovah has let me do there, I feel like I need to do this, on behalf of everyone who can't. An opportunity arose when a close friend announced she'd be returning to her hometown in Mexico and relayed to me that there is a great need in the English field, especially for native speakers to help the non-native speakers who want to help in the English group. Oh, the wheels in my head weren't just turning; they nearly spun off their axles at the thought of a situation so ideal. Abroad, but not too far from home; with the family of a close friend, which of course would make my parents feel more at ease; in a foreign language territory, yet speaking my mother tongue. The ideas were just flooding in and I let my imagination and my emotions take off downriver on a speedboat. I started telling everyone about my big dreams of being a need-greater in Mexico. I'd sell my car to my sister and live well down there off my disability money. I could see it so clearly, all the experiences and the challenges and the colors and excitement. I'm turning 30 next month, yet no one would be able to look at me with pity as so many of my peers settle into life with their husbands and children. I was going to Mexico. It almost sounded too good to be true. That's probably because it was.<br />
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Last night I was joking with my mother about how my going-away bash would rival Hollywood. She responded, "But why would you have a party if you'll be back in 3 months?" Had she not been listening? My plan was to MOVE. I reminded her of this, and she says, "Yeah, but you'll have to come back every three months for your medicine." I was silent. My medicine! I truly had forgotten. The reason I'm doing so well, the reason I feel good, besides holy spirit, are my regular pills and injections. I asked my neurologist once if I could ever get off the injections and she essentially bit my head off and swiftly reminded me of my adventures in the wheelchair. Point taken. And I know from experience what happens when a person takes anti-depressants and stops them. I need my medicines to function, period. I don't know what would happen if I stopped them and frankly,I don't want to find out. I might get down to Mexico and completely fall apart, and though I guess I'm pretty brave, that isn't a risk I want to take. So I began researching to see if I could find my medicines in Mexico. I know that many people purposely go there for medicines and medical treatment because of the substantially lower cost. And yes, the costs are lower, but here, with my health insurance, I pay nothing for a medicine that would cost me $300 USD per month in Mexico (it retails at $1800 per month here!). And that's just the injections; I haven't calculated in all the pills. So my next idea was to see if my health insurance would cover me in Mexico. It wouldn't; unless I had to go to the ER and that coverage would only last for my first six months in the country. The only feasible option was what Mom originally said-going back and forth, every three months. And I couldn't see myself having money for four round-trip tickets from Guadalajara to SF every year-not with Social Security as my only income while I am there. It hit me like a half-ton truck: this was not a realistic idea. It was a dream, and it probably wasn't going to come true. For the first time in a long time, I cried myself to sleep. And, to add insult to injury, my hand stopped moving for a while.<br />
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Some of my tears were born of my disappointment at watching Mexico dissolve before my eyes, but what hurts worse is that I feel I have no right to be upset. I know that if someone else were to cry to me about their limitations, I'd try to remind them of their value to Jehovah, and how everything we do for him must be viewed as a privilege. And more so if they had done as much as Jehovah has let me do in my circumstances. I always tried to be so positive, telling myself I'd never let the obstacles be a chapter in my life. They're merely footnotes, I'd say. I joked about my illnesses as if they were just endearing quirks that made me an individual. And the fact that I've been stable for so long made that easy. Jehovah has kept me in mind for so much and let me do things I never thought were possible for me. And if I keep focused, he might continue to let me participate this much in his service. How dare I be greedy and ask for more, I thought. I ought to just stay here with my free meds and be happy. But I was laying there, crying about losing the prospect of a foreign assignment. It's like a teenage kid getting a brand new BMW and being upset because it wasn't a Mercedes Benz. Shame on me, I thought. I prayed and cried, and cried and prayed, and this morning I woke up and had a great morning in service...until someone asked me about my Mexico plans, at which point I started crying some more. I wanted this so much. I WANT it, <i>so badly.</i> And I feel I'm being ungrateful for all I already have, because I want it. Uh-oh...here come the waterworks again. Am I crazy? Don't answer that; I'll rephrase. Am am wrong to hold on to the hope that this could work out somehow? Because I'm not ready to let it go yet. I know this is beyond my reach. I don't need to be told that I'm being unrealistic. I just keep telling myself that Jehovah's reach is longer than mine. And I'm hoping he'll see fit to reach and get me this one-that is, if he doesn't think I'm asking for too much.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-70541211388440751692010-12-28T22:06:00.000-08:002013-03-23T21:43:01.713-07:00Your Pain...In My Heart (originally composed 11/2010)It’s incredible how easily what we see, smell and hear can take us to places we love to remember…or sometimes ones we’d give anything to forget. Memory is enigmatic stuff, y’all. I might be standing there washing dishes, and in the silence I can hear, as if it were all taking place right in the kitchen where I stand, some hostile exchange of words I may have had with someone years ago, and get upset all over again. But we need memories-even the bad ones. Memory is what keeps a child from putting his hand on a hot stove again after having burned himself once already. It can keep us from making the same mistakes twice, if we pay enough attention. Sometimes we try to block out certain pain so as not to re-live or re-experience the discomfort. That’s a defense mechanism most of us cultivate early on, so as not to keep suffering over and over again from the same blow, and the reasons for such emotional shielding are logical, in theory. But, is feeling the pain after the injury is behind us always such a bad thing? <br />
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When I was a child I told myself I would never forget how bad it made me feel when adults talked about me as if I weren't there, or when people laughed off any worry I expressed because to them I was just a cute kid. I didn't want to forget that, because that way I could guarantee I wouldn’t grow up to be that kind of grown-up. Instead, I’d be the Pied Piper; the one all the children flocked to; the one who understood. I promised myself I’d never roll my eyes at the teenager who would rather die than have to go back to school on Monday and be laughed at for wearing shoes from Payless. That I’d never tell the fat kid that real beauty was on the inside, because I’d remember that when I was the fat kid, that really did just sound like a load of crap. <br />
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In case you haven’t figured this out yet, as a younger person I was deeply sensitive and emotional-almost to the point of instability. In order to save my own life I made a choice to be proactive in being happy, and though my circumstances aren’t perfect, I find my life as a whole much easier to face. With the help of Jehovah God, the modern medicine he has allowed to exist, his organization, and just plain old time and growing up I’ve learned to work through my pain as it comes and I can honestly say that generally speaking I am content. And that bothers me sometimes, because now that I am, I don’t know that I have the same ability to empathize. I try…I know its possible; Jesus empathized with the suffering of imperfect humans although he himself was perfect. But I just feel like I was better at feeling others’ pain when I myself was a regular to sadness. I never wanted to be someone cold-I’m not superstitious but it just seems like people who aren’t good at being empathetic always get reminded of what real pain feels like in a <em>very</em> real way. The thing is, I was sad for a long time…I got better…now I just want to see other people feel better, too. <br />
