A Note on a Second Thanksgiving Away

Being away from your family on the holidays is notoriously difficult. I was on guard for the pang of separation and homesickness this year, and I thought I had myself emotionally prepared. Yet when the holidays spent away start to compound—say, you reach your second Thanksgiving away from home, as I did today—the jolt of the obvious separation takes on a deeper, hollower quality, I believe.

Today I miss the easy-going, relaxed quality of my parents’ kitchen in the aftermath of a huge Thanksgiving meal: the hum of the dishwasher, wiping grease off the counters, picking at the remains of a casserole dish, catching up with older brother and younger sister. I miss the chill of a Pennsylvania evening in late November, and I miss the blackness outside the windows that accentuates the warmth and light inside. There’s something about feeling sated and a little sleepy, surrounded by loved ones, that’s good for the soul … we all need time to slow down and just ‘be’ in the presence of those we love. I also miss sleeping in the house I grew up in, surrounded by family, even if it only happens a couple nights a year—the way it ties together past and present, paradoxically accentuating the changes like has wrought while erasing all the years that have piled up since childhood … it all gets me in that throat-swelling sort of way.

Here in Peru, we all look out for each other on these days. We flock to the same areas, cook familiar foods, buy each other drinks. We all know that we’re at our most vulnerable, and we take comfort in our shared predicament. I’ve been truly blessed here to have made friends in my region (Tumbes), who I care about very deeply, and who bring laughter and companionship not just to my holidays but to my day-to-day living as well. And beyond Tumbes, I’ve made a few deep friendships with people who I can talk and talk and talk with on the phone, people I look up to, people who inspire me. And while none of my relationships with Peruvians in-site quite hit that caliber, the people in my town are markedly friendlier lately. It’s as though the one-year mark holds a certain weight in their eyes … almost as though they “see” me a bit more clearly.

So while I am finding it extremely hard this year to chalk up yet another Turkey Day away from those I love the most, I am thankful that life has provided loving souls in their stead. I am thankful that my new country has much to teach me still. I am thankful that I have another year of learning yet to do here, because I believe I’ve finally ‘settled’ into my site, and I believe that the cultural interchange that takes place is what makes Peace Corps special. Forget the projects for a little while, forget the goals: just talking and opening up a new space of awareness, adding new characters to your memory, letting people of another culture into your heart … that’s the deepest thing I’ll take away. Two years ago I couldn’t even envision what Peru would look like, anywhere. Now the heat, electric green rice paddies and plantain fields are my daily reality.

And the silver lining today is that, 30 days from now, si dios quiere, I’ll be waking up in my parents’ house on Christmas morning.

A Note on a Second Thanksgiving Away

Being away from your family on the holidays is notoriously difficult. I was on guard for the pang of separation and homesickness this year, and I thought I had myself emotionally prepared. Yet when the holidays spent away start to compound—say, you reach your second Thanksgiving away from home, as I did today—the jolt of the obvious separation takes on a deeper, hollower quality, I believe.

Today I miss the easy-going, relaxed quality of my parents’ kitchen in the aftermath of a huge Thanksgiving meal: the hum of the dishwasher, wiping grease off the counters, picking at the remains of a casserole dish, catching up with older brother and younger sister. I miss the chill of a Pennsylvania evening in late November, and I miss the blackness outside the windows that accentuates the warmth and light inside. There’s something about feeling sated and a little sleepy, surrounded by loved ones, that’s good for the soul … we all need time to slow down and just ‘be’ in the presence of those we love. I also miss sleeping in the house I grew up in, surrounded by family, even if it only happens a couple nights a year—the way it ties together past and present, paradoxically accentuating the changes like has wrought while erasing all the years that have piled up since childhood … it all gets me in that throat-swelling sort of way.

