Quote

"'It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door,' he used to say. 'You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.'" -- J.R.R. Tolkien

Friday, April 27, 2012

One Month


It’s more than a little crazy to think that in one month I’ll be home. 

Has the time gone by quickly?  Well, there have been more than a few occasions where I’ve said to myself, “This is never going to END,” and an equal number of times where I’ve thought, “Man, I need more TIME.”  But 9 months is what I’ve got and, as Fr. Iván told me once, I have to stick to what I decided.  He told me that some people come to Bolivia for a matter of weeks and others for a number of years.  But regardless of the time spent here, you never really leave finished; there is always more to be done, more work that God wants to do within and through you.  But God also waits for me en el otro lado, he told me.  The other side.  Back home.  And so that is where I need to go on May 25th.  That is where I will find God, where I will find whatever the next step is for me.

But here I am at the one month mark, and to commemorate the occasion I thought, “I should make a list of things to accomplish in these final days.”  So I started:

1. Finish another chapter of my story
2. Try to write another blog post
3. Run through the Rosetta Stone program
            (really, just another way to say GET BETTER AT SPANISH)
4. Buy a hammock
5. Go running
            (I’ve told myself that every week since I got here)

I put the pencil down, reviewed my list.  “Well,” I said to myself.  “Somewhat weak.”  I decided to nix the list.  After all, I said to myself, I’ve already been operating under the expectation of so many goals throughout these past 8 months; I should just stick to those and see them through to the best of my ability: pray, be present to people, be open to each moment, be my best self for others, read, write.  Harder things to accomplish, a bit vague, but certainly things that deserve continued attention.

Really, as I come to the end of my time, I find myself returning to those original reasons why I set out in the first place.  Certainly, I was seeking after God, but there are a lot of ways to do that which don’t involve the country of Bolivia, an interval of 9 months, a new language, and a host of other things integral to this particular experience.  It seems to me that the first thing we think of -- the first thing I thought of, at least -- when discerning some type of service is an encounter with poverty, whether that poverty be at home or abroad.  And so perhaps it is within this idea of poverty that I find my original intentions for leaving home 8 months ago.  Here are a few snapshots… 

I’ve been thinking a lot about poverty the past few weeks.  It’s hard not to.  On a rainy day like today, I’m reminded of those of my neighbors’ homes that are most likely flooded because they have little more than leaves and branches for roofs, little more than mud and wood for walls.  I am, in fact, surrounded by poverty, being in the poorest South American country, living in a little town that only the best of dart throwers could pinpoint on a map.  Few roads are paved, houses are small and constructed out of what people have on hand, families are much too large for the house in which they live, the few clothes people have are usually hand-me-downs, and kids make do playing with torn and tattered soccer balls.  I am still embarrassed to answer people when they ask me how much my computer cost or even the old sneakers I wear.  Our friends and neighbors work so hard -- multiple jobs, at times -- and can hardly make due.  Martha, for example, who cleans the school, who works diligently every day, who has four of the cutest little girls ever, doesn’t have enough money to replace the phone she dropped in a puddle and so can’t receive calls from her son in Santa Cruz who has recently been released from something like a juvenile detention center. 

And yet, everyone gives a few pesos to the collection at mass (except for the cheap American who has again forgotten his pile of coins in his room).  Whenever we visit a neighbor’s house, a liter or two of Coca-Cola appears on the table.  We’ve gone to a handful of inaugurations that involves dances and plays and I’ve never seen such elaborate, beautiful costumes and intricate sets.  And all the kids in my classes have a nicer cell phone than I do.

In the eighth grade class in the Japanese school a week or so ago we were discussing an article about fast-food in the U.S. and how bad it is for a person’s health.  That got us talking about how it’s often the poorest of the poor who are stuck in cycles of bad health because they can only afford the cheap, unhealthy food.  And I kept thinking, “Wait -- aren’t these the poorest of the poor?”  But still, we were talking about how they needed to be mindful of food prices and how that might affect a developing country like this one when it comes to health and globalization.  (We have INTENSE eighth grade English classes.)     