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I'm thinking about this much more right now. One of my dads, the biological one, has been fighting lymphoma for the past six months. My sister has been dealing with some health issues that previously I'd never even heard of. Being involved in the full time ministry exposes a person to a diverse array of people...and their diverse array of problems. And everybody else I know is still living in the last days of this system of things. There are economic problems; illnesses; family conflicts; romantic disllusion; bereavement; fights with our own imperfection. We are all struggling in some way but there are always moments when some people's problems are more serious than others, period. And then there are the pains of youth...which may on the grand scale of things be minor but feel unbearably major when one is too young to see things any other way. In my congregation I am surrounded by young people and I feel for so many of them because they just appear lost, and I'm sure they often feel that way, too. When people I love suffer, I feel frustrated-mostly with myself for being helpless to do anything about it, but (and go ahead and start throwing stones at me- maybe I deserve it) its almost as if I even get impatient with THEM, the poor victim. In my mind it's like, “I love you, dangit!! Feel better already!!” I know I’m not truly upset at the person, I’m just upset at what is robbing them of their happiness and because of my love I want it to go away. I know that healing- be it physical or emotional- isn't so cut and dry, but if I love you, I want it to happen RIGHT NOW. But so does the sufferer. As well-founded as that thinking may be, it is the last thing people need. What they need is to know someone else identifies with their battle. I know that’s what I need when I’m having a hard time; it just takes me a little time to remember that when the shoe is on the other foot. I tell you, empathy <em>hurts</em>. You live life to get past the bad times, not to feel them over and over again through others.<br />
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Then again, maybe <i>that's</i> the problem-I still remember they way I thought and felt at my worst, much more clearly than I want to. It's still too fresh, and when I hear what other people experience, their words become the scents and sounds that take me back to places I hadn't packed to visit again. I also remember how hard it was to get out if those dark places. Perhaps that's why I still have to work on being a good listener. It's not because I just adore hearing myself talk. When I hear expressions that strike a chord, that take me back to heartache or confusion that I thought was far behind me, my impulse is to fill in the spaces between sentences with logic, and answers, not realizing that what I'm sitting here trying to resolve for my loved ones in 10 minutes may have taken me 10 years to get resolved within myself. Maybe it's my way of psychologically going back and consoling myself through my own drama. Whatever it is, I know it isn't good, and I'm trying to fix that. It isn't about me...it isn't about getting the comfort I wish somebody else had known how to give me years ago. In the moment, I probably wouldn't have wanted to hear it. It would have been nice to just get a hug. I'm not complaining, I know those around me loved me the best way they knew how. But this right here, what I'm doing right now...I suppose this is what empathy is about; not thinking about how I feel, or even how I felt, but I'd feel if I were the person in who's eyes I'm watching the pain; and what I'd want from me, the listener. You don't always want your problems fixed. Most of us know the logistics and if we are too young to know, that's where our parents come in. What is needed is to know that we're not crazy or wrong for what we feel, and that whether or not other people exactly understand, they care.<br />
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I think life was meant to be lived linearly and three-dimensionally; moving forward and not in retrospect or jumping back and forth from hazy flashbacks to the present as if it were the director's cut of a feature film. But that linear, forward-moving life without the agonizing flashbacks or regrets just isn't what's up right now. We're going to see and feel things we don't want to see and feel, and then tragedy will strike someone we love and we'll go back to places we thought were behind us and it will ACHE. But Jehovah doesn't let it ever become unbearable.He knows we need one another's support, in a way that only another human can offer it. That is really amazing to think about how God uses us, in all our decay and dysfunction, to take care of each other until it's time for him to step in for good. I do feel the pressing need to help people find relief for their suffering the same way I did. The things I've been through (and the fact that I keep overcoming internal and external obstacles) is no credit to me whatsoever, but to what Jehovah does for his servants. Again and again he has lifted me up from the bottom of low. He helped my parents raise me to have some semblance of sense. He has showed me light when I really couldn't see anything in front of me but dense gloom. So my first recourse in caring for down-trodden friends and loved ones is to direct them to MY source of strength. But before I even do that, they need to know I love them and that their feelings are theirs to be had and not mine to judge or even undo. It's a difficult thing to master and no one is going to do this perfectly. But no man is an island; we were created to be a community. We have to learn to be there for each other, no matter how much it hurts to do so. Having someone else's pain in your heart is a beautiful thing when you think about it. It means we are alive-and that at least a little part of that treacherous heart works just as it was meant to.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-16489569231340986192010-11-18T17:21:00.000-08:002010-11-18T23:49:21.497-08:00Series Finale-and Life's beginning<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Zkfw_XQKZzQy3xt6Vknoin5IWBfm3ZXP8A4CFPy4Bg5u43bz3X6d1-n5xlRraYKgNU8iitO2pGZe3213MBLJ1ZaXPtXoNgzKG421vwMu3inl8WBZcqgOmUfEHejaztmkls5DWct1o3k3/s1600/1210387867313943983chelseafan528_Curtain_svg_med.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 78px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Zkfw_XQKZzQy3xt6Vknoin5IWBfm3ZXP8A4CFPy4Bg5u43bz3X6d1-n5xlRraYKgNU8iitO2pGZe3213MBLJ1ZaXPtXoNgzKG421vwMu3inl8WBZcqgOmUfEHejaztmkls5DWct1o3k3/s320/1210387867313943983chelseafan528_Curtain_svg_med.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541134147466129906" /></a><br />I wish I could tell you all where I've been these last few months...but the truth is, I don't even know. My body has been in the usual places, save a few necessary variations, but my head...I can't quite say the same for my head. Have you ever experienced a time when you realize that everything you've been doing, you've done on "autopilot?" When without even noticing, everything you do, you do robotically? Watch a hamster on a wheel. Then you'll know what I'm talking about. He just runs...without purpose or destination. He just GOES. The fact that I can't easily recount the highlight clips of my life within the past few months tells me that I have become that hamster. I just go-and I even have the nerve to get irritated when anything (or anyone, for that matter) interrupts my pace. It's a scary place to be. You know why? Because eventually you have to stop. During that pause you begin to catch up with yourself, and as you attempt to retrace your steps you realize you can logistically recount things you've done, but you couldn't say to save your life how you felt, or even how you feel. In a sense, you lose your identity, because you are not you; rather, you are little more than a machine performing tasks up to a manufacturer's specifications. It's disorienting to feel this way. For lack of a less-cliche way to put things, life is a journey, yet what is the point of going on a trip when you have nothing to show from having gone, no pictures, no souvenirs, no interesting facts, no funny anecdotes, no pseudo-horror stories to recount? You might as well have just been asleep the whole time. <br /><br />Now before I scare anyone into believing that I'm at the point of what John Mayer aptly called a "quarter-life crisis," and that soon I'm going to sell all my things and move to the mountains to meditate (I don't have anything to sell and I have asthma so me and mountains don't mix for extended periods of time. Breathe easy, people), I just