Lynn Woods Trail Run - Sunday, October 26, 2008 - 15 K
Ouch. I hurt. My legs, my back, my feet. Today's run was a @#%$. Beautiful as it was, I hit my limit at around mile 6 of a 9 mile trail. Finishing a race never felt so good. The morning was cloudy and cool, and when I set out for Lynn from Brighton I expected a few raindrops. I didn't want to run in the rain, but the prospect of running through some mud didn't really bother me.
The drive was easy, and I enjoyed the quiet peacefullness of Sunday morning on the road. Alone in my car, I listened to music and phoned one of my friends. Since she has a one-year-old, I knew she'd be awake. Both early risers now, we often find ourselves phoning one another not long after sunrise on a weekend morning. Though our lives have taken different paths - she is married with a child and living in the suburbs of NYC, I am single and living in the 'big city' of Brighton - I cherish our conversations. In the same breath we're both adults juggling responsibilities and college kids giggling over gossip. As she headed to a yoga class and I drove towards another trail run, we caught up on the events of the week, our upcoming Girls Weekend in NYC, and silly, inane, giggle-inducing gossip.
I got to Lynn Woods just before 8 a.m. and pulled into the parking lot, which was very slowly filling up. It was damp and cool. I registered (#82!) and got back in my car to shut my eyes and listen to the radio. A few moments of stillness and reminding myself how fun this would be. Anytime I question the run I'm about to do, I remind myself of how lucky I am to have the chance and the ability to do it, and this usually gets me going, no matter how crummy or whiny I feel or how cold or rainy it is.
Pretty soon I saw Ben's truck pull into the lot, so I left my cozy car and hung out with him in the parking lot. Ben is one of the funniest, most good-humored and calm gentleman you could ever meet. He will go to the ends of the earth (and to the Finish Line) for his friends, he can be talked into almost any trail race, and he does a dead-on impression of Milton from Office Space. Ben is the guy you want to hang out with before a run! So in the cool morning pre-race moments, we hung out by his truck comparing trail shoes and drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee (Ben) and eating gummi bears (me). And then it was time to run. Well, almost.
The race was delayed because the previous night's rain and wind had washed away most of the trail markings. As someone with absolutely ZERO sense of direction (I get lost in my hometown), this made me reasonable nervous. So did the race director's repeated warnings that the trail was challenging and anyone who felt even the least bit unprepared should bow out. I could picture myself wandering through the Lynn Woods, lost and lonely, with only a pocket full of gummi bears to survive.....
We lined up at the start and then off we went, across the parking lot, up a hill, and into the woods. My hamstrings and lower back ached already - not a good sign - but soon enough we were darting along the path, hopping over branches and roots, sidestepping large rocks, and dodging puddles and the occasional pile of horse poop. Other than a few short and superficial conversations with my fellow runners, I was on my own. I'd say that I was alone with my thoughts, but I didn't even really think about anything. I breathed in and out, I ran, and I let the natural beauty and solitude of the woods envelop me. The air was clean and crisp and smelled of pine needles and wet leaves and Fall. By now it had even cleared up a little. The trees rustled and the pine needles and leaves and dirt crunched softly beneath our feet.
When I run on Sunday mornings I often joke with friends that I'm "praying at Our Lady of the Holy Running Shoes", because for me running is a spiritual act and has become increasingly so in the past year or two. It is one of few times I experience a harmony of mind, body, and spirit. It is my quiet time, my time with nature, my time with my thoughts and prayers and questions and gratitude. Believe me, when I'm one mile into a nine or ten mile run, I have plenty of time to chat with The Big Guy. And I have time to listen, too, which I am trying to do more and more. Absence of ipod, phone, traffic, etc. gives me the opportunity and the space to open myself - my heart, my mind, my spirit - up and be receptive to what I'm feeling (besides PAIN!) and hearing, and I find that the more I let myself do that, the more receptive I become. It's not that being receptive means getting some answer or message like a bolt of lightening; for me it just means experiencing or imagining what those 'answers' might be and where they might take me. Note: this is why I will never run an ultramarathon....too much time to think!
This particular run hurt - I mean it physically hurt. My body ached in several places and running/climbing up those hills began to take more and more of my energy. Even eating a few gummi bears didn't really help. I'd pop one in my mouth and let it melt away, seeing how far I could run before it dissolved completely. But the physical effort of putting one foot in front of the other occupied my mind, and I kept telling myself to JUST KEEP GOING. I had a mental pep-talk on replay - you can do it, you've done this before, you're halfway there, if you can make it this far you can make it to the end - but I have to admit, unlike on previous trail runs I really hit the "F@#$ YOU!" zone early on. Despite enjoying the woods, I kinda wanted this run to be over. When I approached the one and only water stop and the guy handing out Dixie cups said, "Lookin good! Almost there!" I wanted to punch him.
I pushed along, sometimes with others closely ahead or behind, which felt reassuring, but sometimes for long stretches on my own. One particularly long stretch was unmarked, and I was sure I'd lost the trail. I ran on a single-tread path, at times so obscured by brush and branches that I was sure I'd gone off course. I ran through a mossy, winding, green gully, through mud puddles and across wooden logs shaped into stream crossings. At one point I saw a helicopter overhead and as I heard the whirling blades get closer and louder I thought, that's it, they've sent out a search team. My nervousness grew stronger as I looked ahead and saw no one, looked behind and saw no one. I couldn't hear any other runners and despite keeping my eyes peeled for trail markers, I saw none.
Eventually I popped out onto a larger trail and heaved a sigh of relief. There is a stage of euphoria that is hard to describe...I think for me it happens when I'm out there long enough to know I'm gonna make it, to know that the bulk of the run is behind me, to know that a nice downhill stretch might be ahead. When I emerged from the woods, this is how I felt. It was like flying. I felt strong and alive...at this point I figured I had less than a mile left, and I could handle that. But the euphoria didn't last long...I saw the race director running my way and I was afraid I'd be swept off the course. I wasn't sure if there were still runners behind me, and I feared I could be the last one. "Almost there!" he shouted out, "You're in your last 5K! Two more hills and a hairpin turn and you're done!" HUH?! Was he kidding? I didn't have two more hills in me. I was back in the F@#$ YOU! zone and aching to reach the finish line. I walked for a bit and breathed deeply. I ran a little, and walked a little more. The hills came and went, though with much less ease than I describe it now. I took a wrong turn and saw someone in the distance waving me back on course. I was about to get irritated that the course wasn't better marked when I realized that the person up ahead was Ben. He'd run the 5K, finished long before me, and jogged back on course to run the last 1/2 mile or so with me. THAT is a true friend. I picked up my pace and we ran the last bit of the course together, both lamenting and celebrating its difficulty. Tough as it was, we'd both be finishers.
I crossed the finish line, knowing that my finishing time wasn't one I'd brag about but feeling happy about traversing nine pretty ferocious miles and finishing in one piece. 'cause the joy isn't in the bragging, it's in the running.