We’ve begun meeting with a group of 7th and 8th grade girls who are going to start coming with us on our community visits to help us ‘animate’ the kids with songs, dances, stories, and plays.  One of the goals here is that these girls learn what it means to serve others, especially the poor.  “But wait,” I thought.  “Aren’t they the poor?”  Yet, just because you’re with poor people doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t still be encouraging others to help the less fortunate, even if that is the person next door.  Sor Nora has often said to us how important it is to work for and with the poor of the world -- a woman who herself is no stranger to poverty. 

We were invited to the Yungas by Sor Nora mid-March to see the town where she grew up and meet her mother.  A 19-hour bus ride from Santa Cruz to La Paz turned into a 39-hour one when we got stuck in a 20-hour blockade.  (Saint Patrick’s Day was something of a bust.)  Blockades aren’t unusual in Bolivia,  though, and so we walked up and down the road, talking to our fellow frustrated travelers, shaking our heads in sadness at the amount of livestock forced to remain upright in the burning sun within their mobile cages, trying to scrounge up a bit of food (there wasn’t much), and swimming in the nearby river.  It was quite a sight, and it wasn’t until the 16th hour of the blockade that the police finally marched through to (we hoped) put an end to the nonsense.  About two hours later the men and women who were responsible for the blockade passed through to the unhappy snarls and unpleasant words of their fellow citizens.  And we started moving.  It was an experience, to say the least, foreign to my own sense of what it means to participate in politics, but was it one of poverty?  Blockades are one way in which things get done in Bolivia; it’s just another way of doing things and it’s a relatively effective one. 

We often comment on the tiny stores that line the street here in Okinawa.  There are a handful of them and they all sell exactly the same things.  And we say, “If they just diversified or advertised or put in a little more effort, they’d make so much more money!”  But really what we’re saying is, “If they just did capitalism our way, it would make more sense to us.”  Sure, they might make more money.  Maybe they wouldn’t.  But I think what’s worth noting is that just because they’re doing it differently doesn’t mean they’re doomed to poverty.  It means they’re doing it differently, their own way, and we have to learn to respect that no matter how frustrating it at times is. 

Just because there are cows and goats and pigs and chickens and dogs that roam the streets without a care in the world doesn’t mean I’m in a poor place.  It means I’m in a place where cows and goats and pigs and chickens and dogs roam the streets.

And the people: We’ve been taught how to make a cake, been provided with ingredients and instructions free of charge by Mary, a mom of one of our students.  Sor Nora’s mom made lunch and dinner for us when we were in her house, shared stories and showed us Incan artifacts that they happened to stumble upon one day (they’re now holding plants).  Paulina showed us the hammock she’s making and walked us through a few of the steps.  And when I was in Ecuador visiting Alli (it was a great time; ask me about it!), I was constantly the guest of one neighbor or the other, receiving food and stories and anything else they had to give.  Not only are people willing to give what they have, but I am constantly reminded of what I don’t know, what I don’t have. 

We all have our skills and gifts and little things to share. 

I’m not sure what my point is in saying all of this.  Of course, the people here are poor, and it is good and right and necessary that we -- the more privileged members of the global society -- do all we can to fight the evils of poverty.  But I’m poor, too.  Certainly, after this year my checking account is running a little low, but there’s a spiritual poverty to be fought as well.  There’s something that runs deeper within us all that says, “Yes, we must look to our fellow human and meet them where we are, try to fill in the holes in their lives as best we can.”  That might mean making a cake.  That might mean teaching poor young women to go out and work with those who are even poorer than they are.  Or it might simply mean being a presence to a neighbor. 

I don’t know if it’s right to say I came to Bolivia to see poverty.  Yes, it’s important, but you can see poverty on National Geographic or read about it in a book.  I think I came to Bolivia to encounter a dignity full of hope, and here that dignity lies within poverty.  It’s a dignity that says, “Yes, we’re poor, but we still live.”  It’s a dignity that reminds me that I’m poor, too.  That we’re all poor in one way or another.  That I can merely step outside on 119 Regency Drive in Pennsylvania and meet a poor person.  The essential piece is the encounter.  An encounter implies a meeting of people, of souls on the journey.  Poverty is an evil, one that we should all be fighting at every juncture of our lives, in whatever ways we can.  But poverty is not a people, and I think that’s what I needed to be reminded of.

