Photos 2

These pictures are mostly of areas I´ve been directed away from. Seriously, I´ve been stopped five times, twice by police, telling me I´m in the wrong part of town, that it´s dangerous for me to walk where I was walking. I was a bit more uncomfortable when the policemen followed me than I was just walking around. I learned that there is an increase in crime, and an increased intention to protect tourists. That would be me. Even civilians are doing their parts. The sad part for me is that those places are quiet, and I´m longing for quiet. And ... the areas have a particular kind of beauty that the safe areas of town just don´t have. I´m sure somewhere in Panama I can find quiet, beautiful, and safe. That´s the mission next week.

The picture directly above was, I think, once upon a time, a playground. There are no children now in the area.

I like the trees. You´ll probably get a few more pictures of them. Flowers, too, and some wildlife. Stay tuned. The picture below is of a building on 4 de Julio; it caught my eye because of the clothes hanging from the balcony. I´m not sure what the exhaust from the countless vehicles does for them, but I do imagine they´re dry.

Photos 1

The church to the left is part of the Diocesan Office complex, where I´m staying. It´s in the Canal Zone, which is remarkably Americanized still. It was established by the American Government when the Canal was being built. The sign that says 4 DE JULIO refers to the street in front of it, which is also referred to as the Ave of the Martyrs. More about that in another post. The phone booth -- that´s just for Paigie. I wanted picture of the city streets and a square, which is what the picture in the top right is about, but notice, too, the women in the Indigenous clothes. I see them frequently and haven´t yet spoken to them, so I can´t tell you much more. The plaza picture has a sign you probably can´t read. It says, ¨NI MILLONES NI LIMOSNAS OVEREMOS JUSTICIA.¨ What it means? I´m not sure, and I´ll be grateful to anyone who can tell me.

Moved to Tears

Generally, it’s the opening strains of The Gloria in Spanish that move me, that bring tears to my eyes and make it just a little bit harder to breathe. Okay, in all fairness, the physical space that is St. John’s Episcopal Church in Sparta has always possessed the spirit to move me emotionally. It’s only as I’ve moved closer to my trip that I’ve noticed my susceptibility to The Gloria. So, today, as it was the last time I would be hearing it until I return, I was prepared to really start crying at those first notes, and I was grateful to breathe my way through that. I was touched by the faces in the congregation as one woman read the lessons. One little man has just started walking, and I thought today that I would miss him beginning to run in the narthex. Then we started reading the psalm together. I was pleased to know that I could keep up. I’ve noticed, as I get closer to my immersion, that there has been some improvement in my Spanish. Words are more readily available. My pronunciation has gotten better. I don’t feel so compelled to speak so quickly. Anyway, as we were reading the psalm, I listened to the parishioners’ voices and realized how much I wanted my voice to join theirs, and that took my breath away. As the second lesson was being read, I started thinking about the Gospel and how I wouldn’t proclaim it again at St. John’s until my return in 12 weeks. (There’s a possibility I will be able to proclaim it in a church in Central America … and please God let me proclaim it with my life!) I wondered how I would get through the reading. It was wonder-worthy. As I was reading, it occurred to me: The Gospel is why I’m going. I heard that, and I heard two meanings of it. I’m going in order to read it in Spanish with emphasis and clarity, and I’m going because the Gospel tells us all to go. It’s the clearest I’ve heard Jesus saying, “Follow me,” and I’m joyful at the voice that can move me to tears.

Brave or Blessed?

I’ve been hearing a lot lately that what I’m doing is a brave thing, a courageous thing. I don’t know about that. It started out as something I really wanted to do, something I had lamented not being able to do in high school or college, and somewhere along the way, it seems to be have become a calling. My priest told me, when I was in discernment for the diaconate, that a calling was God affirming our own inclination. I’ve been inclined to go on this trip, and it seems that God has affirmed it. The thing about a call, though, is that once you’ve responded to it, you in some way give away your choice – willingly, joyfully, gratefully give away your choice. How does one say “yes” to God and then take it back? It seems to be a bit like a pregnant woman saying sometime around the eighth month that she’s changed her mind and has decided not to push a 35 cm head through a 10 cm cervix. There’s not much of a choice there. Somewhere along the way, she gave away her choice – willingly, joyfully, gratefully gave away her choice. And maybe a woman giving birth is brave and courageous, and maybe what I’m doing is, too. I don’t feel brave or courageous. I feel vulnerable and grateful. I feel blessed.

Following Up

I’d mentioned in an earlier entry that I had a few thoughts about going, being gone, and coming home that I would share later. Well, it’s later.

I’d made the decision to take this trip back in September. My mom had just died, and I’m not sure that my going away was unrelated. I’ve had a long time to think about being gone. Folks have asked if I’m scared, and I’ve said that my apprehensions have been more intra-psychic than anything external. I have separation issues, concerns that I’m going to be forgotten or replaced. Those concerns aren’t unrelated to how I’ve interpreted and made sense of my childhood. I had an experience recently that has allowed me to let go of some of that. I’m less concerned about being forgotten or replaced. It’s occurred to me that if I really have a place in someone’s world, then they’ll perhaps look for me when I’m gone. And if they don’t look, then perhaps I never really had a place in their world to begin with. Coming to some acceptance and peace around the idea that that’s true regarding some people currently in my world is taking some work. It seems to be pressing a bit more the closer I come to leaving, and I know that I have a tendency to push people away and then withdraw myself. At the heart of my being I want not to do that.

Also tapping a bit more clearly the closer I get to my trip is the reality of what I’m doing. Travelling alone to an area where I’m no kind of fluent in the language or culture, an area too familiar with hurricanes, political unrest, drugs, and gangs. Traveling with few plans and relying on the kindness of strangers. Traveling with little more than faith and the knowledge that money could buy my way home, my way out. Those are not small things, and I want very much for them to be enough.

Being gone? I have no idea what to write about that. I remember my first experience in Oaxaca and my second experience in Oaxaca, and I know that the places I’m going are different than Oaxaca … and maybe not so different. I know I’m different. Since those first two trips, the second one more than two years ago now, my awareness of the disparity between those with and those without – money, freedom, security, peace – has become greater, and my dis-ease with that disease has increased in response.

Which brings me to coming home. I’ve been saying that I’m already annoyed with America and don’t imagine that three months in Central America is going to improve that any. I’m a bit afraid of how I’ll feel coming home – overwhelmed, ashamed, frustrated, pained. I remember re-entry from my first trip to Oaxaca. We were only gone eight days, and I travelled with other people, but re-entry was really hard. And … I know what that trip did to me, how it changed me. I think I’ve changed a lot in the past four years, and I’m moving further and further from who I knew Janet to be, which moves me further and further from who I understand others to be.

I’m going with the hopes of being changed, I don’t know what will bring about the change while I’m there, and I’m worried about what that change will mean when I return. The only thing to do, I know, is to put the business of transformation into the hands of the only one who manages it anyway. Thanks be to God.