Bird's Flight

Waiting

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 05:31:00 +0000

It is the first day of Advent and I am not sure if I have ever longed for Christmas in the way that I am hoping for it in this very moment. Not because I am homesick or am craving something familiar. I don’t have a long Christmas list, nor do I need a vacation. It is none of these. My wandering heart and tumultuous mind are simultaneously stilled and stirred by what approaches. Advent. A season set aside for expectant waiting and preparations for the celebration. Advent. The mere thought of the hope that it promises—the comfort in what is to come and the utter relief in the chance of a new beginning and a changed heart—makes my being ache for the Christmas arrival.

I discovered an email of my last year’s musings at this time of year; it’s a strange gift to be able to see where you’ve been and what you were thinking in that place in life. Here’s where my heart was a year ago (truth be told, I am writing this more as a vigilant reminder for myself more than anything):

The way my life is looking right now I feel pretty far removed from that stable in Bethlehem. It's hard to wrap my privileged mind around the context of Jesus' birth. But, as I grapple with the narrative and sift through the implications of it all, I find myself ever searching for a meaningful moment in my own past Christmas' that can mirror that context.

Hovering in my mind, like the ghost of Christmas past, is the memory of my last year's Christmas in India. It was then that I recognized that this charade of christmas characters that we have idealized, far removed from our own selves, is quite real in many places around the world. still, there are child brides and unwed mothers, there are pilgrims and there are outcasted shepherds, there are refugees who find no room offered in the inn, it is all real.

And in our own lives? The past couple of days I have had my eyes opened
to broken relationships in my own family, that are mirrored in my church family, and ultimately reflect the brokeness in our global family. No wonder Mary trembled. No wonder she pondered it all in her heart. She knew the world. She knew what it was like to be a 13 year old girl soon to be married by the will of her family who was suddenly with child-- a child who would be the restoration that this broken world ached for. Imagine her great desire in wanting to protect that precious child form it all. Similarly, we are constrained by our own fear in reconciliation, in change, in asking questions, in being challenged, in dismantling our idealogy of the world as we know it. The shepherds trembled too. The most powerful king in the land was shaking in his boots. a revolution lurked.

and yet. there was only a poor couple. a stable. a donkey. some lowly shepherds.

All praise be for the grace in that the nativity story is one composed of meager elements. This tiny child, destined to lead a revolution of social justice, was born to a poor, young woman in a lowly location on the fringes ofsociety. Incredible, that God would use such an earthly vehicle to deliver a being that would turn the world on its head. oh, what hope.

i think that is the christmas that i'd like to pursue

Back to Christmas present. As I mull this all over, I am surprisingly shocked to realize how broken I feel from a year of being too wrapped up in it all to even realize it was happening—a year, while neither being limited to nor necessarily defined by, including instances of a broken heart, a broken spirit, broken relationships, and what felt at times felt like a broken body. I have wandered with a bit of a nomadic spirit of the feet, heart and mind…anxious for a place to land but frightened by who I am and by who may know me. I find myself lacking the courage to just stay still and expectantly wait and in so doing, I neglect the celebration and expectations to which the Season points. So, what Christmas is it I am pursuing now? Perhaps this year has provided me with the opportunity to examine my own brokenness-- the contradictions in my own life in a context of the contradictions in the world.

So in the spirit of Advent, I will wait. I am waiting. For restoration. For peace. For a great birth that brought this All.

oh the people you'll meet (the london edition)

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 03:43:00 +0000

Perhaps you know that Dr. Seuss poem, the one (all too) frequently used in graduation speeches.
"oh the places you'll go "

"You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know."

It was just about a year ago that I left India, home bound and forever changed.
Since then, I have called four different cities home, welcomed to each place by new friends and old.

I may not have his doctorate, but I think I'd want to re-write Seuss' poem to say 'Oh the people you'll meet'
to convey my gratefulness that I am not 'on my own.' Because when the brains in my head are spinning, my feet weary,
my direction unclear, and when it is hard to convince myself that I know anything at all, it is the people along the journey who
make it worth the while.

I don't always remember the place. I rarely explore it to its potential. i forget the historical details-- the sights and sounds.
but, oh, the people. they ARE the experience. they are the teachers, the guides, the memories.

the piece of india that i will always carry with me is that of community. the people who were gracious enough to allow me into their community, to make me a part of their very family and lives are the essence of what shaped my journey and what continues to shape my life. It is likely that I will never see them again, but I have learned how people can touch your lives if only for a brief period in life.
We have to weigh the costs. I am a girl who feels life very intensely and the thought of engaging someone, sharing myself with someone at the risk of 'losing them' as life moves forward, frightens me. But to allow this fear to prevent me from embracing life head on would be a tragedy.

This i have learned in this transient life: sometimes you physically lose people and wonder why your time was so short. sometimes circumstances in life keep you from crossing paths again. and, sometimes your dearest friendships are built on letters and emails and the hopes of saving enough money to fly cross country.
however it may be, there is no doubt that these people touched your life and shaped who you have become.

before the summer gets away from me I want to share how my time in London allowed for community to come full circle
in more occasion than one.

The first story is about the gift I received in living with my childhood neighbor and babysitter from before the age of two who has remained my mentor and big sister. To get the opportunity to really know her husband and be there for their one-year old daughter was a dream. Long after the mental images of big ben or london bridge fade from my memory, I will still be able to close my eyes and see allison and I twirling sweet Rae around the kitchen singing coldplay songs at the top of our lungs.

community continues and changes and reforms in a new place.

The second story is that of an unlikely sequence of events. When I was unable to go home from DC over Thanksgiving, one of my best friends in DC, andrew, was gracious enough to welcome me into his family celebrations. It was on this trip that I realized that his older brother would very soon deploy to Iraq. At a loss of the best way to support this dear friend, I did the only thing i could think of-- I began writing letters...with cookies, of course.. to his brother, brian, surprised (and humbled) by the correspondence I received in return. after departing iraq in april, brian returned to cambridge where months later he kindly welcomed me into his community and provided a unique reunion of sorts for two pen pals.

sometimes community just happens and widens in ways we would have never expected.

and it is these people who can make a place HOME.

as I continue to go the places I go, my hope is that I will never cease to appreciate the people i will meet.
and may i lovingly invite people into my own community.