I used to get hung up on that part in the Gospel where the woman anoints Jesus’ feet with expensive oil and the disciples get irritated at her.  “Why not sell that and give it to the poor?” they say.  A good question!  But Jesus says that the poor are always with us, that the woman has chosen the better part because Jesus will not always be.  What?  Jesus IS always with us, and every little bit counts for alleviating poverty, right?  Perhaps.  But the woman in this story has reminded us of the importance of the encounter, of having the opportunity to display that hopeful dignity.  Throwing money at some nameless face -- “the poor” -- is a far cry from a real human encounter, a real human relationship. 

We don’t see that woman again in the Bible, or if we do, I don’t know about it.  Does she even have a name?  But look at how important that one encounter was, that simple moment of presence.  Some relationships last a long time; others may be a mere glance or smile.  But shouldn’t we make each relationship count, no matter the duration?  Shouldn’t we use each of our relationships, each of our daily encounters to try and alleviate a bit of the poverty we see around us, to try to fill the holes that we find in each one of us?  I’m only here one month more, and I’m still meeting new people.  How long will I know them, will we be in each others lives?  Perhaps no more than a few moments, a dinner, a week.  It can’t matter.  Each moment, each relationship, each encounter is an opportunity to affirm the dignity of another, to allow them to affirm my own dignity, and together to hope for something more.

In a few weeks we’ll celebrate the Ascension of Jesus into heaven.  Jesus does leave us; his earthly ministry does have an end.  It is in leaving that he gives his disciples the strength to continue his work.  It’s an exercise in saying goodbye, in forward motion, in love and hope and prayer.  We can’t cling to the things around us; everything has its end.  All we can do is keep moving forward, keep meeting those other travelers on the road, keep smiling. 




Thursday, February 23, 2012

Crossroads of Culture

It’s good to be busy again.

Classes are in full swing, and I’m helping to teach English at two different schools.  I spend Mondays and Tuesday and Thursday afternoons at the Japanese school.  These are the kids of the wealthier Japanese immigrants, the ones who own massive amounts of farm land and incredibly beautiful homes, even by U.S. standards.  The school is small, and the kids, in general, are eager to learn.  The spend their mornings in classes taught in Spanish and their afternoons learning in Japanese, minus the handful of times each week Veronica—the English teacher—and I come by to throw a third language in the mix.  It’s a relaxed atmosphere: the kids, more or less, pay attention and so Veronica and I can split the classes to work on different exercises or devote a good amount of time to pronunciation or individual activities.  But working in this school—still a Bolivian school—is perhaps just the most obvious reminder of the fascinating crossroad of cultures at which I find myself standing.  Although the Japanese immigrants first came to Bolivia and various other parts of South America after World War II—a direct result of the damage done to the Japanese island of Okinawa—there is still a tremendous cultural divide.  The Japanese worked hard when they arrived here; they turned immense tracts of forest into useable farmlands with the permission of the then-current Bolivian government.  Thus, they found themselves in possession of important economic and natural resources, and soon Bolivians from all over were coming to Okinawa, finding themselves working for Japanese bosses.  Today the divide is dramatically apparent, as the native Bolivians go home to wooden shacks, to bathrooms that flood when the river rises to high, to roofs that do next to nothing when it rains.  The Japanese go home to things very much resembling mansions.  The Bolivians speak Spanish and in many cases a handful of indigenous languages.  The Japanese speak Japanese, and when necessary, enough Spanish to get by.  And, as Katie and I discovered first hand this past weekend what we probably could have guessed at, the two cultures don’t necessarily promote intermingling—we were invited to a Japanese ‘hang-out’, surrounded by Japanese descendants near our age, listening to far more conversations in Japanese than Spanish, and were told that Bolivians weren’t invited, only Japanese were, and we’d only managed to find our way inside because we’d been brought in as guests. 