want to make clear that I know that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my life. On the contrary, everything is right with it. I'm surrounded by family, loving friends, I have a healthy spiritual life and work that is meaningful. I don't worry about my daily necessities [that often]. My life is good. The problem is, sometimes in working so hard to keep it that way, I forget to show up for it; to be proactive in living and experiencing it. Rather, I work tirelessly behind the scenes to make sure everyone else gets to enjoy the April Show, with its gorgeous backdrops and colorful cast of characters. And I'm constantly making production changes to stay relevant to the audience. But I'm tired. Plain and simple. I want to really <em>see</em> and <em>feel</em> as this story unfolds, and participate...before it's all over. <br /><br />Believe it or not, that's part of the reason I cancelled my Facebook account. My daily thoughts had become entertainment for hundreds of people, and I liked it. I know I'm darn near 30 years old, but I've always had issues with peer acceptance and I probably always will. Hey, at least I'm real with mine. (I'm sure that has something to do with some daddy-issues from my childhood or something, but whatever, that's another day and another post.) Anyway, it's a reality that has always made social networking risky business for me. A normal person could have such an account and use it occasionally just to keep in touch with friends, share something funny, let everyone know they are alive and well. For me, that's always how it begins. But then the next thing I know, I post something...and people respond. They like what I had to say. They like ME. I post a picture of myself; oh wow, someone thinks I'm pretty. So I have to keep this up, whatever it is I'm doing or saying. Gotta keep 'em coming. And so it begins, a cycle of posting and waiting for approval, or applause, or sympathy, or some form of attention. As many friends as I have outside of cyberspace, there's no logical reason for me to have become hooked on watching people "like" me online. But we mortals aren't always so logical, are we? <br /><br />This is embarrassing to write about, but it needs to be said. I started this blog knowing that I might say some incriminating things, but my self-incrimination may help someone else, so I'll put my business in the street for that purpose. My life was no longer mine. I condensed it-along with my candy-coated versions of my innermost thoughts and feelings, my hopes and dreams (or at least what I thought people would care about; I knew my audience) down to 420 characters or less, at least twice a day, and didn't feel at rest until someone said something about it. If no one said anything, I was no longer relevant and that just wouldn't do. I didn't like the way the dependency felt, but I couldn't quite stop; I just didn't know how I'd feel once I was detached from all my "friends." I made excuses for myself, and some of my pretexts wore the cloak of validity (I was finally in regular communication with my extended family, and I was told on several occasions that my post about my experiences in the Christian ministry had encouraged some to think seriously about taking it up full time). But was Facebook the only way I could do these things? I went back and forth with myself for a long time, until recently, an article about social media appeared in an issue of the Awake! magazine. Included in the article was the autobiographical account of a youth who had found himself addicted to social networks. "Well, I wouldn't exactly say I'm <em>addicted</em>," I quickly countered to my own self-interrogation. And maybe I wasn't addicted to the social network itself. But I was addicted to something that in some ways could be far worse-<em>attention</em>. I say it's worse because I've been working for years on freeing myself from the tendency to live to please those around me. Facebook had become just a high-tech way to keep doing the same thing I'd been trying to undo in every other area of my life. I'm just too old for this to keep being an issue, and if I don't stop it will make me crazy or, (who am I kidding, really?) it will turn me <em>back</em> to crazy with the same quickness with which Cinderella reverted at midnight. But again, that's another day and other post.<br /><br />So in the last couple of weeks since I've been off Facebook, I've made a concerted effort not to go backwards. After all, just because I'm no longer part of an Internet social network doesn't mean my old ways are gone. I've said, and done, and not said, and not done, alot of things in my life, all with the common intent of staying on the course that would keep people loving me. And I got really good at it. But many of the moments that have appeared so triumphant to everyone else, I wasn't even around to feel. I was too busy trying to make sure people were still tuned in. So lately, I've just been trying to live, completely organically. I'm not talking free-range meat or hemp-based clothing. What I mean is, living life and being present with myself in every moment of it, without editing or cropping or cutting and pasting. And it's been nice. I let myself feel all the warmth in a full hug from a good friend, instead if rushing and doing a half-hug real quick so I could make sure I hugged so-and-so because otherwise they'd be mad at me. I did yardwork today and watched the sky change her night-clothes twice, instead of being so worried about my own attire for the weekend being something everyone could praise. I went away to see my other dad last weekend and just let myself be there, and every time my brain started drifting to my doubts about how I'd explain my absence to those who didn't yet know how the branches of my family tree were braided, I just told myself to shut up and be happy I was there with my dad. And I felt no necessity to give anyone the play-by-play. Even this blog will change in some ways, because now, dear reader-and forgive the icy tone; I never want to be rude, but I'm just teaching myself to be real-I'm really not too concerned as to whether you are entertained by what I have to say or not. I may even lose some followers because I get too boring, or sappy, or talk about love too much, or too little, or write too many or too few poems. It's ok. No one has to read this. It would be nice if you did. But if you don't, no worries. My life is to be lived, and shared with those I love. But the curtain has closed, and the "April Show" is no more.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-73124762123183107242010-08-22T03:45:00.000-07:002010-08-31T22:49:36.877-07:00Lost In Translation<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPzQiGKQlUYEZ53wumIUxavbe4i7nMWzspWgVDpaT-3jjm46jAChbUa0V7VhK7cZ9Tql0vXWL-zDM1-1sc0FSa0QddskAw5nen_p1GqDMiEb8aNat8UInxm-ehd1TIhS3qUUOQUckZfaM/s1600/46662_451872609046_583959046_6296666_1864932_nw.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPzQiGKQlUYEZ53wumIUxavbe4i7nMWzspWgVDpaT-3jjm46jAChbUa0V7VhK7cZ9Tql0vXWL-zDM1-1sc0FSa0QddskAw5nen_p1GqDMiEb8aNat8UInxm-ehd1TIhS3qUUOQUckZfaM/s320/46662_451872609046_583959046_6296666_1864932_nw.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511817749034357586" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">THE BRAIDS</div><br />I spent 6 hours and a good chunk of my paycheck having braided extensions put in my hair yesterday. I wasn't forced to do it at gunpoint-I did it because I like the style and I know from experience that wearing braids limits how much handling must be done to the hair for a time, therefore allowing it to grow. I wanted this. Usually a woman is excited to show off a new look; be it a hairstyle, an article of clothing, even something as simple as a new lipstick. I am no exception in this regard, under most circumstances. So why is it that I am awake at almost 4 a.m., in a panic and dreading walking into the Kingdom Hall 9 hours from now?