Reform

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 18:58:00 +0000

Today I had the opportunity to speak along with my dad at Central Presbyterian in downtown Atlanta on the topic of education as a Human Right and our commitment as both a Church and a Culture to learning and service. Essentially, I consider education a human rights issue when someone is denied the access to (an equal) education based on any discriminatory factor. While education may not be an essential life component like air, water, or food, I have witnessed people whose ability to obtain such fundamentals is compromised because of their lack of access to education.** This morning was a time for me to continue sharing my experiences of my year in India. After an engaging conversation, I wanted to continue these reflections. (Coincidentally, I have spent the past week thinking a lot about my own educational experience and its purposes):

Among my peers, I have discovered a common experience of what I have deemed a ‘mid-graduate school crisis.’ It is the moment when, engrossed in a field that has significantly narrowed since college and has certainly become a more noticeable investment of time and money, this student simply throws her hands in the air to proclaim, ‘What am I doing and why I am here?’ Followed by a string of musings about her purpose in this attainment of a higher degree and where it will take her, she ultimately lands at the challenge in discerning the very point of education. As an invaluable part of young adulthood, this time of discernment allows us the opportunity to extract meaning from both the life we live and also the way in which we engage the world around us.

For me, education is not a means to an end. It is not a degree that will offer me a more secure career or placement in a lucrative field. It is neither a stepping-stone nor a conclusion. Instead, I believe the purpose of education is simply service. Education is a lifelong act of service and in return service a lifelong act of education. I will continue to be educated, guided by others and by my own experiences, until it no longer lends itself to the service of others. Thus, my hope for myself (and for others) is that this process of education is one that will expand across a lifetime.

The protestant faith, born as a 'protest' to the Religious establishment, was a movement deeply rooted in the ideals of reformation and transformation-- begging for change. Ever reforming. Ever reforming. We are changed and refined by our educational experiences. As the hands of God, we serve creation best when we engage in the continual process of our own edification. We are called to a life of learning. Likewise, education, as a process of reformation, prepares us for a life of service. And, in turn, it is by serving others that we receive the greatest educational experience and, truly enjoy the fullness of life.

**It is through these lens that I engage such issues as healthcare, also noted for its controversial classification as a universal right. certainly a hopeful idea. but, rights must be married to an equivalent dose of responsibility. Not only are we responsible for our own health, but also, as a nation (or a globe), we are responsible to eachother to create a culture that addresses individual livelihood issues as a prerequisite for building a healthy nation. It is necessary to ameliorate these challenges at the root-- reforming our agricultural policy and school nutrition, families, fitness, and finally, transforming our entire food culture and system.
It is only after we address these fundamental issues that we will see change.
Then, we will have to examine our culture. I think the bottom line is that we can be a very selfish nation. Is it possible to look beyond ourselves? Can we care enough about our neighbor to even want them to have access to even the most basic of healthcare services?

to be a bird

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 18:17:00 +0000

Ben Folds has a song called 'Birds.' Its relatively short and contains no lyrics. While it is generally the lines and rhymes in a song that capture my attention and captivate my heart-- I find few things more refreshing than challenging lyrics and provoking imagery-- there is just something about this song. It lifts my feet from the pavement, sends my mind flying and never ceases to produce a smile.
After a couple of years I find it to be perhaps (past) time to describe the origins of the name of my little blogging endeavor, particularly as I find myself at yet another junction in the journey.
You could probably gain a more precise explanation of the name bird that was bestowed upon me long before I can remember from the members of my family, but here goes. Almost 25 years after my birth, I can't even think of the last time I heard my brother (who was pushing for the name Lester at the time of my arrival) call me Katherine to my face. All these years it has simply been, 'bird.' I think it comes from this little free spirit (we'll call it that for lack of a better term) that I possessed as a child. I could never just sit. I was always just perched on furniture (or whatever I found within reach to climb), i sung or hummed all the time, and ate like a little bird too. So it stuck.
Fitting for someone who still can't seem to settle down or 'sit' in one place, I suppose. I find my heart and mind, in a similar perched position, still not exactly sure where I belong, challenged by commitment and decision-making.
Interestingly, as of late, I have found myself in a paradoxical moment. Longing for roots while desiring to fly.
Oh to be a bird! Ever soaring, but coming back to that finely woven home, that perch. I am restless to see the world, but my feet grow weary and my heart heavy.
So as I spent the day feeling quite lonely roaming around this new place where I know few people, I began to start feeling a tad sorry for myself. You know the, 'i have no friends and if I have to spend one more day cooking for one I will burst into tears,' kind of moments. This sorrowful self was thankfully an ephemeral state as I was quickly called to the realities of the world of which I am a part. I began to think particularly about refugees seeking asylum, sanctuary, a mere piece of the home from which they find them self fleeing. How strange to be this bird. No guarantee of return. No one waiting. Rarely a home woven lovingly or even a perch to rest upon. Perhaps persecuted, judged, forsaken, forgotten. Most probably the very things from which one was escaping. Truly these are the elements of weary feet and heavy hearts.
Nearing the end of my hours of wandering I ran across a festival (I can get lost in a place a trillion times over and I always seem to run into a festival). It was to promote awareness for and celebrate the lives of refugees. My goodness. They are so near to us but we rarely notice. Caught up in our lives, our people, our selves that we forget to welcome in those seeking sanctuary. As I say we, I mean I. I forget them. I overlook them. I turn my eye from the policy and harsh criticisms made against them. I buy into the stereotypes. I grow too comfortable in my life and fearful of change to see them as my neighbor. Oh that I may see them as myself. That I may remember their wandering feet and struggle for roots.

serve

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 02:38:00 +0000

I was taken aback today when the pastor at the church I was attending described the idea of service like this: 'you and your partner should be in competition with each other to see who will serve the other better.' I felt a deep pit in my stomach as I imagined a world in which we were literally competing with others (especially the one that we love the most) as a motivation to serve. to me, the thought exploits the very essence of service. the joy would be drained. the motives skewed. As he continued to speak of Jesus' feet washings the image of competitive service was far from my mind.