As you can imagine, the Wednesday and Friday afternoons I spend team-teaching with Katie in the nuns’ school, Saint Francis Xavier (S.F.X.), is a slightly different experience.  Much fuller classes, kids of varying commitments to learning, and everyone coming from much poorer backgrounds.  We don’t have books or a curriculum to use in the classroom aside from what we devise ourselves.  And if it rains, kids just don’t show up—if they live too far away, it gets pretty tricky to walk to school along the muddy roads.        

It’s been a crazy experience, working in the Bolivian school system, navigating what to me seems obvious inefficiency but to others is just the way things are done.  I’m called “teacher” by anyone and everyone who passes me—not because I have any qualifications but because that’s the English word everyone feels they should use to address anyone with white skin.  I’ve had to step in to teach three classes of religion, substituting for the teacher on the very first day of class.  I’ve had to cover for Veronica, adlibbing English lessons for first, third, and eighth graders because she couldn’t get from Santa Cruz to Okinawa on account of blockades.  I’ve gotten to know a handful of internas—girls from nearby communities who live here at the convent so that they can attend S.F.X. and get a good education despite their poor upbringing.  I’ve had to use the little Japanese I’ve learned to communicate with students in class who don’t speak Spanish, although once I ask them their name and verify that they are in fact doing fine, there’s not a whole lot more I know to ask. 

It’s an exciting thing, standing at the crossroads of so many cultures.  I’ve made some Japanese friends, and they’re teaching me a little Japanese.  Katie and I have found a sensei he teaches us karate three nights a week on the side of the road in the dark, barefoot.  I’ve found a new mandolin instructor, and though the going is slow—I’m not sure my hands are made right—I’m back to learning some traditional Bolivian songs.  I’m still downloading and playing U.S. songs for kids to help them learn English.  And, just this week, we came in contact with two really cool South American traditions: Carnaval and Challa.          

Carnaval I’m sure isn’t a new name, but for me it was something I always associated with Brazil.  I guess it’s celebrated all over South America, or at least in Ecuador, Bolivia, and Brasil.  Here in Okinawa, it went from the Saturday night until the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday.  The nuns here were unanimous in telling us horror stories: everyone is drunk; it’s so dangerous; people throw mud and clay at you; you have to go into hiding, especially on Tuesday.  I, at the very least, was a little concerned.  But Saturday night we went out with our Japanese friends to join in the dancing and celebrating in the plaza.  And then Monday we went out ‘to carnaval’—it happens to be a verb in Bolivian Spanish.  We armed ourselves with the tiniest squirt guns you’ve ever seen and water balloons filled with a paint-water mixture.  We hardly started walking down the streets when a car drove by and blasted us with purple paint.  It’s like a three day war: kids are armed with water balloons, paint, buckets of mud, and even oil, running around in gangs and attacking anyone who passes by.  Motorcycles are bombarded; people toss things out of car windows; kids are literally picked up and buried in sludge.  Fascinating.  The trick, we learned, was to look nonchalant.  People might start throwing things at the “teachers,” but always with a bit of hesitancy—they never really knew what to make of us.  Until we started bombing them with water balloons.  Our students, too, were very trusting.  They might come running up at us to attack and then I’d yell, “Wait, we’re on a team.”  That’s how we amassed our gang.  The pictures will tell the story better once I get them off Katie’s camera, but let’s just say we were all sorts of colors and smells when we finally found our way back to the convent.  And I definitely don’t think we were on the losing end of the war.