<br /><br />This story begins, really, nearly 5 years ago when I regularly began attending the meetings at the local Spanish congregation with the goal of eventually becoming an official part of it. At the urging of my mother I had taken Spanish classes off and on since middle school. I developed a real interest in the language and in the vast array of peoples that speak it. And it was something that, for having had only a public school background in it, I was somewhat good at, or at least had the potential to be. I had already made many friends over the years in the surrounding Spanish congregations and had become a regular fixture at Spanish gatherings. I saw that within my own territory in English, a great number of the individuals who were still polite and receptive were Spanish-speaking. Over the years, the goal gradually was pushed to the back burner, frankly, because of other distractions and a foolish (but quite typical of youth) longing to do whatever my friends were doing at the moment. But the desire was always there; I used my limited Spanish when and wherever I could, and in 2003 I had the privilege of attending an international convention in Chile. Being there really got the fires burning again. <br /><br />In 2005, when I was still off work on disability and having regular physical therapy for MS, I found myself with a lot more time on my hands to really dedicate to studying Spanish again. A sister who lived nearby had just recently moved to Spanish and told me that if I wanted to start coming with her to the meetings she would take me, as I was still unable to drive due to my illness. I enjoyed reviving my relationship with the Spanish brothers AND with the Spanish language, but I had fears. This local congregation I'd be attending wasn't made up primarily of bilingual publishers, as in the case of many other congregations in the area, where, as soon as the final "Amen" is pronounced, everyone is speaking English. Some brothers were relatively new to the country. Many didn't speak much English, or any at all. What if I never learned to speak Spanish well enough to preach or give talks or comment with as much fluency as I did in English? What if only ever half-understood what was being said at meetings? What if I didn't understand what was being said to me in a conversation, and as a result responded incorrectly or inappropriately? And my biggest fears of all: What if the brothers and sisters who don't speak English at all never see who I really am because of the language barrier? What if my personality becomes lost in translation, and I don't make any friends?<br /><br />Most of my fears WERE realized, leading to some uneasy (or often downright embarrassing) moments that, thankfully, I can laugh at now. I don't know that I'd have the strength I have today, in my language skills or even in some other areas, if I didn't have to work so hard to overcome those obstacles. Most importantly, I realize that <em>I</em> didn't overcome anything, really. Jehovah helped me because he wanted me to work for him. And here I am still working. I am happy and at home with my brothers and sisters here. I don't believe my personality has been lost in translation either; love is love, and we can feel it from one another no matter what language we speak. I feel a very close bond with my brothers and sisters; partly because they are just awesome, and partly because my parents raised me to adapt. It has been a beautiful experience. But that isn't to say that there haven't been challenges.<br /><br />5'10" and cocoa-skinned, I used to feel painfully self-conscious about even standing up during the meeting to walk to the restroom. I felt like I tree growing spontaneously out of the Kingdom Hall carpet. Those in my car group would frantically usher me to the front seat because I was "<em>grandota</em>." I realize now that it was a reference to my height-especially in comparison to the rest of the group-but for someone who doesn't know the language well (and who even felt awkward about her size in English),the rough translation I'd come up with in my own head made me feel like a big bull in a china shop-ungraceful and in the way, all the time. When fielding questions about why I walked with a limp, I found myself stammering to explain what multiple sclerosis is in Spanish and sighing helplessly as I'd watch people's eyes glaze over and then the same person I'd just sweated over explaining to would turn around and "explain" it simply with "Ella tiene un problema con sus huesos." ("She has a problem with her bones." MS is a a disorder relating to the central nervous system, not the bones. But I guess people just tune out after a while when someone isn't explaining something well enough). That was frustrating. Then there are the assumptions-people assuming I don't like spicy food, or that I live alone because American parents kick their children out at age 18 (a memo my parents certainly didn't get) or that I eat potatoes at every meal, or that I'm single because American women just like being independent. <br /><br />Things get even trickier when we factor in that not only was I born here, but I'm also Black. I understand that in some cases I may be the only Black person that one of my Spanish-only friends has ever had a personal conversation with and that their knowledge may primarily have been shaped by what they see on TV or in the street. This is how the nickname "Ustedes" (given to me by my bilingual friends, literally meaning "You all") was born. I was flooded with questions and comments about the skills that "ustedes" have in playing basketball, dancing, singing, barbecuing, you name it. I wasn't offended. I'm still not. I'm happy to shed some light in an area where some people may have previously been in the dark (no pun intended). This isn't just something that happens with a person of a different culture moving to a Spanish congregation; I think it's to be expected when you are the only person, or one of very few persons from one culture integrating oneself with a group from another culture. And it's ok. There is no learning if questions are not asked.<br /><br />But there are moments where you do wish the questions didn't have to be asked, or that you wish the misconceptions didn't exist. You cringe when you are in service and you see someone of your ethnicity doing something crazy and everyone looks at you as if you were the representative for the whole race. There are many misunderstandings that can occur between cultures just because we are all different (not better, not worse, just DIFFERENT) but when you are the one who understands both you become the default ambassador, explaining and defending the differences all the time so that everyone sees each other and loves each other the way you are able to love them all. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. I've had to take the pressure off myself in the latter area somewhat because it just gets to be too much. In the end it is Jehovah's organization; I simply have to pray and trust that he will make sure we all love and accept one another as brothers despite our differences.<br /><br />I've been blending and representing and teaching and learning this way for four and a half years now, and I don't plan on stopping anytime soon. But occasionally, there are moments, like the one I know I'm going to have when I walk into my meeting tomorrow and people are touching my braids and asking how I wash them and why I don't just grow my hair long like that, when I'll feel for a split second like a Martian and wish that somebody just knew the answers already. Everybody wants to be understood. Then again, I never fit completely in in the English congregation either. I've never been enough of one thing or one culture to put myself in that small of a box. I'm from California, for crying out loud! I suppose I'm a little of everything. I've always loved and embraced diversity. What really matters is this: As I heard a brother say once, our culture, really, is serving Jehovah. What a concept! When we do that, we may have our differences but nothing gets hopelessly lost in translation. Everything else-our nationality, ethnicity, traditions-are like seasonings and condiments: just sprinkled on for flavor.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-41838829230754439122010-08-18T01:23:00.000-07:002010-08-18T01:28:57.904-07:00Copper Snake<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPHMN_Uj7C2H0RKdNCfYUh70LEGkrik_iAEA9WT0NT6UOE0L2YizCUHEMHXS976A4ZVk7YFmEM3TFObt3Vqo42dtp2gGMkqKgBGeR4dxd834Yiva_DywiAUwu-hxA2Fss_wcx-cbZyKLe/s1600/copper+snake.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPHMN_Uj7C2H0RKdNCfYUh70LEGkrik_iAEA9WT0NT6UOE0L2YizCUHEMHXS976A4ZVk7YFmEM3TFObt3Vqo42dtp2gGMkqKgBGeR4dxd834Yiva_DywiAUwu-hxA2Fss_wcx-cbZyKLe/s320/copper+snake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506664018669321026" /></a><br />I keep looking at him, hoping to ease the pain<br />WhenI know too well that he's the pain<br />And still I liquefy and shoot him into my veins<br />The tears running down my face <br />are even his color.