I would like to share a little something about serving that I encountered in my first week in Costa Rica that I simply cannot shake from my mind. I sat down on the last row of the bus heading down the mountain from school.i sat next to a young man with the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. It's not just beautiful. It's that he uses it so freely but, still, so sincerely.
Like nothing in life has ever phased him.

His name is Mohamad. Most words, funny or not, tumble from his mouth in a sort of laugh.
He shared that he is studying International Peace Studies.
As we talked about his experience at U Paz, I asked him what he desired to do with that degree.
what was his dream for the next stage in life? With that same smile he replied:

"I want to go home and use it. to teach others.

I am from Darfur, you know."

I don't have the language to describe how these words have touched me time and time again since I first heard them. I am not sure if I even need to try to convey the loaded emotions, thoughts, history, passion, love and selfless service that these simple words conveyed from a humble young man with the most beautiful smile.

this is what peace must look like. this is what it means to serve.
and i hope that i can learn what it means to serve like this with the same joy that i see in that smile.

salsa (letting go part two)

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 03:47:00 +0000

I consider myself a feminist for more reasons than wanting to occasionally prove myself capable of opening a door. But, I'll admit that at times this can do spirit of equity has rewarded me with more than I bargained for! Oh, how many times did I stand up for equality when working on Habitat houses, only to find myself upside down with hammer in hand underneath an unfinished house with half the football team? Well, I suppose I asked for it.

Picture it. Here I am learning salsa in Central America randomly partnered with your quintessential Finnish lad trying my best not to burst as I consider the humor in this setup. It's true that I mentioned earlier how much I love to dance. However, that does not include partner dancing. Oh yes, I can twirl and jig with the best of them, but put me opposite someone else and I am clueless and hopelessly awkward. Quick! Will someone please get me to the punch table? So maybe the following analogy doesn't quite work for the Fin opposite me who is completely absorbed in counting out loud, but we'll pretend that I enjoyed a bit more time in the arms of the ridiculously good dance instructor than was truly the case. He guides-- the definitive moves allowing me to fall into my own. The simple yet intentional nudges indicating the path ahead. Feet counter feet.

It is here that I have a confession to make. Plug your ears ladies. It took me a while to even admit this discovery to myself!
I revel in the fact that the art of salsa insists, even requires, that i follow. He will help to guide me in the steps, grounding the dance in the rhythm and music of the surroundings . Finally, I don't have to concentrate on the minute details or fret over getting it all wrong. He guides the motions and pursues me in the dance. But it is not about the control or power that he possesses. Instead, he is entrusted with another, realizing that the dance is created together.

Sometimes, it just feels good to let go and let someone else help guide you along. I don't mean disregarding who you are or where you've been, but coming together to share the path ahead. No one says you will step perfectly in sync. In fact, you'll most likely still fumble with the moves or trip over your own feet once in a while. But, oh! the comfort in knowing that you are safe in the arms of another. You're in this together. You still have choices and, of course, affect the dance, but you also have the opportunity to trust your guide and give way to the dance.

Funny how life works. Our faith, along with our ability to love, may have a lot more in common with salsa than I once realized.

Costa Rica, Guatemala and Panama

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 23:22:00 +0000

Con Mucho Gusto

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 19:05:00 +0000

As to be expected considering cultural and regional differences, each Spanish speaking country has its particular words and phrases that are unique to the region. It's interesting to live with a Peruvian family in the Costa RIcan context because I have the opportunity to gather an interesting collection of such phrases, while gaining a perspective on two very different cultures. For me, I have been truly fascinated by the phrase used to express 'you're welcome' upon receiving thanks. I will admit that I am probably an over-thanker. I am uncertain which word I use more-- sorry or thanks. But know that I sincerely mean it when I say it If you ever feel as if I am just being polite or devaluing the meaning of the word, I promise you I truly am thankful. After spending a year in India trying to dispel the word 'thanks' from my vocabulary (where it is both uncommon and superfluous), I am literally thankful to be able to express express thanks once again with words.

In most countries the common response to thank you is 'de nada.' De nada, used to express what we might say as 'you're welcome' literally translates to 'of nothing.' It is rare to hear the words de nada echoed in Costa Rica, however. Here, all respond 'con mucho gusto'-- with much pleasure. To me it is a beautiful thought. Compare the two responses for a moment. 'Of Nothing.' 'With Pleasure.' Kind of different, don't you think? While I might be taking it a trifle too literal, there is a fairly significant distinction between this means nothing to me and this brings pleasure to me.
For a moment, I am reminded of my good southern roots, particularly that of georgia's very own own institution- Chick-fil-A. I will admit that I have always wondered if it is truly 'their pleasure' to serve me up that lemonade and waffle fries, or if the phrase 'my pleasure' is simply a product of the corporate mandate.

What if every act of service that we did for one another was truly an act of pleasure? Not a case where we do something for someone else because it brings us pleasure, but rather one where giving of ourselves or our time to someone else results in genuine joy. What if each act was intentional and involved a meaningful exchange between two persons, not just something that meant 'nothing'. Sometimes, I catch the smile and joy that a Costa RIcan shares with me when responding 'con mucho gusto.' It is at that moment that I am even more thankful for their pleasure than I am for whatever reason it was that prompted me to say thank you. Con Mucho Gusto. I think that is how I'd like to live my life.

an open letter.