I run, hike, pray, meditate, daydream and drink lots of coffee. And I spend extraordinary amounts of time doing all of these things (but not at once). Here are a few of my thoughts.
28 October 2008
20 October 2008
Bay State 1/2 Marathon, October 19, 2008
2:02
Today is Christine's 38th birthday. To celebrate, we ran the Bay State 1/2 Marathon in beautiful Lowell, MA. Why Bay State? Why Lowell? I don't know. Good timing? Easy to get to? Scenic? The promise of running faster to avoid being chased by thugs? I know, I know, Lowell has a bad rap. And if we believe everything we read, it's well deserved. But I digress - Christine wanted to celebrate her bday with a race, and I wanted to run another 1/2, so Bay State it was. And for the record, Lowell is not that bad. Some have said it's even going through a "Renaissance".
One of the interesting things about this race is that more than a third of the runners who opt for the full marathon qualify for Boston. A THIRD. It is probably the largest concentration of runners qualifying in a single race. As a result, the front of the pack full marathoners are lean, fast, and serious. we half marathoners maybe a little less so, but I did notice that this wasn't one of those rah-rah crowds. We started, we ran, that's it.
So I was nervous, as usual. I always fret about how much or little I sleep, what I've done the week before (too much? too little? more training? more sleep? less travel? more meditating on why I should not be worrying about training, sleep, and travel?), what I eat and drink the day before (too much caffeine? not enough water? too much water? too much fiber? too much sugar? not enough protein? something I will regret at mile 6?), and what I do the morning of the race. I've done more 13+ runs than I can count, but I still get nervous. I still doubt myself. My last two half-marathons were pathetic disasters (one was post food-poisoning, the other was burnout as a result of overtraining), so to be honest, I was feeling a little less than confident. But it was a beautiful day and I felt okay and I slept fine, so at a certain point we just have to say, what will be will be. Nothing more to do other than enjoy a Sunday morning run.
We left Brighton and drove up to Lowell in the dark. Daylight broke as we arrived there around 7:15 a.m. and we left the car in a parking garage, checking for last minute things like chapstick and bodyglide and ipods and my stash of gummy bears. After picking up our numbers we milled around the high school cafeteria for a while just killing time; eventually it was time to head out to the start line, and it's at that point that I usually have my realization of, "THIS IS IT. Go have fun." I learned a while ago that running sucks when you're pissed off and/or miserable, so ever since then I've reminded myself to just enjoy the run, have fun, and smile. That last one's important - the jaw muscles are some of the more important ones to work out on race day :)
And off we went. Christine and I ran together for two or three miles, but we agreed beforehand that we'd each run at our own pace and if that meant going faster or slower than each other, so be it. So we wished each other good luck and Christine took off ahead of me and I settled in for the next ten miles on my own. The air was so clear and crisp and cool and there I was, just out running by the river on a Sunday morning. It felt so good. I felt empowered and enlightened. Often times when I run I daydream or think about different things going on in my work or my life, but today I just zoned out. It was like meditation. Just running, just being.
At what point do the mind, the body and the spirit connect? At what place are they conjoined? For me, today, they connect around mile 6 or 7. I am absorbed in thought, in prayer, in meditation, in running. I feel alive and vibrant, spiritual and blessed. I know I'm going to finish, and I feel strong.
The double-loop course was actually more scenic than I imagined. We ran by trees bursting with color, old Victorian houses, and a piece of the river that flows over boulders and looks like something you'd see in the New Hampshire woods. The sky was clear blue with wispy clouds and crowds of teenagers had come out to staff waterstops and cheer. If you look there is beauty everywhere...even in Lowell, Mass.
After miles six and seven I just plugged along, ticking off the miles one by one, walking through waterstops and sipping Gatorade, listening to music to keep me going, realizing that by the time my playlist got to the Theme From Rocky I'd be finished. Though I knew I'd be happy to cross the finish line, I was enjoying myself. Soon we were in the home stretch. We passed a sign that said one mile left. I ate a few gummy bears and pushed myself a little harder. We crossed over the final bridge and the ball park was in sight. I knew the finish was near. But they teased us, because the very final 1/2 mile or so involves running around a corner and then behind the ballpark, where you think the finish line will be waiting, but alas, you enter that ballpark and get to/have to run a lap around the bases before crossing the actual finish line. And then that's it.
They gave us medals and water and removed the timing chips from our shoes. They wrapped us in mylar blankets and directed us to the food. I wandered around looking for Christine for a while, and when at last we found each other in the crowd we both had huge smiles on our faces. Christine finished in 1:59, and I finished just two and half minutes after her at 2:02. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday morning and celebrate my sister's birthday. I vote for making it an annual tradition.
2:02
Today is Christine's 38th birthday. To celebrate, we ran the Bay State 1/2 Marathon in beautiful Lowell, MA. Why Bay State? Why Lowell? I don't know. Good timing? Easy to get to? Scenic? The promise of running faster to avoid being chased by thugs? I know, I know, Lowell has a bad rap. And if we believe everything we read, it's well deserved. But I digress - Christine wanted to celebrate her bday with a race, and I wanted to run another 1/2, so Bay State it was. And for the record, Lowell is not that bad. Some have said it's even going through a "Renaissance".
One of the interesting things about this race is that more than a third of the runners who opt for the full marathon qualify for Boston. A THIRD. It is probably the largest concentration of runners qualifying in a single race. As a result, the front of the pack full marathoners are lean, fast, and serious. we half marathoners maybe a little less so, but I did notice that this wasn't one of those rah-rah crowds. We started, we ran, that's it.
So I was nervous, as usual. I always fret about how much or little I sleep, what I've done the week before (too much? too little? more training? more sleep? less travel? more meditating on why I should not be worrying about training, sleep, and travel?), what I eat and drink the day before (too much caffeine? not enough water? too much water? too much fiber? too much sugar? not enough protein? something I will regret at mile 6?), and what I do the morning of the race. I've done more 13+ runs than I can count, but I still get nervous. I still doubt myself. My last two half-marathons were pathetic disasters (one was post food-poisoning, the other was burnout as a result of overtraining), so to be honest, I was feeling a little less than confident. But it was a beautiful day and I felt okay and I slept fine, so at a certain point we just have to say, what will be will be. Nothing more to do other than enjoy a Sunday morning run.
We left Brighton and drove up to Lowell in the dark. Daylight broke as we arrived there around 7:15 a.m. and we left the car in a parking garage, checking for last minute things like chapstick and bodyglide and ipods and my stash of gummy bears. After picking up our numbers we milled around the high school cafeteria for a while just killing time; eventually it was time to head out to the start line, and it's at that point that I usually have my realization of, "THIS IS IT. Go have fun." I learned a while ago that running sucks when you're pissed off and/or miserable, so ever since then I've reminded myself to just enjoy the run, have fun, and smile. That last one's important - the jaw muscles are some of the more important ones to work out on race day :)
And off we went. Christine and I ran together for two or three miles, but we agreed beforehand that we'd each run at our own pace and if that meant going faster or slower than each other, so be it. So we wished each other good luck and Christine took off ahead of me and I settled in for the next ten miles on my own. The air was so clear and crisp and cool and there I was, just out running by the river on a Sunday morning. It felt so good. I felt empowered and enlightened. Often times when I run I daydream or think about different things going on in my work or my life, but today I just zoned out. It was like meditation. Just running, just being.