Here in Peru, we all look out for each other on these days. We flock to the same areas, cook familiar foods, buy each other drinks. We all know that we’re at our most vulnerable, and we take comfort in our shared predicament. I’ve been truly blessed here to have made friends in my region (Tumbes), who I care about very deeply, and who bring laughter and companionship not just to my holidays but to my day-to-day living as well. And beyond Tumbes, I’ve made a few deep friendships with people who I can talk and talk and talk with on the phone, people I look up to, people who inspire me. And while none of my relationships with Peruvians in-site quite hit that caliber, the people in my town are markedly friendlier lately. It’s as though the one-year mark holds a certain weight in their eyes … almost as though they “see” me a bit more clearly.

So while I am finding it extremely hard this year to chalk up yet another Turkey Day away from those I love the most, I am thankful that life has provided loving souls in their stead. I am thankful that my new country has much to teach me still. I am thankful that I have another year of learning yet to do here, because I believe I’ve finally ‘settled’ into my site, and I believe that the cultural interchange that takes place is what makes Peace Corps special. Forget the projects for a little while, forget the goals: just talking and opening up a new space of awareness, adding new characters to your memory, letting people of another culture into your heart … that’s the deepest thing I’ll take away. Two years ago I couldn’t even envision what Peru would look like, anywhere. Now the heat, electric green rice paddies and plantain fields are my daily reality.

And the silver lining today is that, 30 days from now, si dios quiere, I’ll be waking up in my parents’ house on Christmas morning.

The Importance of Being Earnest

“Continuing is everything.”

I’m reading a book right now entitled A Different Kind of Luxury: Japanese Lessons in Simple Living and Inner Abundance, written by my uncle, Andy Couturier. It contains 11 portraits of Japanese men and women living in remote mountain communities, “attempting to live sustainable, fulfilling lives”. They are presented in contrast to the tumult of modern-day Japanese corporate and consumer culture, and, more widely, to corporate and consumer culture the world over. I’ve just finished the chapter on Kogan Murata, a “bamboo flute player, storyteller, rice farmer and student of Zen”, and this Zen-inspired quote struck a chord in me. I am loving the book, so far, I think because the ideas of mindfulness, creativity, along with what really makes up that slippery term ‘sustainability’, are issues that I now face as a volunteer in Peru with the Peace Corps. Furthermore, if you crack the surface of most volunteers here, I think a lot of us would admit that part of the reason we are here is to explore the very notion of how to live a meaningful life, by viewing the lives of people in another culture with vastly different lifestyles and value systems, and by living in rural communities where we can get away from the constant, addictive connection that most of us have become accustomed to in the United States. Further, I think a lot of us, when pressed, would say that we’re also interested in the BIG question: Why are we here? What is the purpose for our lives on this planet?

In my case, I’m beginning to feel that helping other people, connecting with other people, allowing myself to break down the walls between “me” and “the other”, is something fundamental to my being … something that makes me come alive.

That said, there is a lot of unnecessary pressure in the Peace Corps that makes it easy to lose sight of some of the deeper, soulful elements of the work that we do. I’m talking, mainly, about the pressure to show concrete numbers: numbers of people whose lives we’ve changed, who have been given better access to potable water, who have shown some tangible behavioral change in regard to waste management (just to name a few of the focal points). Being the sprawling government-run organization that it is, these numbers are what keep the money coming in. These numbers are what speak to the bureaucrats in Lima and Washington who review our work. I know this.
I know, deep down, that those ‘numbers’ are well-intentioned, but my sense is that the bureaucrats have gotten a bit carried away and confused by all of it over the years. The numbers are supposed to flow from our slow-paced, well-intentioned lives in the villages and cities where we operate—they’re not supposed to direct it. Yet that’s the very aspect of Peace Corps service that I’ve found most frustrating to-date: the entire organization seems hell-bent on increasing the “numbers” of everything that we do, from activities to the number of volunteers present in-country, regardless of whether the necessary staff and other prerequisites are in place to grow effectively. Where activities are concerned, there are a multitude of “initiatives” that the Peace Corps would like us to work on (all, again, well-intentioned and important), from HIV-AIDS work to children and youth development, to technology and mass communications, to environmental management and everything that falls under the umbrella of “community health”. Yet these initiatives are piled on, and expressed in such a way that I think a lot of volunteers end up suffering from a heavy-duty case of overwhelm. As far as volunteers are concerned, Peace Corps Peru is set to almost double the number of volunteers in-country over the course of the next two years, when the truth is that the current 170-180 volunteers currently serving do not have adequate security and administration staff backing them up (as I see it).