Challa was another interesting experience.  It’s an indigenous religious tradition that invokes Pachamama, the Mother of the Earth.  The sisters had a colorful argument about it over Sunday’s lunch, and it was clear that the discussion was drawn along regional lines.  The sisters from the more ‘advanced’ Eastern departments saw the event as a pagan holiday.  (The Eastern departments, including Santa Cruz, are known for being somewhat anti-indigenous, economically more advanced, and, at least in generalities, against Evo Morales, the first indigenous president.)  The sisters of the Western departments enjoyed the religious holiday, seeing it as a syncretism of their Catholic beliefs with the indigenous traditions of their homelands.  They went out of their way to assure Katie and me numerous times that they weren’t superstitious, that they saw Pachamama as a manifestation of the one, true God.  On Tuesday morning, when I accidentally found myself in the middle of their ceremony, I found that to be true.  After we decorated the convent with colorful paper, (“Why?”  “Oh, that’s just how people do it.”), we processed through the school sprinkling alcohol in the sign of the cross, asking Pachamama for blessings in the coming year—more internas, health for the secretaries, no kids smoking in the bathroom.  We finished the ceremony by drinking a bit of wine and pouring some into the dirt for Pachamama.  Sor Nora poured a drop in the four corners of the garden to represent the four corners of the earth (I think?).  It was an awesome thing to be a part of, a great experience of religious syncretism, regional clashes, and indigenous culture.    

But I think what has had the most profound impact on me in the past few weeks, probably in all of my time here in Bolivia, was the visit we had by a U.S. nurse and the opportunities she brought with her.  Lynn, a retired nurse from Maine, came for her fourth visit to Okinawa about two weeks ago.  She came as the representative of a parish that has been giving money to the people of Okinawa for several years, helping them to pay for operations, medicine, glasses, transportation to the hospital—whatever they might need for their own health.  Before Lynn arrived, Katie and I worked on translating the ‘thank-you’ letters from the people to the parish.  At times comical, at times moving, it was a chance to gain a deeper insight into the plight of so many of our neighbors, as well as work on my Spanish translation skills.  But when Lynn arrived, everything became glaringly more real.  Katie and I took turns going with Lynn and Sor Nora into the communities—both those just a few minutes away and those far out in the fields.  Once there, we served as translators, helping bridge the communication gap between Lynn and the Bolivian people who were so grateful for her presence and for the gifts of her parish.  I heard stories of children who had urinary blockages for months, of old men who had problems breathing, of women who didn’t have enough milk to breastfeed their children, of a girl who had been born with mangled feet and, after falling into a fire pit, had a wound on her foot that had poisoned her bones.  I found myself sitting in shacks, in the mud, surrounded by mosquitoes, looking at bathrooms that were little more than four pieces of wood leaning against each other, under roofs that were riddled with holes, in homes that hardly had room for a bed and yet fit a family of six.  I was tackled by giggling, adorable little girls who I’ve played with at school but never realized the sheer poverty they lived in.  I begrudgingly accepted glasses of soda from people I wasn’t sure had the resources to drink water each day.  I hear Sor Nora grumble about the early pregnancy of a girl we met, a girl who had been an interna at S.F.X. not so many years ago and had had great promise.  I discussed with Lynn the merits of where the parish’s money was going, that perhaps spending $7,000 on an operation for the girl with the mangled feet that might work wasn’t at all practical in the current reality of her life, that spending far less on a wheelchair to help her live her final days with dignity made more sense.  And all the while I was the one working back and forth with the languages, trying to decipher what people were saying, trying to communicate needs and love and wishes back and forth from English to Spanish, from Spanish to English, and I had only myself to rely on. 

Lynn’s visit and the very jarring encounters it brought with it opened up a whole new dimension, Katie and I discussed later.  It made glaringly obvious the lack of any social net; these people were at the bottom of things and if they fell any further, that would be the end.  While I pass my time in a pretty nice room, assured of some sort of food, and at least a toilet that flushes, the lady who cleans the parish is not, the lady who prepares our food is not, the little girls that drag be to the ground any time I pass by are not.  I got to see their lives in a new light, and the lives of many others.  I was forced to realize that, even those who work and work hard, who hold multiple jobs and show up for mass on Sunday don’t necessarily find some secret trick to navigating life.  These people are on the margins in their own country, and really, how far do those margins extend?  I’ve experienced first hand the inefficiency of Bolivian policies; I’ve experienced the tremendous difficulty of simple transportation.  Who looks out for these people?  Can Evo Morales really enact policies to help the families in the fields outside of Okinawa?  I don’t know.  It seems pretty hard to me.  And if these people are that far away from the center of their own country, how much farther are they from international law and policy?  How far do the margins of our international community extend?  And how far can people fall?