At what point do the mind, the body and the spirit connect? At what place are they conjoined? For me, today, they connect around mile 6 or 7. I am absorbed in thought, in prayer, in meditation, in running. I feel alive and vibrant, spiritual and blessed. I know I'm going to finish, and I feel strong.
The double-loop course was actually more scenic than I imagined. We ran by trees bursting with color, old Victorian houses, and a piece of the river that flows over boulders and looks like something you'd see in the New Hampshire woods. The sky was clear blue with wispy clouds and crowds of teenagers had come out to staff waterstops and cheer. If you look there is beauty everywhere...even in Lowell, Mass.
After miles six and seven I just plugged along, ticking off the miles one by one, walking through waterstops and sipping Gatorade, listening to music to keep me going, realizing that by the time my playlist got to the Theme From Rocky I'd be finished. Though I knew I'd be happy to cross the finish line, I was enjoying myself. Soon we were in the home stretch. We passed a sign that said one mile left. I ate a few gummy bears and pushed myself a little harder. We crossed over the final bridge and the ball park was in sight. I knew the finish was near. But they teased us, because the very final 1/2 mile or so involves running around a corner and then behind the ballpark, where you think the finish line will be waiting, but alas, you enter that ballpark and get to/have to run a lap around the bases before crossing the actual finish line. And then that's it.
They gave us medals and water and removed the timing chips from our shoes. They wrapped us in mylar blankets and directed us to the food. I wandered around looking for Christine for a while, and when at last we found each other in the crowd we both had huge smiles on our faces. Christine finished in 1:59, and I finished just two and half minutes after her at 2:02. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday morning and celebrate my sister's birthday. I vote for making it an annual tradition.
09 August 2008
Oxford Dam Trail Run - Saturday, August 9, 2009 - 10 miles...or so they said...
(or, "that damn Oxford Trail Run")
I was nervous. So nervous I didn't even want to talk about it, and I regretted letting other people know I was planning to do it, because then if it turned out to be a miserable run, I'd have to relive the misery by telling everyone just HOW bad it was. But on the contrary, it was great. Stupendous. Exhilirating. Amazing. Incredible. Empowering. Awesome. Beautiful. Prayerful, meditative, challenging, grueling. It beat me up and then lifted me back up. It was the longest trail run I've ever done, and I DID IT.
After a soy latte, a bagel and the Saturday paper, I left my apartment around 7am. Good thing I took directions, because my GPS proved useless and started sending me to Oxford, Rhode Island. The whole drive out there I kept wondering, what the hell am I doing? What gave me the crazy idea that I can do this? Why am I voluntarily subjecting myself to a beat-down on this otherwise beautiful Saturday morning?
I got to the race, parked, and picked up my number (not a number, actually, but my name on a flourescent sticker). No sign of Christine and I didn't know anyone and, surrounded by gazelle-like runners, I felt nervous once again. But soon enough I recognized someone in the small crowd, Christine called to say she was on her way, and I met a 65 year old woman from Beacon Hill who just started running and looked so positively happy to be preparing for a run in the woods that I couldn't help but absorb some of her enthusiasm. I CAN DO THIS, I told myself. It's just a run in the woods on a sunny Saturday morning - no pressure, no world records, and hopefully no chafing. Just me, my ziploc bag of gummy bears, and 10.5 glorious miles of dirt.
We started, and off we went, down a rocky hill and into the woods. The small crowd thinned out and I stayed at the back, a place I've come to feel comfortable. There was a little chit chat and then that was it, I was alone with my thoughts, running through the woods, breathing, reminding myself to enjoy this adventure, reminding myself to breathe, reminding myself to have fun.
It was probably one of the hardest runs I've ever done. I slipped in a mud puddle before mile 2, lost my balance twice when I tripped over rocks and roots, and just about ate gravel when I somehow went airborne and then landed flat on my side with a big 'THUMP'. But that was just the beginning of the fun - the runners ahead of me lost the trail markings, so we ran a mile off course, and as luck would have it, that mile was STRAIGHT uphill - a rocky, craggy, boulder-laden hill. We all ran (okay, it was hardly running....more like delicate scooting) back down, found the trail and kept on going. We slogged across an ankle-deep stream, which I thought was the one the race director mentioned at the start. Turns out the one he was actually talking about was thigh-high and about 20 feet wide. And yes, the only way across it is through it (kind of like challenging situations in life...what can I say, I get contemplative when I run). After slipping in the mud and falling in the gravel, wading across a stream was kind of refreshing and much less miserable than I anticipated. The water was crystal-clear, and it felt cold and clean as it washed away the mud and grime and sweat on my legs.
The next few miles I listened to the squish-squish of water in my shoes. The woods were quiet, and at times I was alone. I ran through meadows and gullies, along wooded paths, and up rocky, root-covered paths no wider than my two feet. I dodged branches and sticks. There was only the sound of my breathing, my feet softly pounding the dirt, and the occasional rustle of leaves. The air felt clean as I inhaled and exhaled, and I drank in the purity of the environment.
I was tempted to take my ipod on the run because I knew it would be long and tough, but I left it in the car and let my mind wander. That much time alone with one's thoughts can be unsettling, but today it had a calming and cleansing effect. So many things were weighing heavy on my mind this week. I had been upset and irritated and stressed about different things. But after several miles everything seemed just about manageable; everything would be fine. I was completely absorbed by the exhiliration of running and the meditative silence of the woods. I let my thoughts come in to my mind and roll around for a while, and then I let them go. Before long, I felt renewed. And after ten miles, I felt like one hell of a badass.
I didn't need to walk as much as I expected, and I actually enjoyed the run. I mean REALLY ENJOYED it. When I was tempted to listen to my inner bitching and moaning, I thought, hell, no one forced me to sign up for this...why not just enjoy it and have fun? I smiled, I sang to myself, I hummed. I ran my own pace, ran my own race, and enjoyed it. I let myself find my speed and my 'zone', and I was really happy there.
I kept running through/over/around the rocks, roots, mushrooms, stumps, branches, gravel, mud, trees, streams, and puddles. I just kept running and eventually came to a point where I knew I had to be near the finish. I ran out of the woods and through the chute, and that was it. 11.5 miles of dirt and sweat and sun, 2+ hours, 1 bag of gummi bears, and all before noontime. Is there another trail run next weekend?