<br />Now here I am, prostrated till my knees bleed<br />But its the anguish I need<br />So I'll know I haven't died<br />I lied to myself till it became my truth<br />A victim of the dreams that beautified my youth<br />He was supposed to make me better<br />But his copper eyes don't see me<br />I just keep looking at him<br />Something in me wants him<br />to come to life and hurt me for real<br />No matter how bad, its just better to feel<br />The surface wound will leave the scars <br />with which people sympathize<br />But who cries for me while he coils himself <br />around my thoughts <br />There's no salve, no antidote<br />No chance or hope <br />of closing the holes he left <br />when the venom seeped into my heart<br />Drunk off the hurt<br />High off the sorrow<br />I'll open my eyes<br />I'll stll feel it tomorrow<br />Its the one thing I know no one will steal from me<br />Its been hurting so long it's like home to me<br />So I just keep looking at him<br /><br />(Composed April 2, 2009)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-55645596495626611362010-08-18T01:13:00.000-07:002010-08-18T01:22:12.397-07:00Sunny California<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBk6u6Kr4qPEyRmV66BUw1bYvpurQH20ZFWBQ-RAM-ferYCXiovkdYkqbPMYmDjVIN4SRMLxn4hjmDnuBv9kzqhskIuDhuHWLtntm4_5O4PEgMnCyfXn_tbVhcUEo15I0v4FMNGK4DaeNL/s1600/photo_15.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBk6u6Kr4qPEyRmV66BUw1bYvpurQH20ZFWBQ-RAM-ferYCXiovkdYkqbPMYmDjVIN4SRMLxn4hjmDnuBv9kzqhskIuDhuHWLtntm4_5O4PEgMnCyfXn_tbVhcUEo15I0v4FMNGK4DaeNL/s320/photo_15.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506661852981121090" /></a><br />on planet California somedays the space <br />is painted in bright blue euphoria<br />you know what I mean<br />those conflower days only a dream could compose<br />even when it’s not so blue<br />when the sky is pale ‘cause the sun’s overworking<br />just like the rest of us<br />I start burning and I think its ok<br />I even brag about it<br />where the melancholy song of a lonely bird<br />is drowned out by plaintive horns <br />or laughter-either the real kind<br />slipping in and out the trees<br />or the artificial kind that those <br />pretty green leaves in my mojito bring<br />when I don’t know whether it’s the liquor or the haze<br />that intoxicates me more<br />those are the days that I forget<br />why I never could forget you<br />but show me one of those few<br />one of those two or four or twenty-four notorious<br />rainy days in California<br />those days the sun is wrapped too tight in dark gray cirrostratus<br />for me to hide from the truth<br />That bird stars to cry and it’s too quiet<br />For me not to cry too<br />on those days its your face that rises and sets in my mind<br />pure and simple and easy and lovely<br />too perfect for a sunny day<br />but April showers can get to be <br />too complex and pretentious<br />even for a drama queen like me <br />on days like this I see <br />how much I need you to <br />shine for me<br />bring your warmth to me<br />now that I know I think I’m forever changed<br />those shiny California days <br />may no longer be bright enough<br /><br />(Composed April 8, 2009)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-35888808919953796932010-08-18T01:11:00.000-07:002010-08-18T01:12:53.304-07:00Three O' Clock In The Morningthere's no logical reason to think about this now <br />and yet, it seems appropriate somehow <br />that the memories come knocking without invitation <br />to bring some revelation <br />at three'o clock in the morning <br />while all else sleeps <br />harsh words play on repeat <br />with the bass set to boom <br />and my quiet room <br />suddenly is louder than I can take <br />years' worth of heartbreak pierce me time and again <br />and it hurts much worse <br />at three o' clock in the morning <br />I need to sleep <br />my subconscious disagrees <br />unpaid debts arrive on their knees <br />regret sits on my chest <br />so I can't breathe <br />too disoriented to cry <br />so I can't grieve because <br />it's three 'o clock in the morning <br />with my eyes closed <br />I see much more clearly than I want to <br />or even need to <br />I suppose that explains <br />why I get judged before the sun can <br />come defend me <br />and help to mend me <br />Ss now it's four o'clock <br />the moonlight dims and shows some mercy <br />says I can sleep now <br />I'm absolved of all my sins until <br />tomorrow <br />at three o'oclock in the morning<br /><br />(Composed October 5, 2009)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-83820326167169650992010-08-18T01:09:00.000-07:002010-08-18T01:11:02.379-07:00RepeatIt's been in my head for days <br />I hear it in my dreams <br />I annoy myself with the fact that <br />every moment of silence I fill <br />with the sound of my own <br />voice singing a line <br />Or humming a bar <br />I love it so much I'm starting to hate it <br />but I can't take it off repeat <br />I linger on the" back" button <br />to feel it all again and again <br />It's that track that makes me cry <br />The one I could have sworn <br />was stolen straight from my life <br />It chills me to my bones <br />leaves me at once both warm and cold <br />but I'm about to play it again <br />Gotta be at least 12 other songs <br />on the album <br />times hundreds <br />maybe another song I'll love more <br />I contemplated deleting it <br />altogether from my playlist <br />But I can't seem to move on <br />Its notes are sharp where <br />flat belongs <br />with lyrics senseless at best <br />You must think I'm crazy <br />and I know I've played it out <br />and made you hate it <br />But it's my song <br />and even though it hurts <br />I can't help <br />but play it again<br /><br />(Composed January 19, 2010)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-91091977297719321402010-08-16T00:14:00.000-07:002010-08-16T01:22:25.225-07:00UndressedDon't look away<br />I know full well my heart is showing<br />What exactly are you so afraid to see?<br />Does my bare essence embarrass you?<br />Touch you in a way it's not supposed to?<br />It's my face the tears caress, not you<br />You haven't been violated<br />So just let me be<br />Or...<br />Watch if you want to<br />As my soul strips her garments <br />in broad daylight<br />Dances with abandon in plain sight<br />Every curve of my emotions<br />Every wrinkle of my fears<br />Uncovered. Exposed. <em>Raw.</em> <br />Burning in the sun, congealing in snow<br />Every drop of rain that falls on me <br />makes me grow<br />I won't cover up just 'cause they want me to<br />My insanity is beautiful<br />The pain that makes art<br />the joy that spreads love<br />Or the ardent wrestling of those two<br />The sensation of it all <br />means I'm still breathing<br />If you see me bleeding<br />it means my blood still flows<br />You can avert your eyes <br />from my heart's bare skin<br />But it'll still be here <br />when you turn around again<br />Underneath it all <br />I bet we look just the same<br />But you keep clothing yourself<br />in pretense and shame<br />I'm giving you me as I am<br />Now I wait for you<br />with anxious eyes-<br />I want to see your heart, tooUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-89210997091064726632010-07-05T09:49:00.000-07:002010-07-05T17:18:15.402-07:00Wasting SpaceI'm not trying to look down<br />Don't want to think about how far I am from the ground<br />It really doesn't matter that much<br />If a castle's made of sand it crumbles to the touch<br />And dust is dust whether it rises or it falls<br />Dirt is still dirt even on marble walls<br />I'm not worth more than anybody else<br />I'm the clay jar sitting on the shelf<br />And it wouldn't make a difference if I broke right now<br />It's happened before and the world is still round<br />The only thing I'm fearful of is wasting space<br />By no merit of my own I've been given a place<br />It should have been for something beautiful<br />to do the incredible <br />and make it endure<br />But the truth of the matter is <br />I'm only going to shatter and <br />be glued back together impure. <br />Bronzed or bejeweled or plated with gold<br />Beneath all the glitter I'm cracked and old<br />And if I never get to see a restoration<br />If I'm to be replaced by some immaculate creation<br />It is what it is and I'll have to let it be<br />I'll be the best broken glass the world did see<br />On the ground I'll sparkle and reflect the sun<br />It'll be beautiful to someone<br />Waiting for easy<br />and waiting for calm<br />or waiting for painless <br />means waiting too long<br />So why wait for perfect <br />to carry my flowers<br />even if I'm only here<br />a few more hours<br />Remember, or not, that I was here, once I'm gone<br />I won't know either way, I know time will press on<br />I'm conscious of this : right here and right now<br />I just want to be good for something, somehowUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-10299137068941954172010-06-08T22:05:00.000-07:002010-06-09T22:14:21.237-07:00Grown...but not DONE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAgJYWX67dksksX6rit7q4_rdTsOxjDxz6cH-IxptNu0Ub6qS-Qv7PPTQm0FRxRFBkromurTcMeQOyKB2wrFTJAhis4yOHJSvuRU1LzHRehHVzMhKBazxnm9bblTfbdfXsCOylsYhRRsxK/s1600/Perla.