What I did experience was the amount of good a very little bit of time and money can do.  Lynn brought with her somewhere around $100; we filled 12 first-aid kits.  A pocket full of change paid for hospital transportation, for new glasses, for orthopedic shoes—and these things literally altered people’s lives.  Imagine the difference in your life if for as long as you could remember, you walked with a severe and painful limp and one day you were given shoes that changed that.  How would your life be different? 

The appreciation and gratitude in the eyes and hearts of the people we encountered—despite their profound poverty and at times hopeless situations—was incredible as well.  One lady spent the entire hour of our time fanning Lynn, making sure mosquitoes didn’t bite her.  Another recounted a terrible story of rape simply because she trusted Lynn, Katie, and I because of the good we were trying to do.  And Sor Nora always served as a beacon for us, her never-ending energy, her constant smile and encouragement, her sharp word for someone who had stepped out of line.  (Her trusting me to drive stick-shift down the Bolivian highway in the only means of transportation the convent owns even though I’ve only practiced once or twice before.)  In the time I’ve known her, she’s been able to transition from ooing and aaing over a cup of peppermint coffee to leading a group of woman down the road in the blistering sun to a prayer meeting (because missionaries can’t drive when you’re going to pray—that’s a rule I won’t be following) to pulling out the metal cutters to free the dog who got his head stuck in the fence.  That might all have happened in the same afternoon. 

In reflecting on these recent experiences, Katie and I recognized a great deal of Jesus’ mission in Sor Nora and in the work we had done while Lynn was with us.  So often we see Jesus healing the sick, helping the blind to see, curing the lame, and these are the miracles that distinguish him as something more than an average guy.  Yet, he didn’t have to use these very materialistic, physical, earthly means to reveal himself—he could’ve shot carrots from his fingers and that would’ve designated him as something more than just human.  But he didn’t, and what’s more, as Katie pointed out, he never healed en-masse; all of his healings were personal.  There’s something at work here: Jesus went personally to heal individual people through both ministry of presence and miraculous moments.  It didn’t matter to him that, while he was curing one person in Galilee, there were thousands of others dying of the same thing all over the world.  There was something about that personal encounter that was meant to bring hope.  Those miracles went beyond designating Jesus as the Son of God; they were real moments of encounter between Jesus and another, despite whatever hopelessness might exist in the larger world.  What, then, does that say about what we’re called to do? 

Certainly something to think about as we begin Lent.  And certainly something I’ve been thinking about as I begin the final stage of my time in Bolivia—in just three months, I’ll be home.  But it’s exciting—if a bit frustrating—to be starting anew here, to be learning more about myself and meeting new people and experiencing new things.  And who knows what more might happen in the coming days?  I pray to be present to these moments.       


Karate Class: Me, Sensei, Jorge (from Ecuador), Darwin (a student)

Saturday, January 21, 2012

The Star of the Magi

Well, it’s been over two months since my last post—a time of great discernment, critical reflection and self-evaluation, and change.  I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking, praying, and being with people: the young of Bolivia, fellow volunteers, and the Salesian sisters who oversee the daily operations at my new service site in Okinawa (a two hour drive from Santa Cruz).  Most of all, I continue to muddle through this ‘Bolivian Experience,’ one that has proven to be full of unforeseen challenges and hidden blessings, an experience far different than I had imagined.  But, as I’ve constantly been called to remember since that first day, this is God’s project, and while God may at times have a funny way of going about things, God never leads me down the wrong path.

More on all that later. 