(or, "that damn Oxford Trail Run")
I was nervous. So nervous I didn't even want to talk about it, and I regretted letting other people know I was planning to do it, because then if it turned out to be a miserable run, I'd have to relive the misery by telling everyone just HOW bad it was. But on the contrary, it was great. Stupendous. Exhilirating. Amazing. Incredible. Empowering. Awesome. Beautiful. Prayerful, meditative, challenging, grueling. It beat me up and then lifted me back up. It was the longest trail run I've ever done, and I DID IT.
After a soy latte, a bagel and the Saturday paper, I left my apartment around 7am. Good thing I took directions, because my GPS proved useless and started sending me to Oxford, Rhode Island. The whole drive out there I kept wondering, what the hell am I doing? What gave me the crazy idea that I can do this? Why am I voluntarily subjecting myself to a beat-down on this otherwise beautiful Saturday morning?
I got to the race, parked, and picked up my number (not a number, actually, but my name on a flourescent sticker). No sign of Christine and I didn't know anyone and, surrounded by gazelle-like runners, I felt nervous once again. But soon enough I recognized someone in the small crowd, Christine called to say she was on her way, and I met a 65 year old woman from Beacon Hill who just started running and looked so positively happy to be preparing for a run in the woods that I couldn't help but absorb some of her enthusiasm. I CAN DO THIS, I told myself. It's just a run in the woods on a sunny Saturday morning - no pressure, no world records, and hopefully no chafing. Just me, my ziploc bag of gummy bears, and 10.5 glorious miles of dirt.
We started, and off we went, down a rocky hill and into the woods. The small crowd thinned out and I stayed at the back, a place I've come to feel comfortable. There was a little chit chat and then that was it, I was alone with my thoughts, running through the woods, breathing, reminding myself to enjoy this adventure, reminding myself to breathe, reminding myself to have fun.
It was probably one of the hardest runs I've ever done. I slipped in a mud puddle before mile 2, lost my balance twice when I tripped over rocks and roots, and just about ate gravel when I somehow went airborne and then landed flat on my side with a big 'THUMP'. But that was just the beginning of the fun - the runners ahead of me lost the trail markings, so we ran a mile off course, and as luck would have it, that mile was STRAIGHT uphill - a rocky, craggy, boulder-laden hill. We all ran (okay, it was hardly running....more like delicate scooting) back down, found the trail and kept on going. We slogged across an ankle-deep stream, which I thought was the one the race director mentioned at the start. Turns out the one he was actually talking about was thigh-high and about 20 feet wide. And yes, the only way across it is through it (kind of like challenging situations in life...what can I say, I get contemplative when I run). After slipping in the mud and falling in the gravel, wading across a stream was kind of refreshing and much less miserable than I anticipated. The water was crystal-clear, and it felt cold and clean as it washed away the mud and grime and sweat on my legs.
The next few miles I listened to the squish-squish of water in my shoes. The woods were quiet, and at times I was alone. I ran through meadows and gullies, along wooded paths, and up rocky, root-covered paths no wider than my two feet. I dodged branches and sticks. There was only the sound of my breathing, my feet softly pounding the dirt, and the occasional rustle of leaves. The air felt clean as I inhaled and exhaled, and I drank in the purity of the environment.
I was tempted to take my ipod on the run because I knew it would be long and tough, but I left it in the car and let my mind wander. That much time alone with one's thoughts can be unsettling, but today it had a calming and cleansing effect. So many things were weighing heavy on my mind this week. I had been upset and irritated and stressed about different things. But after several miles everything seemed just about manageable; everything would be fine. I was completely absorbed by the exhiliration of running and the meditative silence of the woods. I let my thoughts come in to my mind and roll around for a while, and then I let them go. Before long, I felt renewed. And after ten miles, I felt like one hell of a badass.
I didn't need to walk as much as I expected, and I actually enjoyed the run. I mean REALLY ENJOYED it. When I was tempted to listen to my inner bitching and moaning, I thought, hell, no one forced me to sign up for this...why not just enjoy it and have fun? I smiled, I sang to myself, I hummed. I ran my own pace, ran my own race, and enjoyed it. I let myself find my speed and my 'zone', and I was really happy there.
I kept running through/over/around the rocks, roots, mushrooms, stumps, branches, gravel, mud, trees, streams, and puddles. I just kept running and eventually came to a point where I knew I had to be near the finish. I ran out of the woods and through the chute, and that was it. 11.5 miles of dirt and sweat and sun, 2+ hours, 1 bag of gummi bears, and all before noontime. Is there another trail run next weekend?
28 January 2008
Jamaica
Reflections on Jamaica
This is my journal from the Jamaica trip. It is a little abstract/random, but hopefully captures the essence of the trip as I experienced it. I am still processing it myself! It was an incredibly intense time in so many ways, all of which I am grateful for. What I saw and what I learned has already had a profound impact on me and will for most likely the rest of my life.
Anyhow, here you go:
Monday, 1.21.08, 9am
Erica is 24, she has 3 children. She is dying of AIDS. We talked about music, movies, and Kingston. She vomited several times and had a seizure while I was holding her hand. She told me about the father of her children and said it took only one year to “mash up” (ruin) her life.
When we came back to the convent where Sr. Beverly lives, a young woman and her two little girls are waiting for Sr. The woman wants us to see her family, so we walk together to her house, a one-room shack with a bare bed and a stove. Reggae music blares constantly and there is trash everywhere. Her kids, Therese and Theresa, are so, so, so cute. They are precious. I played with the older one (age 3), sang “I’m a little teapot” many times. She thought my white nose was funny and kept squeezing and poking it. Her Mom was assaulted last week - her clothes were taken from her.
Women’s issues are very serious here - violence, AIDS, motherhood, unemployment, malnutrition, empowerment, education. The challenge we are feeling and experiencing here is wanting to empower and not enable the people with whom we work. We do not want to be the “rich white Americans” who come down here one week in the year and shower the people with books and supplies, many of which will be pirated on the street. The question becomes: how does one really help here? The needs are so great, so massive, that it is tempting to want to come in and stage a complete overhaul. But like anywhere you see poverty, the problems run so deep - historically, culturally, economically - and change of any type is a long, long process.
Later today we drove with Sr. Beverly to the grocery store to buy food for the families we visited. We went back to Erica and found her sitting up on a milk crate in her yard. She is so frail and so thin. Skeletal. Her ribs poke out through her nightgown and her shoulder blades are visible.
A word about the side of Kingston we’ve seen so far: garbage dump. Ok, it’s two words. It is unlike anything I have ever, ever seen. Stray dogs, chickens, goats, and pigs roam the streets pocked with potholes (trenches, really) and littered with glass, trash, garbage, refuse, etc. There are piles of trash in the street and junkyards on every corner. The “homes” are literally hovels of corrugated tin and cinder blocks.