For example, there is currently an excellent one-man security staff in Peru, who is tasked with handling all of the volunteers’ security concerns, which can be anything from petty theft to armed attacks and even, in rare cases, sexual assault. He is a wonderful human being—at once jovial and tough, an expert in his field—and he does his job as well as one man can … yet he’s just one man, and sometimes his response time is not what it should be. He cannot be everywhere at once in a country this big, and the problem will only magnify if the number of volunteers continues to grow. I’ve heard many complaints about volunteer site placement and volunteer security issues that seem to go unanswered. He needs a team.

Another example is that of the program directors—the heads of the five different program groups operating in Peru (small business, youth development, water and sanitation, health and environmental management). Quite often the only communication we volunteers get from our program directors are “check-up” emails every month or two, stressing the things they’d like for us to get done. There’s no regular back-and-forth, no mentoring, no nurturing of the process that Peace Corps supposedly espouses: relationship building, community activism, sustainable development. What’s more, those emails often take the tone of business memos, reminding the company’s employees of what’s expected of them. The simple truth, I believe, is that there are certain deeply ingrained aspects of Peruvian business culture that enforce a strict hierarchy of positions among large organizations, perhaps even more so than what you find in large US companies. If you’re in a position of authority, you’re trained to relate to those under you in a certain authoritative manner. Anything less than that is outside the realm of your experience. Accordingly, a large portion of the program directors and upper-level management are Peruvian, and I think they often view us volunteers as spoiled rich kids that are away on some extended summer camp. We are often policed and watched suspiciously, rather than treated with the respect and esteem we deserve as volunteers serving under the auspices of a humanitarian development organization. And that’s the trouble: we volunteers make up a wide range of ages, ethnicities, backgrounds, and professions, yet we’ve all come together to be a part of an organization that we think is worthwhile. We receive very little money while we’re here, often living in very basic housing conditions, and we do it because we believe in the idea of the Peace Corps, and in the idealism of the Peace Corps. Any attempt to generalize about our members is bound to distort that reality.

To be sure, there are some volunteers who do nothing to dispel the “spoiled, bad-apple” image, partying too much and just generally goofing around throughout their two years of service. Yet I believe these cases are few and far between, and do no warrant the type of hard-line managerial style that manifests itself in the organization. The rest of us are trying as hard as we can, stressing out about our language skills, how we spend the hours of each day, how we structure the meetings and workshops that we run. One of the true joys of service so far, for me, has been the chance to meet and work alongside the rest of the hard-working and incredibly determined volunteers serving in this country. Before this, I never had a real idea of the types of people who do this kind of work. Now, I count them among my friends and my mentors in this two-year journey we’re all on. There is a real spirit of camaraderie and respect. In my case, not being able to communicate very well in Spanish has been a huge hindrance, one that causes me to brow-beat myself for my inability to pick up the intricacies of Spanish a bit more quickly. Likewise, I’ve often been someone who excels at one-on-one relationships, and I communicate very effectively amongst small crowds (in English). Speaking and organizing large groups has never been my forte, and so when I attempt to do so, in Spanish, I often feel very, very inadequate. Yet I am trying, harder than I’ve ever tried at anything in my life, and one thing that would take some weight off of my shoulders would be a more supportive, proactive Peace Corps management. Some of us have been lectured several times in recent weeks about the importance of sticking to the “spirit” of the Peace Corp’s rules, when the truth is that we’ve given two years of our lives to that spirit. We all believe in the mission, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. We deserve the benefit of the doubt, I would argue, unequivocally. Peace Corps has a long and in-depth selection process for a reason—the managers ought to trust that the people who make it through, who survive the three-months of training and the lengthy vetting process that precedes it, are a good bunch. If they do not trust that the selection process brings in only the finest volunteers, then they ought to make changes at the source.