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAgJYWX67dksksX6rit7q4_rdTsOxjDxz6cH-IxptNu0Ub6qS-Qv7PPTQm0FRxRFBkromurTcMeQOyKB2wrFTJAhis4yOHJSvuRU1LzHRehHVzMhKBazxnm9bblTfbdfXsCOylsYhRRsxK/s320/Perla.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480663915400221314" /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You CAN teach an old dog new tricks (...hmm, probably not MY dog, though...)</div></a><br />"THAT'S JUST THE WAY I AM." I hate the phrase with a passion, and somewhat hypocritically so; as I have been known to use it myself. I usually say it when trying to explain away some behavior or emotional reaction of mine which may not be initially understood by other people. But in my own defense, I don't say it with the intention of finality, meaning, I don't ever think I'm above or beyond changing. If I ever start to give off even the most minute air of resolution when it comes to things I could stand to alter about my personality, somebody please, <em>please</em> knock me out and keep at it until I lose my memory altogether, and then feel free to start over with me, giving me a whole new identity if need be. I give you permission. Drastic as that may sound, that kind of relinquishment of intellectual and emotional control is pretty much what a person is doing anyway when they say they can't change...or simply refuse to. You think you're in control, but you aren't, because if you were, you'd be a good enough driver of the vehicle that is your own will to be able to see where you need to make a turn, back up, or just STOP. But noooo...we all know those people who expect the world to adapt to THEM. To illustrate how ridiculous that is, we return to the metaphor of the vehicle. Imagine wanting to get to a certain destination, of undetermined distance from the point of origin, and insisting on driving the whole way there without ever changing speed, moving the steering wheel, or stopping for gas-no matter what traffic is doing; even if the road conditions change or if a lane closes, even if the gauge clearly says it is time to fill up again. <br /><br />I have a near-paralyzing fear of becoming that person. The closer I get to my 30th year of life, the more afraid I become. Granted, I think it is important to have a measure of self-love and self-acceptance in order to have a realistic view of one's limitations, to not let oneself get completely trampled on by others who would abuse, and to not kill oneself over things that really can't be controlled. But I also think that one of the great adventures of life is the journey of being transformed into someone better. How is that not an exciting prospect? If you already think you are all that, great! But how could being even better than "all that" be a bad thing?<br /><br />Now, I'm not saying I think it's bad to dig one's heels in the ground <em>all</em> the time. Those of us trying to adhere to a moral code do well to be set in our ways when it comes to doing what is right and not let anyone tell us we're losing out in some way. But even within that, if we find that we can do BETTER at doing good, that's the way to go, obviously. But the root of the problem isn't not wanting to be better, I don't think. It seems that the root of the problem is that having to look in the mirror and see the need for a change can be painful to accept. It's like when I've been eating something like, I don't know, spinach dip at a party, and then I happen to take a trip to the little girls' room to reapply gloss (and when you have lips the size of mine this may happen hundreds of times within an evening). I slick on the shine, smile at myself to make sure it is all even, and BAM!! There it is, practically a whole bushel of spinach between my two front teeth. Now, it isn't just a matter of picking it out. It's a whole emotional roller coaster of reflection. First come the doubts ("How long has this been in my teeth? Maybe nobody noticed?"), then reality sets in and with it comes remorse ("Man, this has been here for at least the last 20 minutes...and I sure was smiling all up in So-and So's face, that's what I get for flirting...") then there's the blame shifting "My girls were with me and they didn't even say anything! Some friends I have...") and back to reality ("...Well, then again,my sister was kinda sucking her teeth at me and I brushed it off as her having a twitch-she tried to help me out") and finally acceptance and correction ("Oh well, I flossed. It's out now. Time to go find Whats-his-face and redeem myself with my newly-glossed, hedge-free smile."-By the way the inner monologue is a metaphor that may or may not be based on actual events.)<br /><br />Nobody likes seeing their own flaws-we've discussed this before. I've been known to cry like a baby when they are brought to my attention or even when I see some personal point of weakness in the through the reflexion and self-examination I do when studying the Bible. But I prefer that pain to the pain of seeing others draw away from me because I refuse to acknowlege and/or work on my personality flaws, or seeing none of my spiritual and emotional goals within reach and being in denial as to why. I'm not saying I have this all down pat. Maybe I won't in this lifetime. But I want to. And for me that is where success starts. It's very important for an adult to have a good sense of who they are. But I almost think that, unless you are DEAD, it's equally-maybe in some ways MORE-important to have a clear view of who you want to <em>become</em>-and to let that be the force that drives you. That's how Jehovah God views us-like unfinished masterpieces-only it's up to us to let ourselves be worked on. It's what makes the difference between a person who is always young at heart and one whose youth fades quickly. To me, staying young means being determined never, ever to stop growing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-68179990036695868642010-05-25T22:42:00.000-07:002010-05-26T09:36:24.126-07:00"If"-by Rudyard KiplingThe year was 1991...I was in 4th grade, Mr. Miller's class. It was springtime, and I know that because I remember that not too long before I had won the spelling bee and went to compete at county level. That happened in January or February-I remember wearing a sweater to that county competition and being dog-sick and trying to remember abstract words I saw in dictionaries bigger than I was. So based on those memories, this next memory came not too long afterward.<br /><br />Annually Village Elementary School held a poetry recital. Depending on the grade level, participants were to memorize a poem and recite it as eloquently as possible for a school-age child. You'd think I would have been tired of the stage after the spelling bee ordeal (I was so sick I couldn't think at the County Bee and I ended up coming in 62nd place, which isn't bad out of 130 people, but still...), but I knew I was a good reader and I thought I could win. Weeks before the recital Mr. Miller handed every student in our 4th/5th grade combination class a xeroxed sheet with a poem printed on it, and I immediately began to try to read and comprehend what I was supposed to stand up in front of the school and say. The poem was called "If" and was written by author Rudyard Kipling (the same guy who wrote "The Jungle Book.") It read as follows:<br /><br /><em>If<br /><br />If you can keep your head when all about you <br />Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; <br />If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, <br />But make allowance for their doubting too; <br />If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, <br />Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, <br />Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, <br />And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; <br /><br />If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; <br />If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; <br />If you can meet with triumph and disaster <br />And treat those two imposters just the same; <br />If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken <br />Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, <br />Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, <br />And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; <br /><br />If you can make one heap of all your winnings <br />And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, <br />And lose, and start again at your beginnings <br />And never breath a word about your loss; <br />If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew <br />To serve your turn long after they are gone, <br />And so hold on when there is nothing in you <br />Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on"; <br /><br />If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, <br />Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; <br />If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; <br />If all men count with you, but none too much; <br />If you can fill the unforgiving minute <br />With sixty seconds' worth of distance run - <br />Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, <br />And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son! </em><br /><br /><br />I spent days reading and re-reading the lines... and though I had a stellar memory, for some reason I couldn't seem to retain anything past introducing the poem. "'If', by Rudyard Kipling." I'd say over and over again until my mom threatened to kick me out of my house. I just couldn't retain the verses long enough to recite them and up until now I never understood how I could read something every day several times a day and not be able to repeat it, but now I get it. I could speak the words of the poem just fine, but I had no clue what it all meant, and I was never satisfied with just <em>knowing</em> anything-I had to understand. Something about the first two lines intrigued me. I was 9 years old going on 10-but somehow I knew that there would be a time in my life where those words would be very useful. I wanted to understand, and I'd read it, and ask grown-ups to explain it to me, but I got nothing. I wore myself out so badly on trying to get it that I basically threw in the towel on the competition-when it came time for Mr. Miller to listen to each of us and choose a participant, I could only get as far as the first four lines. But I was doing something most other 9 1/2 -year-olds would rarely do-I was really trying to grasp what was being said and see where I fit into it. Somehow I knew I'd love this poem as an adult. And I do. Basically it is about attitude-how we view ourselves, how we view obstacles, how we view others, how we relate to them...and the person we become as a result of our inner vision. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I still do, after all these years.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-18426801866757254832010-05-11T22:05:00.000-07:002010-05-12T09:37:50.574-07:00Eater's Remorse<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCCRcfoe05992lEw7mJY8pjECUY06aR-fnVI-xYX4LbxFXE8kYQ5IXC6_hYbAjH6axNL8Vs50h9aYjnOecuv62z4Hq1qunyXS8pjnfLCFyasQP7mJzSP2Ske1LoN2knYd1W_FOvFdxAneS/s1600/before.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCCRcfoe05992lEw7mJY8pjECUY06aR-fnVI-xYX4LbxFXE8kYQ5IXC6_hYbAjH6axNL8Vs50h9aYjnOecuv62z4Hq1qunyXS8pjnfLCFyasQP7mJzSP2Ske1LoN2knYd1W_FOvFdxAneS/s320/before.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470306825836920962" /></a><br />We are all flesh...which means we are all struggling to keep reins on some tendency that could be emotionally, spiritually or physically detrimental. This is the story of one of my many such struggles...<br /><br />On Sunday afternoon, I engaged in some borderline gluttony at the Brunch Buffet at Anzu Restaurant located inside San Francisco's Hotel Niko. The food was exquisite down to the last crumb. But somewhere between the shortribs and the tiramisu, I started having flashbacks reminiscent of the Vietnam War of the wanton pigging-out that I used to do as a kid...and next thing I knew I was sitting there leaned back in my chair, belly distended, the top button of my slacks undone à la Al Bundy, and wondering a) what had happened to my life and b) what had happened to the butter for my dinner rolls. Then it dawned on me. The horrific reality is that I would most likely see where it had all gone when I stepped on the scale the next morning.<br /><br />Note: I do not exaggerate when I say how good this food was. It better have been, as much as the bill came out to be. However, the fact that I had to practically promise the restaurant my first child and let them put a lien on any property I may acquire in the future in order to afford that meal may have also contributed to my acting a fool with my spoon and fork. I was determined to eat my money's worth; even if I had to take breaks and see a doctor in between helpings. <br /><br />As I mentioned earlier, the way I totally went to town on that buffet table was nothing new; however it was something I hadn't done in a really long time. I have struggled with poor eating habits, emotional eating, eating disorders, crash diets, etc., for about the past 20 years. Come on now-I'm black. I think dietary issues come on the standard model, and I know that we are not the only ethnic group still trying to get it together in this area. We celebrate, grieve, work, entertain, worry, and reward-with a bottle of hot sauce somewhere within a 3-foot radius. If a person's culture were a cell-like the kind than make up an organism-food, I'd say, could be likened to one of those little colored circle/ball/thingies that makes up the strands of the DNA double-helix inside the nucleus. (Yeah, I went there.) In other words it's hugely important on an individual and social level-unfortunately it is often the wrong amount of the wrong kind for the wrong reasons and not enough of the right elements to counteract the inevitable consequences (obesity, heart disease, diabetes...need I go on?)<br /><br />And that's what happened to me. I grew up surrounded by food lovers and great cooks on two different coasts, and as a result, I grew up loving food-making it as well is consuming it. TV, and books opened my piqued my interest in gourmet cuisine, and my multicultural California upbringing ignited a curiosity and subsequent love for international foods (especially Mexican-I should've known by the way I could put away enchiladas that I was destined to speak Spanish); but my summers in Ohio and Georgia kept me connected to my culinary roots ("soul food"; fried chicken, cornbread and collard greens being particular favorites). And sweets-oh I couldn't wait until I was old enough to use the oven by myself to be able to start making my own cookies, pastries and breads. These were the treats, the rewards for good behavior, or the comforting morsels on a rainy day. My mom bought me an Easy-Bake oven but I should have known when I tried to make a full-size cornbread in it that I was ready for bigger (and tastier) things.<br /><br />So what was the problem? Who doesn't want to eat something good? The problem is that eating was ALL I wanted to do-that and read books, play dolls and write stories and sew. Sedentary activities, never anything physical (unless I was swimming, which I could only do in certain months of the year). Team sports were just way too intimidating and kids were mean. My right leg is longer than my left, so everything I did ALWAYS looked funny. So I just stuck to what I was good at. And even when doing something I enjoyed, basically I was just biding my time until it was time to eat again. I remember taking road trips in the summer with my biological father and only half-paying attention to the sights along the way-I was looking for the next Waffle House, Cracker Barrel or McDonald's I could spot. So what if I was no longer hungry because I had just eaten an hour ago? Did it matter that my stomach hurt because I had eaten it all at lightening speed as if someone were threatening to take my plate away? Nope. I could always stand a little more sweet, a little more salty, a little more buttery-to me it just made life worth living. My relatives chided me for being fatter every summer but I just mentally shifted the blame right back to them. After all, <em>they</em> were the ones feeding <em>me</em>. I didn't have a job...