Carcia and her two girls, Theresa and Therese, met us at Sr. Beverly’s house with bare feet and walked through the streets to their home the same way. Their “home” is a one-room shed with a stove, a clothes-line, and a bedframe with cardboard on it (not a mattress). They live next to the burned-out shell of the home they lost in a fire. Music blares constantly. Trash is everywhere. Erica’s room was worse - a double bed is heaped with dirty clothes, papers, etc. There is a large TV, microwave, and a hotplate within reach, and maybe 2 sq. feet of floorspace. This is it - this is her home. The toilet is outside. The holes in the wall are big enough to pass your hands through, but luckily, according to Erica's grandmother, the roof does not leak when it rains.
The poverty and filth are astounding. One woman in my group was literally offered a baby to take home. These are the poorest of the poor, people for whom three meals a day is not a given and new clothes are a luxury. We had kids coming to school on Monday with tummy aches because their last meal was at school on Friday. Kids wearing shoes 2 sizes too big because that's all they had. Kids with their teeth literally falling out from decay. How can I pay $4 for a latte at home and not even think about it?
Tuesday, 1.22.08
Still trying to process this day and my glimpse into the Kingston educational “system”. Woke at 7 and walked laps around the soccer field for a little bit with my two roommates. Shower, coffee, oatmeal, morning chit-chat, which I quite enjoy. We have a great group - big enough for some variety, small enough to get to know everyone. And in the midst of all this intense Jamaica stuff, the conversations I've shared with my teammates have been enlightening, inspiring, comforting, and meaningful. Running around the soccer field in the morning and talking about life, death, theology and spirituality; washing dishes and learning how someone chose their career; hearing someone's love story as we have Red Stripe beers on the veranda. There is a lot of wisdom, experience, and strength within the group. And wisdom, did I mention wisdom? LOTS of it.
Walked to Sr. Beverly’s with a few others. I was brave or foolish enough to bring my camera today and quickly learned that while taking pics of kids is okay (actually, they love it), pics of adults are not a great idea. Very disruptive.
At Sr. Beverly’s we waited a bit and I made some new friends in the street. One of the kids from yesterday and her brother (?) were playing barefoot in the street, so we played “Simon Says”, or some variation of them simply copying everything I did. We picked flowers - the most amazing and powerful juxtaposition of beauty and filth as one, as these two beautiful kids picked blossoms from a pink azalea surrounded by garbage and trash. We put the flowers behind our ears and made up a “flower dance” - clearly I have reached a point in my life at which dancing and jumping on one foot in the middle of the street in the Kingston ghetto doesn't really faze me...
Fr. Peter then walked me over to the pre-school/elementary school - way more than I bargained for but fun. The classroom held approx. 35 - 40 kids and was cramped and messy. I could not determine much of an agenda - the kids were absolutely beautiful and wild - jumping, pushing, climbing over desks, tipping over chairs, yelling. And I felt very awkward about my role as authoritarian or teacher but complete stranger. I couldn’t understand much of what the kids were saying and imagine it was mutual. After about 45 minutes, the teacher gave me a piece of chalk, told me they were learning about the letter “G”, and left the room. How about “G” for OH MY GOD. My let’s-learn-about-the-letter-G repertoire lasted for about 30 seconds before I resorted to “Simon Says”, songs, deep breathing and an ad-hoc alphabet game that did not quite catch on. Later we read a story and drew pictures, ate lunch, and “rested”.
What surprised me about today - kids running around without shoes, teachers yelling, the amount of scars the kids had, how aggressively they played at recess, how little they had on the playground and in the classroom - no crayons, old books virtually falling apart, a swing set with no swings. I also noticed that the parents who came to pick up their 5-year old kids had to be a good 10 years younger than me (I am 32). Impressions here - music is everywhere, blaring. A lot of people on the street seem to be wandering or just hanging out. The poverty we see is complex and very deeply rooted in the culture, history and economics of Jamaica. I want to see more, because just as I know that seeing only a resort would not be a complete picture, I know, too, that there is more to Kingston than the few square blocks we are limited to for now.
It is hot - so hot. You drip with sweat just standing in one place. We sweat through our t-shirts before 9am. But the sky is clear, brilliant and expansive, and right now there is the most pleasant breeze blowing through the palm trees.
Wednesday, 1.23.08
Woke early and ran 1.5 miles around the soccer field. It was beautiful to just be awake at that time of day and see and hear the place wake up - the birds, the roosters, the silence. I loved seeing how we each began the day - some in prayer and contemplation, yoga or meditation, coffee and the paper, a morning walk, a jog. And somehow by 8:30 we all convene, fed and caffeinated, and take our assignments for the day.
I was part of the medical team today and did intake work as Dr. Tony and Patti did exams. Kids 13 - 17, for the most part very healthy but a lot of lethargy, headaches, stomach aches. One girl, 14, had a tumor. Even with surgery it will likely come back.This afternoon we were able to walk to the local market with Angie, a friend of Fr. Peter. Words cannot do it justice - trash everywhere, blaring music, the stench of rotten produce and weed, the sights of chicken feet, bottles of medicinal honey, Scotch bonnet peppers, yams, beans, string beans, ginger, peas, herbs, spices. We ate raw peanuts, which tasted a lot like beans.
Thursday, 1.24.08
Medical team this morning - walked kids from the infant school to the church for medical exams. Age 3 - 5, lots of tooth decay, a speech impediment, and a girl with crossed eyes, but general healthy kids considering the malnutrition and filth.
Made rounds with Sr. Beverly during the afternoon - so hot, it is impossible to not feel grimy by 2pm.
The days have typically been as follows:
6:30 - wake up, walk/run, shower, coffee
7:45 - 8:30 - breakfast
8:30 - 12 - service work
12 - 12:30 - lunch
12:30 - 2ish - service work
2 - 4:30 - walk back, shower, read, 'free time'
4:30 - 5:15 - reflection on the veranda (We discuss our greatest challenges and graces for the day)
5:15 - 5:45 - mass
5:45 - 6:30 - “The Most Wonderful Time of the Day”...Red Stripe beers on the veranda
6:30 - 7:30 - dinner and dishes
7:30 - 9ish - program/lecture
9 or 9:30 - bed! (and we are beat!)
Friday/SaturdayFriday morning I met with the principal of St. George’s high school - amazing meeting and so exciting to talk about development/advancement and the opportunities for the school’s growth.
Yesterday afternoon we drove to Ocho Rios - beautiful drive, passed through Fern Gully (like the Disney movie), stopped for roadside food. I have to say, though I’ve come around to Jamaican rum and Red Stripe, Jamaican food doesn’t really excite me - jerk chicken/pork - not really my thing. Still haven't found jerk-tofu...
We are staying (stayed last night) at a “resort” at Ocho Rios (“Ochi”) and I am uncomfortable with the “gated resort” concept - it feels segregated. But we had a fun night last night, dancing to some really horrible live music. Our rooms are immense, overlooking the blue ocean, and I am sitting on the patio listening to the waves and looking out on the water. No worries...