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Sat, 21 Feb 2009 23:28:00 +0000

As a student in one of the public school systems of the metro-Atlanta area from kindergarten to high school graduation, I have a lot to be thankful for—a great appreciation for cultural diversity, a life-long commitment to community service, and a love for learning that was fostered by so many teachers and mentors along the way. As a child of the urbanscape; however, I suddenly find myself disadvantaged at all things deemed ‘rural,’ in particular, the process of organic and sustainable agriculture, both critical components of the degree that I am currently seeking. Of course, I can fondly recall planting butter bean seeds in moistened paper towels and watching as the xylem and phloem in celery stalks imbibed red and blue food coloring, but what about understanding our global and local food systems, the very production of the food we eat, and the alternatives that we have as city residents? Perhaps these seem like politicized topics beyond the comprehension capacity of a third grader, but I would like to argue that a more extensive education that encompasses issues of food security, self-production, and health over the span of a public school education is not only possible but should be considered a responsibility of educators to their students. These issues should be incorporated into both the classroom curriculum and also the life training that students receive while at school. The introduction of community gardening and urban agriculture initiatives on school grounds, as part of an overall reform in localizing food systems, is a viable opportunity to build community and self-esteem in students and produce healthier livelihoods in children and their families.

In following the tradition of a liberal arts education that serves a number of students in the US university system, we need to build a curriculum that fosters curiosity and encourages experiential learning beginning in elementary school, creating underpinnings for a deeply rooted, yet ever dynamic education. Included in these foundations should be a deeper understanding of both the global and ecological communities that we are merely a part of. Arguably, a first grader may not understand the implications of monoculture crops on biodiversity, but a high school senior who learned in first grade the value of diversity on earth and something that seems as simple as where a seed comes from, is probably more likely to understand (and dare I say, care) about the effects of agribusinesses on our current state of global food insecurity. In fact, it is probably this young child who has the energy and gumption to challenge the current system and seek justice for the earth and all its inhabitants. After all, I wonder how many parents have finally gotten around to recycling because their child came home from school with the grand scheme of creating a recycling center in the backyard.

Educating our children should be conducted in a more holistic process that incorporates experiences within and beyond the classroom, providing opportunities for lessons on life and reflections on values. It is essential that students understand the choice that they have in the food that goes into their bodies and the process that that food endured to get there, whether it involved food miles, chemical inputs, migrant labor or perhaps, was even grown by themselves. We have a right to know what it is that we put into our bodies, and this knowledge stems from the education that we receive from the start. But, giving students information about the subject matter of food and health is simply not enough. The initiative to make classroom and schools gardens is an important way to promote urban agriculture while helping students understand the how’s and why’s to growing their own food. Don’t believe that agriculture is the answer for us city folks? Consider this: estimates show that 15-20 percent of the world’s food is produced in urban areas. Over the last few weeks I have been learning from small-scale organic and bio-intensive farmers in Costa Rica. In this time, I have noticed a common theme among the farmers in that their conversion to organic methods was not contingent upon fiscal gains but rather, reflected a livelihood transformation committed to health and sustainability for their families and their community. What’s more is that the majority of farmers with whom I spoke, engaged actively in the local schools, so passionate about their own livelihood changes that they were eager to share the knowledge and skills with the students of the local community.

Letting go.

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 01:23:00 +0000

True Statement: The unrealistic parameters that I have created for my life prevent me from fully living. I create these rules and timelines for what my life should look like. I measure out my serving of oatmeal out each morning. I time my runs and count crunches. I grow frustrated when I can’t learn something fast enough or when my work does not meet my expectations. I beat myself up over trying to please others or trying to fix things. I stew over things that I think I’ve done wrong, people that I’ve hurt or who have hurt me, or situations that I just can’t change. I seek to control what is out of my control, at the same time losing control, and just longing for someone else to take control. Funny. The worst part of it all is that I can realize all this and yet I just don’t want to let it go. Why is it so painful to let things go that prevent us from living the life that can be? [And I don’t mean the life that should be or would be (if only…)]

The moments I feel most alive are when I am dancing. Not at a dance class where I am bound to be self-critical or spend my time eyeing the moves of my neighbor. I am talking about middle of the field, drum circle, bonfire, dancing. For once, I don’t care who is there, who is watching me, what I am doing. Not self-conscious. Not shy. Not trying to please others. I am free to explore the rhythms, the energy, the environment. Trancelike I make my way to the center and spin and wave my arms, close my eyes, smiling, twirling, singing my own tune that has nothing to do with the music. There is nowhere else on earth that I should be at this moment. And I feel so alive. I can simply let go.

It is a feeling that, for me, is a conversation, a deep encounter with God. As I relinquish control and feel the energy around me it is the closest I come to knowing what it feels like to let go and simply live. In my opinion, it is a deep loss that the mystic components of many faith traditions are overlooked, scorned or deemed inappropriate for the mainstream institutions that we have created. I think the ancient faith followers understood something that we don’t and braved a tradition that allowed them to feel and experience God with senses that we are merely scared to discover. But, faith is going beyond what we know and the comfort and conformity that we abound in. We live life so rigidly and orderly that we cannot even imagine what it means to let go, embrace the very moment, the music, the context, the encounter. I am not saying we all have to dance. But, I do hope that we each find a release, a way to let go. To let go of the pain, the fears, the mistakes, the past, and find the forgiveness that each day brings and experience the community with God and each other that finally letting go allows.

day two of something new

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 01:19:00 +0000

waste not.
not a grain of rice should be forgotten.

I would say I am fairly good at cleaning my plate.
I have even been known to lick it clean to the dismay
of those with whom i am eating. however, i think i am gaining
a far greater appreciation for eating every morsel.
and, i have never been so meticulous in peeling a carrot.

