to be a bird

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

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)

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

Con Mucho Gusto

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.

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.

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.