Bus/van ride home was long. Today I think I was very conscious of not feeling useful, giving, and in awe, as I have for the time here until now. In contrast to the poverty we have spent time with, hanging out with fruity drinks at the beachside bar felt strange. Today, also, I think I felt really disgusted by the filth, environmental disregard, and crumbly, dirty shabby state of nearly every building and neighborhood and street. Trash is everywhere. Buildings and homes are falling apart. Everything seems broken and messy. Paint is peeling, walls are only half there, windows are broken or not even there at all, cars are banged up. Everything is just dirty, dingy, broken and kind of sad. You wonder how long people live here before feeling completely and utterly hopeless. How can people like Sr. Beverly and Fr. Peter do their work day after day and year after year and still smile and joke and be so loving and patient and kind? Neither of them once rolled their eyes or threw up their hands in resignation. I think there are few, few people like them, who can see the despair and continue on. The rest of us get our eyes opened just enough to cry.
Monday, 1.28.08
Flying home and trying to still process, conclude, or make sense of the past week. Already it seems like a completely different time and place. With the exception of my bug bites, I could be coming home from any trip. I don’t know what to make of the week. There is almost no way or words to sum up the intensity of the experience - spiritually, physically, mentally, emotionally. I can’t describe it solely as fun, intense, challenging, amazing or anything else.
The spiritual component, for certain, was a powerful part of the trip. Reflecting daily and sharing our thoughts, talking about faith and god and existence - this is something I think about a lot but don’t do often. For me, knowing and seeing that we are all on a spiritual path with bumps and detours was enlightening. Fr. Peter, who believes in ordination of women priests, Sr. Beverly, who gives every minute of every day to god through serving the poor. That we all experienced and felt faith, religion and god in different yet many similar ways was profound.
Physically, the relative discomfort served to remind me of how much I have and how little I need. Cold showers, filth, heat, constantly sweating, being bitten by mosquitos, living communally, not having my typical comforts of home - bed, gym, foods I like, independence, my music - this was all a change for me. And yet, I was happy. Genuinely, deeply happy. We all got along, I never went hungry, I found someone to accompany me on morning laps around the soccer field, I laughed with my roommates, and we all somehow understood and almost revered the need - not the want - for downtime and introspection and contemplation, and the time and space to reflect and process, whether on the porch at 4pm, in the chapel at 6am, alone or with others. I know at this point in my life that I need my alone time to recharge and refocus; if I don’t do it, I don’t function well. And I never felt like I needed to escape or run and hide. We all sort of got it - the need for reflection and the space for that.
What I take away from this, in addition to the profound impact of even so briefly living with and serving the poor, are a few things, items we talked about a lot this week and that really stayed with me:
1) God is everywhere. This is the cornerstone of Ignatian spirituality and I began to understand it. It was hard for me, and for all the team, to believe that genuinely and not struggle with it when seeing such poverty and injustice. Where is god when babies are dying and kids are starving and young women are being abused and abandoned? Where is god on the filthy, trashy streets filled with violence? Where is god in the environmental destruction - the complete contamination of the soil and air and water? None of us this week had solid answers. Some had more faith and acceptance that god’s presence really was there, in the Fr. Peters and Sr. Beverlys, in the kindness of strangers and the strength and innocence of children in the flowers growing in abandoned lots and even the smallest signs of a hopeful future, a better life, or a better tomorrow. Despite the economic and political mess that is Kingston, there are really good, hopeful people who are giving their lives to making it better. This moved me profoundly, because although I felt happy about being able to do something, I don’t know that I could give my life to the extent that others do. But I think what I took away was that doing something vs. nothing and just simply being hopeful and faithful and believing that there are good and gracious and giving people. So going back to item #1, yes, I guess god is everywhere.
2) Trusting in the spiritual path and journey that is different for each of us. Being patient and open to what god “calls” me to do and where god wants me to be. NOT EASY. Our society is one that encourages empowerment and controlling one’s destiny, and to a certain extent, we need to prepare ourselves for the future that we want. For a while I have really struggled with the question of what DO I want? What is my calling? How do I figure it out? I struggle because perhaps I feel like I should have it figured out. But the wonderful lesson of this week was that it will happen on its own. I am exactly where I’m “supposed to be”, and I’ll “end up” just where I’m supposed to. After listening to Fr. Peter and Principal Campbell talk about what they thought they wanted to do professionally and how they turned out to be completely wrong and in fact found way more happiness than they ever expected in these unlikely places and careers, I believed more that I’m fine where I am and on a path to something yet unseen. “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).
So I don’t know what to really make of it all - this challenging, enlightening, empowering, funny, sad, fun, peaceful, quiet, noisy adventure in Jamaica. A personal experience but a shared one as well. How can you not bond in this type of situation? I feel like I got to know my teammates more personally than some people I’ve known for years. And there is something very significant about having gone through this craziness and intensity and laughing and crying together.
For me, it was good to be away, doing something completely different, someplace completely different with new people. It gives me new perspective and energy and focus, new appreciation for where I am and what and who I have in my life, and perhaps a better idea of what I want to do and at the very least, how I want to do it.
Addendum - Musings upon returning home
I have been home for five days. Coming home was amazing. My little apartment felt like a palace, and my ‘96 Toyota like a limousine. It is hard to explain this trip, even harder to summarize it with pictures and words. Perhaps the best I can do is say that although it was a service trip with a spiritual component, it felt more like a spiritual retreat with a service component. It has changed me.
My mosquito bites are almost gone, and all my dirty laundry has been washed, folded, and put away. I’m happy to be eating big salads and going to the gym, and even going to work. Coming back to my “normal” life with a new perspective has been refreshing. I am grateful for very little things, like indoor plumbing and Starbucks. I am also acutely aware that it is not up to a few good people to save the whole world; it is up to everyone to save a little part of it.
This is my journal from the Jamaica trip. It is a little abstract/random, but hopefully captures the essence of the trip as I experienced it. I am still processing it myself! It was an incredibly intense time in so many ways, all of which I am grateful for. What I saw and what I learned has already had a profound impact on me and will for most likely the rest of my life.
Anyhow, here you go:
Monday, 1.21.08, 9am
Erica is 24, she has 3 children. She is dying of AIDS. We talked about music, movies, and Kingston. She vomited several times and had a seizure while I was holding her hand. She told me about the father of her children and said it took only one year to “mash up” (ruin) her life.
When we came back to the convent where Sr. Beverly lives, a young woman and her two little girls are waiting for Sr. The woman wants us to see her family, so we walk together to her house, a one-room shack with a bare bed and a stove. Reggae music blares constantly and there is trash everywhere. Her kids, Therese and Theresa, are so, so, so cute. They are precious. I played with the older one (age 3), sang “I’m a little teapot” many times. She thought my white nose was funny and kept squeezing and poking it. Her Mom was assaulted last week - her clothes were taken from her.