I am also a fairly picky banana eater. gag reflexes you know.
well, its about the cheapest thing here and if it is mushy and sweet
like it was today than so be it. i was hungry.

here's the line up:

1/2 cup oats
1 orange

3/4 cup brown rice
1/4 tomato
1 pearl onion
1/2 pepper

1 banana

1/2 carrot

3/4 cup brown rice
3/4 cup red beans
1 pearl onion

day 1

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 02:48:00 +0000

To my advantage, I typically fast on Sundays for prayer and reflection so my dollar stretches even further.Chaching!
I broke the fast at dinner time with:

1 cup brown rice
1/4 tomato
1 pearl onion
1/2 a pepper

Here's the interesting part that I never would have thought of: Spices definitely did not
fit in the budget. I snuck a t-tiny bit of salt from the kitchen though. I will pretend that
I live near the sea and have free access to this commodity)

I brushed my teeth so I wouldn't be tempted to cheat.
Toothpaste. a novelty.

dollar a day experiment

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 02:36:00 +0000

This week I have created a small simulation activity for myself. I want to know what it is like to live on a dollar a day. In NO way do I think that I am truly living this life in full solidarity with the people who find this to be their livelihood. After all, I have a kitchen to use, clean clothes and a roof over my head. That is certainly not the case for all. But I am very curious to see how far money goes in buying foods and if it is possible to achieve any resemblance of a nutritious diet on such a limited resource. I will track each day and explain what I ate.

To the market....

I will admit that it was quite a frustrating and humbling trip to the market! I went yesterday to prepare for the week. I spent six of my seven dollars (or 3500 colonnes) and came up with very little to show for myself. However, I did my best to pick the fresh foods and the whole grains. Every Saturday there is a market here so I wanted to stock up on these local foods that will probably be the most nourishing and least expensive. One of the tough parts was not having enough to buy in larger quantities which the majority of vendors preferred. The only protein I could afford was a very small bag of beans. I could not even spare the money to buy a loaf of bread. I think that was the thing that sunk in the most! Kind of makes me hear a bit more fervor in the supplication gave us this day our daily bread

Space

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 00:06:00 +0000

I am not sure what cardinal sin it is to move to Costa Rica and not like coffee. But, in just a few days here I have come to appreciate the plant and beans in a way far more meaningful to me than a mere cup of joe; more simply, I have come to really know coffee. To me, prayer is a space- a space to engage God and be in community with creation. I find myself in constant search of a physical space to encounter this metaphysical space. We'll call it a labrynth. But not simply a maze or a garden designated for prayer-- a place amidst the creation that allows my heart and mind to wander. A space where I can become lost in thought and conversation while remaining mindless to the path before me or the direction of my footsteps. I have discovered that my home here rests on the perimeter of a finca ('little farm') consisting of endless rows of coffee plants. As I wander among these stocky green bushes, teeming with red and black buds just aching to provide the world with a vehicle for awareness, energy and good conversation, I realize that I, myself, can relish in the stimulant effects and mindless familiarity that this plant provides.
So, why is it that it takes a significant transition in my life, a foreign destination perhaps, to push me towards 'space seeking' in search of labrynths and the hands of God? Is it only here, away from the self I know, that I will allow myself the grace to slow down, breathe in, and seek mindfulness for each moment?
over coffee mugs or wandering in fields of coffee.
may we all seek and find space.

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 20:40:00 +0000

Greetings to those who are so gracious to travel alongside me in my journey through life.
I wanted to begin writing again and I am here in Costa Rica experiencing another
slice of creation. I wanted to preserve my reflections from India so I decided
to continue on the same blog. Many blessings and thank you.

my reflections

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 04:54:00 +0000

I am fairly certain that I have only just begun to process my year here in Kerala. But perhaps, that relates to one lesson that I have learned—that the quality of raw food is superior to that of processed ones and that the caliber of handmade, homespun, self-financed goods cannot be replaced by the manufactured ones. Likewise, maybe my initial, raw thoughts and emotions will be more compelling than the thoughts I will take years to process. In fact, I even wonder if we lose some of the heartfelt vigor and ingenuous curiosity when we mull over something for far too long. So here they are, my experiences— honest and unrefined.

Before this year, I really had no concept of just how influential our lives and decisions in America affect countries like India. It is not only corporate America or the policy makers that create impacts, but also each of us as consumers and global citizens. In college I tried to stay informed on global issues, but here, I felt I have lived amongst the issues. It is my neighbors that don’t have enough to eat, who are landless, and who are denied their basic rights. It is tough to realize that your own nation, claiming to be “developed,” has practices and policies that dictate the “development” of other countries.
I have learned that generalizations are useless and quite often, completely off the mark. Just as each state in India varies in culture, food, dress, environment and language, each person is different from the next. I have been, at times, shocked by the many generalizations that have been made about my home or me and this has allowed for self-awareness regarding the generalizations that I make about others.

In Kerala, I have found a new concept of hospitality. I have been welcomed “in” again and again—hosted by friends, families, and complete strangers. I have been made to be like a family member at marriages. I have been served countless cups of tea and been showed off to everyone’s neighbors. More than food and functions, I have consistently found grace in others-- when I fumble with my very few Malayalam words or have my churidar top tucked into my pants, when my hairstyle is wrong or I am clueless to what is going on, when I have too much pride to ask for directions or help I have found friends who will take me as I am, genuinely interested in my life. I hope that I can take this with me and learn to be a gracious host and an ever-grateful guest.

Yet, while I want to be a grateful guest, I have also realized the need to feel as an integrated part of a community. At times, it has been a challenge to find the balance of being a part of a culture and observing all that that entails without losing your own identity or compromising what you hold true. But in seeking this balance, I have encountered many revelations about my world, my faith, and myself and been given the opportunity to more solidly form my own identity and the truths that I claim.

Most importantly, my year has been shaped and hugely impacted by a deeper understanding of Jesus’ radical ministry. My worldview has been shifted by find the Jesus who engages in social justice. I found that I have detached Jesus from social justice compartmentalizing the two into different passions of mine. But now I see that Jesus represents justice, equality and a kingdom that is unlike any political empire that has ever existed. As we have delved into the marginalized people that Jesus restores, I am discovering the variety of the marginalized in my own community here. These people are not only the poor, the sick, the different, but also the neglected, the women, the children. And, it was these very people that Jesus made the center of His ministry while using signs to point to larger social issues.

Contrast

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 04:30:00 +0000

I know I will be asked to describe India. How was it? What is it like? I already hear the questions looming.