An example of the ‘surprises’ God has had in store for me throughout this journey is the amount of traveling I’ve been doing.  I certainly didn’t anticipate such a tremendous amount of travel—the fact that I packed only warm-weather clothes, left my camping backpack at home, and didn’t even think to bring a jacket can attest to that.  When I went abroad to Spain during my third year of college, I packed with the intention to travel; when I came to Bolivia, I came with the intention to work hard and come to know a new community.  And yet, in the past three weeks, I’ve hiked through the mountains and valleys of Samaipata—a nearby destination in the Santa Cruz department—explored Cusco, Peru and Macchu Picchu, flew to the highest capital in the world, La Paz, and crossed Lake Titicaca—the highest altitude lake in the world—to hike across the Isle of the Sun.  Now I find myself on retreat in Cochabamba, wearing, most likely, dirty clothes because I haven’t had time to wash them—again, a testament to the fact that I hadn’t planned on traveling.  Don’t worry—I’m sure I have the same question for myself that you are all probably thinking: “Do you ever do any work, Eric?  Didn’t you go to Bolivia to volunteer?”  Believe me; I thought I did!  And I know I will—once the school year begins in Okinawa, I will be teaching a handful of classes, most of the English-speaking variety.  And certainly I have accomplishments from my time in Santa Cruz to look back on.  But what have I done to earn all of this travel?  Is this really why I flew across a continent, gave up nine months of my life? 

The answer, quite frankly, has to be ‘yes.’  Because I know this is where God wants me to be.

And so, as I hiked through the mountains of Samaipata, I thought and I thought and I looked at all the beauty around me.  What am I doing in the jungle?  What am I doing walking through these mountains?  Sure, hiking is fun—I really enjoy it.  But why am I here?  To meet God, I realized.  Why do I go anywhere?  Why do I travel?  Why do I leave home?  Well, I have to assume it’s to strip myself of all my ‘Eric-ness’, to get down to the bare bones of it all, and to meet God as I am.  As I’ve noted many times throughout this journey, I’m out of my element in a very big way; the outward, material ‘things’ that made me ‘me’ at Fairfield, on Regency Drive, at Mary, Mother of the Redeemer, or at Archbishop Wood don’t always shine through or even prove to be relevant.  But that’s okay, because God wants to meet me where I am, as I am, and a lot of times those outward ‘things’ might get in the way.  So, here I am, trudging through the jungle, following a path I’m not sure exists, emerging onto valleys that I’m pretty sure belong in Middle Earth, passing cows and donkeys, and looking out at a never-ending range of mountains, each one brimming with greenery.  And what am I to do with all of that?  Take a picture?

Sure, that’s something.  But I couldn’t help recalling the story of the Transfiguration, of Peter and Jesus and the sights the Apostles witnessed.  I had to stop trying to ‘do;’ I had to stop trying to figure it out.  I had to merely be.  Because God was in Samaipata with me, showing me Godself, beauty, peace, serenity.  God was inviting me—reminding me—to strip myself of all my ‘Eric-ness’.  Quite frankly, it’s impossible to go to God as I want to be or as I think I should be.  I can only go to God as I am.  The story of the Transfiguration isn’t one that notes some particular movement within the Apostles, some profound moment of brilliance or great act of social justice.  It’s merely an experience of God, of the Divine, of whatever we may want to call that Spark from Beyond.  And that experience is a gift.

I left for Peru only a few days after returning from Samaipata with three of the volunteers from Santa Cruz.  I was tired, I felt guilty for traveling again, and I assumed myself to be horribly under-prepared for the trip.  But God felt it just to dazzle my senses again with sights I can hardly do justice to by word or image.  Just the city of Cusco itself—a fantastic combination of European and Latino sensations, relaxed but bristling with people and culture and life.  We biked down some of the mountains near Cusco and back into the city itself, stopping at ruins, an animal refuge, and at overlook points that demanded wonder and awe.  And then Macchu Picchu itself: waking up at 4 AM to start trekking alongside the chattering river with nothing but a few slivers of sunrise to light our way, trudging up a winding path and gradually rising higher than the clouds, seeing the puffs of white clouds slithering between and above and below the grand peaks and valleys of the mountains all around, nearly tip-toeing through the early morning air of the ruins of Macchu Picchu, catching mere glimpses among the cloud coverage, climbing nearby Wayna Picchu, sweating and stopping and smiling and laughing at the sheer amount of climbing we had to do, getting to the top and sitting on top of a mountain gazing down at everything, lost amidst the white of the clouds that were below us and around us and above us, catching glimpses of the ruins below, and then, finally, walking amongst Macchu Picchu itself.  What do I do with that?  Take a picture?  Come on. 