Women’s issues are very serious here - violence, AIDS, motherhood, unemployment, malnutrition, empowerment, education. The challenge we are feeling and experiencing here is wanting to empower and not enable the people with whom we work. We do not want to be the “rich white Americans” who come down here one week in the year and shower the people with books and supplies, many of which will be pirated on the street. The question becomes: how does one really help here? The needs are so great, so massive, that it is tempting to want to come in and stage a complete overhaul. But like anywhere you see poverty, the problems run so deep - historically, culturally, economically - and change of any type is a long, long process.
Later today we drove with Sr. Beverly to the grocery store to buy food for the families we visited. We went back to Erica and found her sitting up on a milk crate in her yard. She is so frail and so thin. Skeletal. Her ribs poke out through her nightgown and her shoulder blades are visible.
A word about the side of Kingston we’ve seen so far: garbage dump. Ok, it’s two words. It is unlike anything I have ever, ever seen. Stray dogs, chickens, goats, and pigs roam the streets pocked with potholes (trenches, really) and littered with glass, trash, garbage, refuse, etc. There are piles of trash in the street and junkyards on every corner. The “homes” are literally hovels of corrugated tin and cinder blocks.
Carcia and her two girls, Theresa and Therese, met us at Sr. Beverly’s house with bare feet and walked through the streets to their home the same way. Their “home” is a one-room shed with a stove, a clothes-line, and a bedframe with cardboard on it (not a mattress). They live next to the burned-out shell of the home they lost in a fire. Music blares constantly. Trash is everywhere. Erica’s room was worse - a double bed is heaped with dirty clothes, papers, etc. There is a large TV, microwave, and a hotplate within reach, and maybe 2 sq. feet of floorspace. This is it - this is her home. The toilet is outside. The holes in the wall are big enough to pass your hands through, but luckily, according to Erica's grandmother, the roof does not leak when it rains.
The poverty and filth are astounding. One woman in my group was literally offered a baby to take home. These are the poorest of the poor, people for whom three meals a day is not a given and new clothes are a luxury. We had kids coming to school on Monday with tummy aches because their last meal was at school on Friday. Kids wearing shoes 2 sizes too big because that's all they had. Kids with their teeth literally falling out from decay. How can I pay $4 for a latte at home and not even think about it?
Tuesday, 1.22.08
Still trying to process this day and my glimpse into the Kingston educational “system”. Woke at 7 and walked laps around the soccer field for a little bit with my two roommates. Shower, coffee, oatmeal, morning chit-chat, which I quite enjoy. We have a great group - big enough for some variety, small enough to get to know everyone. And in the midst of all this intense Jamaica stuff, the conversations I've shared with my teammates have been enlightening, inspiring, comforting, and meaningful. Running around the soccer field in the morning and talking about life, death, theology and spirituality; washing dishes and learning how someone chose their career; hearing someone's love story as we have Red Stripe beers on the veranda. There is a lot of wisdom, experience, and strength within the group. And wisdom, did I mention wisdom? LOTS of it.
Walked to Sr. Beverly’s with a few others. I was brave or foolish enough to bring my camera today and quickly learned that while taking pics of kids is okay (actually, they love it), pics of adults are not a great idea. Very disruptive.
At Sr. Beverly’s we waited a bit and I made some new friends in the street. One of the kids from yesterday and her brother (?) were playing barefoot in the street, so we played “Simon Says”, or some variation of them simply copying everything I did. We picked flowers - the most amazing and powerful juxtaposition of beauty and filth as one, as these two beautiful kids picked blossoms from a pink azalea surrounded by garbage and trash. We put the flowers behind our ears and made up a “flower dance” - clearly I have reached a point in my life at which dancing and jumping on one foot in the middle of the street in the Kingston ghetto doesn't really faze me...
Fr. Peter then walked me over to the pre-school/elementary school - way more than I bargained for but fun. The classroom held approx. 35 - 40 kids and was cramped and messy. I could not determine much of an agenda - the kids were absolutely beautiful and wild - jumping, pushing, climbing over desks, tipping over chairs, yelling. And I felt very awkward about my role as authoritarian or teacher but complete stranger. I couldn’t understand much of what the kids were saying and imagine it was mutual. After about 45 minutes, the teacher gave me a piece of chalk, told me they were learning about the letter “G”, and left the room. How about “G” for OH MY GOD. My let’s-learn-about-the-letter-G repertoire lasted for about 30 seconds before I resorted to “Simon Says”, songs, deep breathing and an ad-hoc alphabet game that did not quite catch on. Later we read a story and drew pictures, ate lunch, and “rested”.
What surprised me about today - kids running around without shoes, teachers yelling, the amount of scars the kids had, how aggressively they played at recess, how little they had on the playground and in the classroom - no crayons, old books virtually falling apart, a swing set with no swings. I also noticed that the parents who came to pick up their 5-year old kids had to be a good 10 years younger than me (I am 32). Impressions here - music is everywhere, blaring. A lot of people on the street seem to be wandering or just hanging out. The poverty we see is complex and very deeply rooted in the culture, history and economics of Jamaica. I want to see more, because just as I know that seeing only a resort would not be a complete picture, I know, too, that there is more to Kingston than the few square blocks we are limited to for now.
It is hot - so hot. You drip with sweat just standing in one place. We sweat through our t-shirts before 9am. But the sky is clear, brilliant and expansive, and right now there is the most pleasant breeze blowing through the palm trees.
Wednesday, 1.23.08
Woke early and ran 1.5 miles around the soccer field. It was beautiful to just be awake at that time of day and see and hear the place wake up - the birds, the roosters, the silence. I loved seeing how we each began the day - some in prayer and contemplation, yoga or meditation, coffee and the paper, a morning walk, a jog. And somehow by 8:30 we all convene, fed and caffeinated, and take our assignments for the day.
I was part of the medical team today and did intake work as Dr. Tony and Patti did exams. Kids 13 - 17, for the most part very healthy but a lot of lethargy, headaches, stomach aches. One girl, 14, had a tumor. Even with surgery it will likely come back.This afternoon we were able to walk to the local market with Angie, a friend of Fr. Peter. Words cannot do it justice - trash everywhere, blaring music, the stench of rotten produce and weed, the sights of chicken feet, bottles of medicinal honey, Scotch bonnet peppers, yams, beans, string beans, ginger, peas, herbs, spices. We ate raw peanuts, which tasted a lot like beans.
Thursday, 1.24.08
Medical team this morning - walked kids from the infant school to the church for medical exams. Age 3 - 5, lots of tooth decay, a speech impediment, and a girl with crossed eyes, but general healthy kids considering the malnutrition and filth.
Made rounds with Sr. Beverly during the afternoon - so hot, it is impossible to not feel grimy by 2pm.
The days have typically been as follows:
6:30 - wake up, walk/run, shower, coffee
7:45 - 8:30 - breakfast
8:30 - 12 - service work
12 - 12:30 - lunch
12:30 - 2ish - service work
2 - 4:30 - walk back, shower, read, 'free time'
4:30 - 5:15 - reflection on the veranda (We discuss our greatest challenges and graces for the day)
5:15 - 5:45 - mass
5:45 - 6:30 - “The Most Wonderful Time of the Day”...Red Stripe beers on the veranda
6:30 - 7:30 - dinner and dishes
7:30 - 9ish - program/lecture
9 or 9:30 - bed! (and we are beat!)