To capture a year of experiences, a life lived in a new place is a challenge in itself. But, trying to capture a whole counrty and hundreds of years of history and civilization by describing a year in one tiny corner of the country will be defeating. All I can offer is my own limited experiences, albeit fulfilling and life-enriching ones.

I might attempt to depict India as a land of extremes. The striking sun clashing with the pounding rains. Arguably one of the most ecologically prized landscapes, dotted with piles of waste. An elephant working beside a bulldozer. A bullock cart beside a Land Cruiser. Never have I seen the juxtaposition between the haves and have-nots so strikingly obvious. The highest and the lowest placed one next to the other. Where neighbors coexist with great dichotomy—a grand estate flanked by a tiny colony of umbrella dwellers. Here, you will find hospitality like you’ve never seen. Simultaneously, a class system pervades the social structure and, albeit a Hindu construct, continues to dictate the underpinnings of the Church.

Contrasts. A concrete one room house with dirt floors and a family hovered around a television. Emaciated and corpulent. No scraps wasted; no scraps used. The same stick used by the same teacher to both hit a child and also affectionately tease a child.

Contradictions. Watching a highly educated and established woman belittled and berated by her husband. Seeing a family home broken apart in order to provide for the demands for a daughter's new family. Finding a place that is legendary for its natural health therapies suddenly inundated with imported processed foods. The politics and culture of an infant country (such as America) influencing the very livelihood of the people in a country with such an ancient and rich heritage (such as India).

Interestingly, one of the greatest contrasts I have learned in the year is the perception of my country and that that is my country. Stepping into a new place, you learn about your own. You learn that no country has it perfect. No country has it right. No country has the authority to dominate another. And, no country or people can be generalized or described in a matter of words.

Common Threads

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 09:14:00 +0000

Manninda manum. “The flavor of the sand.” It’s a Malayalam phrase the postman taught me that captures the essence of sustainability. Essentially, there is no paradigm of development that can be applied to an entire global context. The “flavor of the sand” dictates the needs as well as the sources of livelihood of a community.

One thing I have learned while in India is that it is futile to generalize. The stark contrast among states in India, is proof alone that diversity reigns. In traveling, I have come to realize that not only do the physical environments change with each border crossing, but also the tastes, the dress, the language, the customs, the sights, and the sounds. Like the character of each state, people are very different.

A favorite song among our group is titled Common Thread and describes unity among diversity. There is one stanza that depicts sustainability (it’s also given me words to describe my own decision in being a vegetarian!)

"We can feed our grain to cattle and the rich men will be fed;
we will rise all together we will rise
Or we’ll feed our grain to people so that millions will have bread;
we will rise all together, we will rise.
We will rise like the ocean, we will rise like the sun.
We will rise all together, we will rise.
No more will there be hunger in these strands of common thread,
We will rise all together, we will rise."

Maintaining the livelihood of marginalized people requires sustainable measures. I am discovering that sustainable development encompasses far more than the efficient use of available natural resources by a community. It includes sustainable economics and politics, agricultural and industrial practices. We are quick to distinguish between the “developed” and “developing.” Perhaps “developed” countries can look to “developing” countries for natural and basic solutions to the complicated problems that have resulted from our expansionist mindset and prevalent consumerism-- co-ops of women creating recycled papers and homemade soaps or men who come to the shore with the sun carrying the fish that will provide for their family’s daily meal. Fuel created from vegetable scraps, rainwater harvesting. Lives that seem rudimentary or “developing.” Simply. People living life so as to meet their basic needs. Simply.

As the “flavor of the sand,” it is essential that sustainability be incorporated according to a people and a place. It is only then that the strands can be woven into a common thread.
While the thread is strengthened by the addition of each strand, the simple fibers must also be able to maintain their elements, resilient at the core.

Empowered

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 10:03:00 +0000

One of the greatest joys of my year has been working at Jyothis- Home of Love. It is a home and school for students with special needs. Amidst the chaos this place exudes, I find it a personal haven of peace. I am readily accepted-- my hand is always held or high-fived. It doesn’t particularly matter that I am not fluent in the language; communication at Jyothis transcends words. There’s Jojo, the self-appointed grass cutter with a temper that can change in an instant; Annie who says hello to me and then hides her face at least once a minute; Srudie with the sweetest smile; Bapu who tries to escape or drive away on the bus daily; Jerren who adores Cricket and is the handy man of the crowd. The disabilities vary greatly, but here is a place where I see the students taking care of each other even when the rest of the world has become distracted with its own needs.
As I watched the students standing in an assembly line to pass bricks up for roof repair, I witnessed the difference between simply helping someone and actually empowering that person to do something. For the past month, we have been making paper bags in the vocational class out of old newspapers. As the stack of bags swells, so does the confidence and ingenuous pride of the each student in the class. The completed bags are sold for a small amount at the local produce shop. It may seem like a trivial task to make a bag out of a newspaper, but for some, it is the completion of a monumental task. Each completed bag is an affirmation of one’s abilities and sufficiency.
The miraculous signs that Jesus performed during his lifetime meant far more than healing of the body or spirit. In fact, if we get caught trying to determine the means, probability and extraordinaire of it all than we are missing the point. This was no magic show. Jesus sought to empower the powerless, the marginalized, the outcastes. He gave a voice to the silent and strength to the weak. The freedom was not so much in the healing as it was in the implications that being healed brought- the acceptance into a society that for so long had shunned this exiled individual. By empowering these people—to walk, to see, to enter the temple—Jesus’ healings point to a necessary paradigm shift in the power structure and the society’s acceptance of others.

CLEAN

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Fri, 16 May 2008 10:35:00 +0000

Cleanliness is relative. At least that is what I keep telling myself. I am a product of an anti-bacterial dousing, Lysol engulfing, don’t drink after anyone culture. I am learning to give that up really quickly, let me tell you. When it comes to the issues of neatness and germs, I lean towards the “I suffer from OCD tendencies,” category. Just ask my roommates. One of the toughest habits that I am quickly being forced to break is living according to my preconceived notions of cleanliness. Here, I cannot always wash my hands before I eat -- even if I just touched the hands of 80 small children. We share glasses. Many dishes are cleaned with no more than a quick swirl of hand and water. Have I drilled it enough that we don’t use toilet paper? Each morning I wake up to a find a small pile of the door by the door. The ants are literally eating away at the door. I can see through the door in some parts and I am just waiting for the day when I wake up to the sun shining bright through my non-existent door.