How difficult it is for me to be present to moments like that.  Weird, right?  But I’m always so anxious to scoop up whatever new tidbits of experience I can and then hustle home so I can process and reflect and share with others.  What am I doing in the moment?  Worrying about taking advantage of everything, making sure I have enough money to pay for food, trying to figure out what the best route here or there is, etc, etc.  So much for that Transfiguration moment, right?  Rather, I say, “Those mountains are beautiful; now I want to climb them.”  Or, “This culture is fascinating; I need to buy BOOKS.”  So much for the expert traveler. 

Throughout Advent I found myself particularly drawn to the story of the Three Magi, especially as I continued to remind myself of why I had come to Bolivia, that ‘star’ I myself was following.  The star is important; for me, it’s that encounter with God, that desire to come to know who and what God is for me and where God desires me to go next.  This is the ‘star’ that brought me, in a big way, to Bolivia, to Santa Cruz, and eventually to Okinawa.  But as I found myself traveling more and more, the story of the Wise Men spoke to me in a different way.  The story broke itself down into three parts: seeking God, encountering God, and returning with God.  I jump too quickly to the ‘return’ stage, so anxious to go back to the comforts and controlled life I lead at ‘home’—wherever that may be at the moment.  Rather than stressing over the ‘seeking’ stage—what to pack, or what am I going to actually do, or I really need to focus on this other thing—I should armor myself in the light of the star God has given me, specifically.  How will this new step in the journey bring me closer to the star?  Rather than jumping up and down like a fool once I finally reach the ‘encounter,’ trying to fit it all in, take the best pictures, remember every moment, talk to every person, I need to just be.  What could the Magi do in the presence of God?  Sure, they offered gifts, but I’ll bet they were much more struck by the wonder of it all, much more engulfed in the presence of the moment.  And finally, though I so quickly rush to the ‘return’ stage, I have to remember myself, especially in light of humility.  I may have learned a thing or two but I can never know it all, and I have to be aware of that.                

And sometimes, when you’re ready to return, say, from the Isle of the Sun, and you’ve spent all day crossing the island and you’ve arrived at the dock for your boat with an hour to spare, a lady says, “Oh, you’re boat isn’t docking here, it’s docking on el otro lado.”  And sometimes el otro lado means the other side of the mountain and so you off and go climb the damn thing all over again only to find that in fact your boat isn’t there and you have to haggle with another boat captain to ensure that you get off the island before night fall. 

That’s a more extreme example. 

And so I now find myself in Okinawa, a post-WWII Japanese immigrant colony that now has a colorful cultural mix just a few hours outside of Santa Cruz.  Yes, I am STILL in Bolivia; no, I’m NOT in Japan.  (Maybe one day?)  Which moment do I find myself in?  Like I said, this ‘Bolivian Experience’ has been a doozy so far, but God is very much at work.  I am still ‘seeking;’ that’s what guides the decisions I make, from the day-to-day to whether or not to go on retreat.  I am certainly ‘encountering;’ how else can I justify so much seemingly ‘useless’ time?  For God, no time is useless; it’s just me who can’t always figure it out.  God is present in each moment, in each person, and I think those moments of ‘success’ may be ones I never fully recognize.  And ‘returning?’  Well, I’m doing that too, in a sense, because every experience brings with it lessons and morals and things to think about.  But as I go forward, it’s the story of the Transfiguration that I try to keep foremost in mind—where is God manifesting Godself to me in this moment?  Do I have the eyes to see it?  Do I have the will to accept it?  Most importantly, am I able to go to God as I am, or do I continue to hide behind who I want to be? 

I have four more months to figure it out.  At least, in Bolivia.