Friday/SaturdayFriday morning I met with the principal of St. George’s high school - amazing meeting and so exciting to talk about development/advancement and the opportunities for the school’s growth.
Yesterday afternoon we drove to Ocho Rios - beautiful drive, passed through Fern Gully (like the Disney movie), stopped for roadside food. I have to say, though I’ve come around to Jamaican rum and Red Stripe, Jamaican food doesn’t really excite me - jerk chicken/pork - not really my thing. Still haven't found jerk-tofu...
We are staying (stayed last night) at a “resort” at Ocho Rios (“Ochi”) and I am uncomfortable with the “gated resort” concept - it feels segregated. But we had a fun night last night, dancing to some really horrible live music. Our rooms are immense, overlooking the blue ocean, and I am sitting on the patio listening to the waves and looking out on the water. No worries...
Bus/van ride home was long. Today I think I was very conscious of not feeling useful, giving, and in awe, as I have for the time here until now. In contrast to the poverty we have spent time with, hanging out with fruity drinks at the beachside bar felt strange. Today, also, I think I felt really disgusted by the filth, environmental disregard, and crumbly, dirty shabby state of nearly every building and neighborhood and street. Trash is everywhere. Buildings and homes are falling apart. Everything seems broken and messy. Paint is peeling, walls are only half there, windows are broken or not even there at all, cars are banged up. Everything is just dirty, dingy, broken and kind of sad. You wonder how long people live here before feeling completely and utterly hopeless. How can people like Sr. Beverly and Fr. Peter do their work day after day and year after year and still smile and joke and be so loving and patient and kind? Neither of them once rolled their eyes or threw up their hands in resignation. I think there are few, few people like them, who can see the despair and continue on. The rest of us get our eyes opened just enough to cry.
Monday, 1.28.08
Flying home and trying to still process, conclude, or make sense of the past week. Already it seems like a completely different time and place. With the exception of my bug bites, I could be coming home from any trip. I don’t know what to make of the week. There is almost no way or words to sum up the intensity of the experience - spiritually, physically, mentally, emotionally. I can’t describe it solely as fun, intense, challenging, amazing or anything else.
The spiritual component, for certain, was a powerful part of the trip. Reflecting daily and sharing our thoughts, talking about faith and god and existence - this is something I think about a lot but don’t do often. For me, knowing and seeing that we are all on a spiritual path with bumps and detours was enlightening. Fr. Peter, who believes in ordination of women priests, Sr. Beverly, who gives every minute of every day to god through serving the poor. That we all experienced and felt faith, religion and god in different yet many similar ways was profound.
Physically, the relative discomfort served to remind me of how much I have and how little I need. Cold showers, filth, heat, constantly sweating, being bitten by mosquitos, living communally, not having my typical comforts of home - bed, gym, foods I like, independence, my music - this was all a change for me. And yet, I was happy. Genuinely, deeply happy. We all got along, I never went hungry, I found someone to accompany me on morning laps around the soccer field, I laughed with my roommates, and we all somehow understood and almost revered the need - not the want - for downtime and introspection and contemplation, and the time and space to reflect and process, whether on the porch at 4pm, in the chapel at 6am, alone or with others. I know at this point in my life that I need my alone time to recharge and refocus; if I don’t do it, I don’t function well. And I never felt like I needed to escape or run and hide. We all sort of got it - the need for reflection and the space for that.
What I take away from this, in addition to the profound impact of even so briefly living with and serving the poor, are a few things, items we talked about a lot this week and that really stayed with me:
1) God is everywhere. This is the cornerstone of Ignatian spirituality and I began to understand it. It was hard for me, and for all the team, to believe that genuinely and not struggle with it when seeing such poverty and injustice. Where is god when babies are dying and kids are starving and young women are being abused and abandoned? Where is god on the filthy, trashy streets filled with violence? Where is god in the environmental destruction - the complete contamination of the soil and air and water? None of us this week had solid answers. Some had more faith and acceptance that god’s presence really was there, in the Fr. Peters and Sr. Beverlys, in the kindness of strangers and the strength and innocence of children in the flowers growing in abandoned lots and even the smallest signs of a hopeful future, a better life, or a better tomorrow. Despite the economic and political mess that is Kingston, there are really good, hopeful people who are giving their lives to making it better. This moved me profoundly, because although I felt happy about being able to do something, I don’t know that I could give my life to the extent that others do. But I think what I took away was that doing something vs. nothing and just simply being hopeful and faithful and believing that there are good and gracious and giving people. So going back to item #1, yes, I guess god is everywhere.
2) Trusting in the spiritual path and journey that is different for each of us. Being patient and open to what god “calls” me to do and where god wants me to be. NOT EASY. Our society is one that encourages empowerment and controlling one’s destiny, and to a certain extent, we need to prepare ourselves for the future that we want. For a while I have really struggled with the question of what DO I want? What is my calling? How do I figure it out? I struggle because perhaps I feel like I should have it figured out. But the wonderful lesson of this week was that it will happen on its own. I am exactly where I’m “supposed to be”, and I’ll “end up” just where I’m supposed to. After listening to Fr. Peter and Principal Campbell talk about what they thought they wanted to do professionally and how they turned out to be completely wrong and in fact found way more happiness than they ever expected in these unlikely places and careers, I believed more that I’m fine where I am and on a path to something yet unseen. “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).
So I don’t know what to really make of it all - this challenging, enlightening, empowering, funny, sad, fun, peaceful, quiet, noisy adventure in Jamaica. A personal experience but a shared one as well. How can you not bond in this type of situation? I feel like I got to know my teammates more personally than some people I’ve known for years. And there is something very significant about having gone through this craziness and intensity and laughing and crying together.
For me, it was good to be away, doing something completely different, someplace completely different with new people. It gives me new perspective and energy and focus, new appreciation for where I am and what and who I have in my life, and perhaps a better idea of what I want to do and at the very least, how I want to do it.
Addendum - Musings upon returning home
I have been home for five days. Coming home was amazing. My little apartment felt like a palace, and my ‘96 Toyota like a limousine. It is hard to explain this trip, even harder to summarize it with pictures and words. Perhaps the best I can do is say that although it was a service trip with a spiritual component, it felt more like a spiritual retreat with a service component. It has changed me.
My mosquito bites are almost gone, and all my dirty laundry has been washed, folded, and put away. I’m happy to be eating big salads and going to the gym, and even going to work. Coming back to my “normal” life with a new perspective has been refreshing. I am grateful for very little things, like indoor plumbing and Starbucks. I am also acutely aware that it is not up to a few good people to save the whole world; it is up to everyone to save a little part of it.
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