But, I will tell you one thing. I am learning to be humble and to let things go. When I see day after day the aching dirty soles of laboring feet I can better comprehend the biblical significance of feet washing and the precious gift to whom it was bestowed upon. Jesus ate with those considered unclean. Did you get that? He actually sat down and ate a meal with them. He lived among these people. And I can hardly go anywhere without my anti-bacterial hand gel and miniature roll of toilet paper. In India, there are often restrictions for women who are menstruating. There are some temples that women cannot enter in the entire span of their childbearing years. They are considered unclean. I think I am beginning to see that cleanliness is more than pressed clothes, clean ears, and fresh sheets. It is a way of living. Like a cold shower on a hot day, we should revel in the company and lives of other whether the society tells us they are clean or unclean.

SOLIDARITY

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Fri, 16 May 2008 10:33:00 +0000

I have tossed this word around so many times over the year. I have heard it claimed at lectures and conferences and read it in the papers. As a tune stuck on repeat in my head, so is this word. What does it really mean to be in solidarity with others? To be in solidarity with the poor? To be in solidarity with the marginalized? If I am not considered a part of the “untouchable class” than how am I to place myself as one with these people? I have spent many days seeking to extrapolate more than the meaning of this noun- rather to understand how to live the word more as a verb form. What does it really look like to live in solidarity with others?

Well, for starts there is the idea of conformity. This approach would call me to give up my cultural identity and the underpinnings of my life as I know it. I could “do as the Romans.” But, I soon realize that the way in which we see and discover the world is shaped by the lens of our background. There really is no way to completely remove our experiences, traditions and history. Perhaps the lesson here is bring who we are into a new place with the flexibility and open mindedness to embrace and respect a culture different from our own with the knowledge that things will be different.

Well then, how about giving up all that I have and living on the streets with the impoverished themselves? Hmmm. I am not really sure what this is doing and if this “solution” offers anything more than to make me “feel better.” We have been entrusted with tools among which are education, health, food, and shelter that, if left unused, then we would be wasting the instruments by which we can serve others. The reality is we can choose simpler lifestyles without throwing it all out.

We can be in solidarity by sharing what we have and who we are- by regarding both the material wealth and also the intangible gifts that we possess as something that is entrusted in our care for the benefit of more than ourselves. I am far from discovering the perfect picture of solidarity, but I think I shared in a moment of it this week. It was really quite simple. Nothing spectacular. I didn’t really feel accomplished or like I made a huge revelation. It was just a simple moment that impacted my own being.

Against their garrulous protesting, I got to spend an hour weeding the grounds with the mess staff. In Malayalam I was given a list of excuses why I shouldn’t dare be among them working like this- I would get dirty, I had better things to do, I was the teacher. I was able to show them in my actions that I value what they do, I want them to allow me to share in their burden. I tried to convey in words that this was my home too, that I enjoyed being with them and doing this work I don’t want anyone (including myself or them) to put us on two different planes because I am a foreigner, or educated, or a teacher, or have more financial resources. Being in solidarity is sharing in struggles and causes, it’s placing yourself along side others, it’s sharing your gifts, it’s living out your life among the lives of others and affirming their lives, livelihood and existence in this world.

FACE

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 11:13:00 +0000

How does one ever become "used to" looking in the face of poverty?

I guess that is just it- we don't look. We don't look into the face because somehow, if we don't ascribe a name, an age, a story, a life to the outstretched hands and pleading voice, then, somehow, this human exists as nothing more than an institution we call poverty.

The poverty in India is grotesque. The majority of beggars that I encounter here are either physically deformed or children. These young children display a certain feral demeanor; their wild hair and torn clothes, caked in dirt. Even before the availability of words, they have been taught to be frighteningly relentless. This is survival.

Thus, the paradox of poverty.

I remember the conundrum well in America. Do you give the beggar a few coins? Do you take your chances at inviting them in to a meal? Do you point them in the direction of the nearest shelter?

How can I reject money from the glaring eyes, the desperate mother, the crying child? In all honestly, what will my meager change do? Do I perpetuate a system that perhaps fills a stomach today but leaves it once more empty tomorrow? Do I continue to teach this child that it is ok for him to skip out on school for the day so that he can gather enough rupees for his daily sustenance?

I don't know.

Sadly, I can imagine that, even here, there are places that one could shield his or herself away from the eyesore that it is and perhaps, live a life in which even the knowledge of poverty was non-existent. Ignorance is bliss.

So, perhaps, recognition—giving poverty a face—is one of the first steps to the solution. I won't give you a rupee right now, but I will look you in the eye and promise in my heart that I will commit myself to changes in my own life and in the systems that deprive you of your rights and livelihood.

**Give us our daily bread not only that we may have enough to eat, but also that we may be empowered by You with the courage to share, change and live in solidarity with your Creation

BROKEN

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 13:22:00 +0000

An honest confession of my life

Throughout college, I prayed for brokenness that I might experience a deeper longing and need for God; a prayer that I might be humbled. During my last time living a broad, I experienced a certain personal brokenness that allowed me to examine a lifestyle that I was living that was consumed by stress, anxiety, inadequacy and a longing to please others. On the outside my face contorted to flash my carefree smile; on the inside I was churning with guilt, self-loathing and anxiety. I was living a life that felt only like a shadow of who I always was and who I thought I was expected to be. For me, these were dark days. But you cannot escape yourself. Over the next two years, I began learning how to like myself again and am transitioning into a time where I can love myself as a creation of God and a vessel for God’s purposes. It has been a long battle with myself.