So. “Continuing is everything” is a good message to hear, with “everything” being the active word: continuing is not just the most important or integral part of our service here—it is the only part, the only thing that should occupy your mind. Continuing, in my own way, is all I should concern myself with. Waking up, trying to start each day aware of how special this opportunity is, and going about my activities in an earnest and open-hearted fashion … that’s it. That’s the whole of it.

And so I’ll “continue to continue”, as that old Simon and Garfunkel song goes, in the hopes that as time goes by, as I near and then pass my one-year anniversary in my site, I’ll gradually live my way into an effective service here. I have indeed been making progress, albeit slowly, and I believe I’ve been getting better at treating myself more fairly: no more self-criticism when things don’t happen and when people don’t show up for meetings or events. From here, I just want to constantly ask myself: How can I live in a more earnest fashion here? As this new year in Peru approaches, I want to continue to do art projects with the children and teens in my town—that’s a lot of fun for me, and I believe it will give those kids lasting memories of my time with them, along with some fun moments (I hope). I want to continue trying to organize a sustainable trash-management system in my town, and, if all goes well, extend the system to cover the three closest neighboring towns as well. At present, that system is not operating very effectively, but hey, there is a trash truck coming once a week (usually), and that didn’t used to be the case. Likewise, there are about 10 women who give their time to walk around each week picking up other people’s trash and doing what they can to get rid of the waste that contaminates their families’ food and drinking water. I keep stumbling through various reincarnations of our trash management program, and the same 10 women keep sticking by my side. My hope is that one of my efforts will bear fruit, even if it takes me the whole of my two years of service. But above all else, I want to continue learning from the people here, learning about what makes their lives tick, learning patience and respect for worldviews that are different than mine. That’s a very valuable aspect of Peace Corps service, as I see it, and one which trains the lot of us to be thoughtful, valuable members of US society when we return home.

In closing, I would just like to clarify that I do not mean this as an attack or a put-down of Peace Corps’ worldwide efforts (since I have no idea how much any of this translates to other countries), or of Peace Corps Peru. In writing this, I’m trying to give voice to my belief that constructive criticism on the part of an organization’s members is the most valuable tool that an organization has in order to grow and improve its services. My worry, of late, has been that Peace Corps Peru is growing too big to self-correct, too big to listen to its members, too big to adapt to this present moment in the dynamic ways that would make its mission more effective. I believe it is my duty, as a current volunteer, to do what I can to see that the whole is as earnest—and considerate—as the sum of its parts.

Nearly A Year In Site

It’s been a really long time since I’ve written anything, and I apologize for that— this is actually a mass email I'm sending out to my friends and loved ones, but I thought it could double as an "update" blog post as well. I'd like to write much more frequently in the coming months and on into the new year.