<br /><br />So by the time I was 11 I weighed 190 pounds. I remember looking at the scale and crying, but it still didn't deter me from asking for money for Hot Cheetos and Grape soda the very next day. Even if my well-meaning parents tried to put limits on what I ate, I'd sneak and eat what I wanted. But with Junior High came self-consciousness, and with that came Slim-Fast, Richard Simmons' Deal-A-Meal, the ORIGINAL Weight Watchers, the Cabbage Soup diet, the Apple diet, even Susan Powter's "Stop the Insanity." Yeah. REALLY. But I always felt deprived. It didn't help that the emotional ups and downs of transitioning into adulthood only seemed to be endurable with a side of fries or smothered in alfredo sauce. The weight just kept creeping on <strong>(See center photo)</strong> ...until I got to be about 275 pounds and didn't notice when or how it happened (just like last Sunday!). Once I was an adult, necessity forced me to change my eating habits for good and I got amazing results, but then I was so obsessed with maintaining them that I became bulimic, and then that got old,so then I just kind of settled into a modified, less Tasmanian-Devil-like version of eating "whatever"-not necessarily being cautious, but not going overboard and eating everything in sight either. But I started gaining weight back the more careless I let myself get, and I just didn't want to go through again what I'd already lived and suffered too long. I'd say that it has been only in the last 12 months, really, that I have finally found my peace with food, not because I want to be pretty; not because I want approval, but just to feel good physically and emotionally and accomplish my goals. I make better choices, and as a result I find myself craving healthier foods. And I love to exercise! I still look funny while doing it but it's something I <em>can</em> do and I value the fact that my body even works. I don't obsess because I don't have time or energy for it (and I still like food), but I'm in control. It feels good to be in control.<br /><br />But the Hotel Niko fiasco was kinda of a "check-engine" light for me, so to speak. It reminded my that my old ways, while quiet most of the time, have as much potential to strike again as the San Andreas fault. I will re-iterate that I have no eater's remorse from that day (I worked out really hard all week and I paid good money to eat!), but I know that next time I don't have to eat as much, or, as an alternative, I can eat more of the "good" stuff, like veggies, lean meats and whole grains. Just like with all things we struggle against, much of our success or failure in overcoming an obstacle lies in our view of it. Food is part of the fun, sure, but it doesn't have to be the ONLY fun. And will always have another chance to enjoy some dish I love. I don't have to have a slice of pizza just because it's there, especially not of I'm not even hungry. I have a job, I can buy some tomorrow. Or I can choose to have chicken salad instead of fried chicken. Or have the chicken but make it one piece instead of three. I don't <em>have to</em> pay attention to any inner entity telling me what to do to my own body. I got this. Or at least I keep telling myself. And on the days that I don't have it? I do like I do with everything else-I PRAY!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193538556391815307.post-53689381686470689332010-04-27T06:43:00.000-07:002010-04-27T07:52:41.843-07:006:45 in the morning is not the time to try to reason with oneself......yet here I am. I guess doing it now, though I didn't need to be awake for at least another hour since I don't work today, is better than not doing it at all.<br /><br />When I was a kid I was terrible at being bad. I couldn't do anything without telling on myself. All it took was a sideways look for me to feel exposed and start confessing EVERYTHING. (I look back and alot of that stuff I really could've gotten away with. But no, while everybody else got to have fun engaging in typical childish mischief, my conscience took on a full-time position before I could even make it to kindergarten.) I remember telling on myself for things that I <em>didn't</em> do, just so that whichever of my parents that discovered the wrongdoing would just STOP YELLING. Yeah. I was weird.<br /><br />I mention this now because I haven't changed much, I've realized. I made an error and I feel awful about it-so much so that it interrupted my sleep and finally got me out of bed altogether. And I need to tell on myself. In theory it wasn't a huge deal-nothing that could get me in immediate trouble, I mean. But it was an error in my view of a particular situation, and in my reaction to it. Sometimes those mistakes are the biggest because you can make them without anybody else-not even YOU-knowing about it. As a result, the way you allow yourself to think gets farther and farther off track, until one day you realize (usually because someone <em>else</em> has had to call it to your attention) that your attitude is so far out of alignment that it needs its own chiropractor. <br /><br />Recently someone called me to share with me a point that was meant to correct something that I did. The person even gave me references to read. Now we all know that counsel, correction, suggestions etc., it's all a sensitive area. There is a way to give it and there is a way to take it. To make a long story short, I didn't like what was said, how it was said, or the fact that THIS particular person said it to me. I brushed it off at first, like "humph, he's one to talk..." but then the more I thought about what was said my feelings got hurt, and then I got kind of of upset. My perception was just becoming increasingly negative. It got to the point where I was so annoyed that I went as far as to make a vague quip about it on Facebook, not naming names of course-but ambiguous enough that I could say it and know that, while not everybody would know what I was talking about, enough people would get it and sympathize with me.<br /><br />So now comes the part where I break down how wrong I was starting from the moment this initial conversation took place. I started off by trying to justify my actions. Then, I told the person they were right and that I appreciated them pointing out the flaw in my behavior. That in itself wasn't bad, but the fact that I was LYING and at that moment didn't even appreciate that the person even had my number-that wasn't nice. Then when the conversation ended, I breathed, said a prayer, and tried to move on. Good, right? Except that that should have meant that I tossed the ball to Jehovah and that it was his and we were done. But no. I went and took the ball back. I just kept analyzing and picking apart the scene until there was nothing good left. My inner monologue went from, "Hey, that's how he feels about it, at least he was nice enough to tell me," to "I don't think he knows what he's talking about, but maybe I can apply what he said in some other area," then to "You know what? What I said wasn't even that bad. He doesn't know what the heck he's talking about, he's trippin'," to finally, "Don't EVEN let me get started on all the mess HE's done." And there it was. The low point. My thinking had deteriorated so much that I was ready to turn everything around on the other person. I was so annoyed at that point that by 11pm, my Facebook status said: "Just got hit by a rock that came flying from the general direction of a glass house." I probably would have been OK had I just left it at that and gone to bed, but I didn't. After I saw that my update had garnered more than one question mark in response, I elaborated-still not naming names, but explaining the situation. But was it the whole story? Come one now, you only get so many characters of space to say what you want, and in those characters, consciously or not, you're going to type and delete until you get something that puts you in a favorable light. I think that's an imperfect human tendency whether you're online or in real life, but it is easier to do when it isn't happening in real time. And of course, these are all my friends who are reading it, so naturally, people would take my side. Then I went to bed. And tossed and turned. All. Night. Long.<br /><br />Maybe some might think I am taking this too hard. But I'd rather have something be wrong with my outside than have something be wrong within, especially when what is wrong is pride. The issue is not whether or not the counsel was needed or completely necessary or applicable, nor was it the qualification of the counselor. None of that even matters because the way I see it as imperfect humans we are all pretty messed up anyway, therefore, if we used <em>that</em> as a gauge to determine who adjusts who, nobody would walk straight, EVER. My attitude was wrong, period. Even though I tried praying about my negative feelings from the start, the discomfort sitting on my chest after hearing that I did something that didn't sit well with someone else just wasn't going away fast enough. I should have prayed MORE. Do I really think I am just all that awesome that I'm above a mistake? I never realize how much of a perfectionist I am until I do something super obviously imperfect. <br /><br />So there. I told on myself. I feel better already. So what now? Just try to do better. And give the person a big hug when I see them, because, they cared enough about me to want me to be better. Even if they didn't, even if they <em>were</em> being overly critical, that isn't mine to worry about. I know Jehovah wants me to better. And so do I.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1