This year, I have continued to face these struggles, even ones that I thought I had conquered but perhaps have only pushed aside. When you are somewhere on your own with no one who has known you or your battles, your weaknesses and fears suddenly hover around you. There are less ways to distract yourself, be a busy body, or escape from life’s confrontations. Even here, I find myself exhausted and guilt-driven in trying to please others. Let me say that a life controlled by trying to please others can hardly be described as “living.” And when you are straddled between two worlds, two homes—you can certainly not live to please all.

My most recent experience was as such. I spent the first few months at the hostel literally intimidated by the 2nd year students. (Mind you they are 5 years younger than me). Even still, I found myself nervous to see them, and make the wrong impression or having to really push myself to reach out to them, enter their rooms, or at times, even strike up a conversation. For one, they are a very tight knit group that does everything together and generally sticks to them selves. They are that “cool group” that must be in existence universally. They even threw their “gang sign” at me in passing. They are the rebels of the hostel, the fashion queens, the beauties. And I? I was intimidated. And, like so often, I just wanted to make them happy and for them to like me. One day as I rounded the corner of the basketball court during my afternoon run, I happened to see that they were all sitting their watching me. Oh, well this is just great. Here I am in my horribly smelly clothes, self-consciously running as they stare at me. I flung my hand up in my best wave—slipped on a rock and completely busted it. I mean lying flat on the ground. Talk about being brought down to your knees and humbled. As these girls ran over to me, they appeared to want nothing more than be my friend. My pride and fears prevented me from relationships with these girls.

Real relationships are not about pleasing others. I write this as I sit here convincing myself of this truth. Here in India, I am slammed with this: I cannot give food or money to every person that asks me. I cannot be everywhere that everyone wants me to be. I cannot do everything that everyone wants me to do. I cannot be everything that everyone wants me to be. To love others, we must love ourselves. Without accepting this, we cannot serve others. It requires forgiveness to ourselves that we cannot please everyone or be perfect-- a life lived seeking to do so is not trusting in the existence of Grace.

RELEASE

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 13:20:00 +0000

When I spent Christmas on a pilgrimage journey, I had no idea that my Easter would come a little close to feeling like a tomb. As the hostel closed, I ventured off to stay with my other volunteer friend Laura for the holiday weekend. On Good Friday, she woke with a stomach bug. Perhaps you’ve had one, you know you feel pretty crummy all day, lie on the sofa, eat saltines and jello and after some rest you’re up on your feet again. Well, that is NOT how things are done in India. You go to the hospital and get pumped with 5 glucose IV bags and a plethora of shots and pills. After two nights sleeping in the hospital together, we were promised that she would be discharged on Easter morning. Hallelujah. We joked about leaving the tomb (a small hospital room with a bed and cot ) on Easter. How fitting. But by Sunday afternoon, this was no joking matter. Laura felt fine with the exception of being a bit tired. I mean she was even eating ice cream for pete’s sake. We were bored out of our minds. To pass the time we played games, learned each other’s entire life history (we are talking about the full length history of crushes since elementary school until present even), and when we just about to go insane Laura says, “We could put our feet on the wall.” Well, there’s some entertainment for you! We were the only patients (by we I mean she…I was just trying to be patient) on the entire ward so we were the only form of entertainment for the nursing staff of six—they seriously thought we were nuts. We sang Christmas songs with the nurses at their insistence and were constantly quizzed on our Malayalam.

On Sunday afternoon when I got up the nerve to ask the nurse, “So, when can we leave,” I was quite dismayed when she looked at me and said, “Tomorrow,” with the biggest smile. “WHAT! Are you kidding me. This is ridiculous. Why? She is fine.” Oops, the not so patient Katherine cried out! “Are you sad?” she inquired with an equally large flash of a smile. Sad maybe wasn’t the best way to describe how I was feeling. I was going insane in this small room, convinced that Laura must be get sick just by being confined to the four walls, and frustrated that they would not free us! I do not get angry very often, but there was no mistaking it this time. I was in a huff. I walked out of the room and out into the sunlight (it had been raining all week). I wanted to scream! Why would they keep us in here on Easter of all days? How unfair.

Suddenly it hit me. Not only was I stuck in this hospital room, but also I was still living in the tomb. The Lord had risen and left the tomb, but I was living like he was still behind the stone and shrouded in white cloth. I was seething in frustration and selfishly wallowing in the unfairness of our situation. I wasn’t living the Joy that was the celebration of the entire Easter season- the Resurrection, the conquering of the tomb, the joy in new life. Whether it was a hospital bed or not, we had a bed, we had food, we had friends. And, we had the Joy that this is not the end. No. Because of the gift that was given this day so many years ago, the beginning is to come and is far greater.

NEIGHBOR

noreply@blogger.com (Katherine) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 09:55:00 +0000

My neighbors live under an umbrella. Literally. There is a little village comprised of makeshift umbrella and plastic homes. I walk by and see them huddled around a small pot cooking their rice. I stop and chat for a few moments when I walk by their little neighborhood. Unlike other neighbors, they don’t invite me in for a cup of chai. How do you invite someone under your umbrella? But, they are quick for a smile and life just keeps on going. There’s no shock here. These are my neighbors these are my friends. I have friends that live under umbrellas. And the world keeps whizzing on by.

The more I learn, the more skeptical I become of globalization. The word tends to bring negative connotations. In kindergarten you take pride in the Pinta, Nina, and Santa Marina, but by high school you are equating Columbus with syphilis. If we journey back through history, we find that many global encounters are the result of treasure-hunting, conquering crusades, wars, and trade. The intentions all revolve around the what can you give me scenario. I am beginning to wonder if a simple longing to know one’s neighbor has ever spawned globalization on. I want to reclaim globalization. I want to make it a positive venture. After all, perhaps my mission is simply to know my neighbors. Jesus asked who are our neighbors? For me, I am spending a year meeting neighbors that are thousands of miles away from my actual home. It’s not uncommon to find physicals fences and walls between neighbors. And sure, there are plenty of walls and fences between me and my neighbors in India. But I cannot let those be barriers to knowing my neighbors.