Essentially, I find myself trying to process the fact that, when Thanksgiving rolls around this year, I will have been in my site for one year. This fact, coupled with how quickly the past few months have passed, is causing me to really examine how I’m spending my time and to think about what I want to get done in the year to come. I arrived in my site on Nov. 22nd last year, and I find myself viewing this coming November 22nd the same way I typically view New Years Eve—a momentous mark on the calendar, a closing of a chapter, the opening of a new one. I find myself sitting in my room at night sometimes, staring at the wall and thinking about changes I want to make in my behavior (like, “run more”, or “start studying Spanish in the evenings”), as if I were compiling some sort of mental list of resolutions. The Peace Corps, for a long time, was just an idea to me, an ideal even, and then when it finally happened it took so long to get used to the reality of it that I feel like I’ve only just recently settled into my own skin. Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t trade the past year for anything, for I’ve learned a great deal about myself and my fortitude, but I recognize that I’ve been struggling for clarity and confidence the whole way.
Yet something has changed in recent months, little by little, and I now find myself feeling much more centered and motivated to start projects and have fun in the time that I have here. Part of what has done it, I believe, is a certain melding of my worlds. I went home in June to see two of my best friends get married (to each other), and then I spent a wonderful week at the beach with my family and my girlfriend. A few months later, my girlfriend came down here for a visit, and we traveled up and down the coast, from Lima to Tumbes and back down to Lima, stopping at the beach, then at my site, with a few other stops along the way. The trip home, in many ways, helped me to realize that everyone’s O.K. back in the States, that I’m still a part of people’s lives, and that all the familiar places are still there, waiting for me. It charged my batteries, to a certain extent, and soothed the ache of separation I’d been feeling since I left in 2009. Yet Amanda’s trip was what really helped me to unite the world and the life I live here with the world and the life that continues in the U.S. Somehow, showing my daily environs—and the people in it—to her helped me realize that although the two worlds are vastly different, the things that happen when they come together are very special: the relationships that are forged, the struggle to communicate, the memories that are generated. In the weeks that have followed Amanda’s departure from Peru, I’ve listened to my host siblings and my host parents recount their own little stories of things they remember about her visit, as though they were polishing a very rare event in their minds, making sure it is clean and clear and speaks truthfully of the time that passed. It is not often that one, let alone two Americans come to this sleepy little town, and it’s not an even they’ll soon forget.

In many ways, seeing the ripple effect of Amanda’s three-day stay in my site has made me realize that my stay here will have more of an effect on people than I yet realize. Aside from the pressure that I put on myself to “improve the quality of life” here, aside from the pressure that my bosses put on me to show tangible results, the important human interactions—the intangibles—remain.
Here are some intangibles, of late, that have stuck with me … moments that I will never forget, and which, I hope, will make a lasting imprint on the people I’ve been with.

1.) I spent last Thursday night painting a bright red border around a huge world map mural on the wall of the local school. The map is the first project undertaken by a youth art club I started a few weeks ago, and it’s been a blast getting to hang out with the 10 or 12 kids that regularly show up for classes. We meet for a few hours every Wednesday and Thursday afternoon to work on the map, listen to music and goof around. Generally, about half the time is spent throwing Frisbee, and roughly 6 or 7 of the kids actually ‘work’ while the others use the time as a sort of after school social club. I put music on—sometimes American, but usually Peruvian cumbia music or any random Spanish-language songs I can find on my iPod—and we get to work. This past Thursday one of the wildest teens in the bunch, Juan, asked me if I have that song that goes, “Yoooou’re not gunna tek it.” Laughing, I immediately went over the iPod, scrolled through the hundreds of artists, and found, luckily, that I do indeed have Twisted Sister stored among the thousands of songs that I never listen to. That afternoon, we listened to “We’re Not Gonna Take It” about 30 times (consecutively), while Juan did his best to sing along with the English lyrics. I started singing with him, and the resultant ‘harmony’ made everybody laugh so hard that Twisted Sister is probably going to the most-requested artist on our club’s playlist from here on out.

2.) Throwing baseball at night before dinner with my 9-year old host brother, Helson, and Kevin, one of Helson’s best friends. The sound of the ball thwacking into my glove, the motion of winding up and throwing (hard-wired into my body from all those fall afternoons spent at Little League practice), and the time of year all have me feeling a pleasant nostalgia for a more carefree time when I was Helson and Kevin’s age, just learning to throw baseball correctly for the first time myself. Doing this, night after night, often until it gets so dark we can barely make out the white ball in flight, has made me miss my Dad, my brother, and my childhood. This transport, and all the mental and physical associations that come along with it, is something I hold dear right now.

3.) Last night the lights went out, a common occurrence here, and I spent three hours at the kitchen table with my entire host family, talking about U.S. culture, the places I’ve traveled, and leafing through a LIFE photography book entitled “The World’s Must-See Places—Heaven on Earth”, which Amanda brought down during her visit. They were happy that Macchu Pichu had made the cut, excited to see the nearby Galapagos Islands listed, and amazed by the site of Hong Kong, shot at night, with billions of little lights shining from foreground to background, reflecting off of the water and just generally conveying the sheer quantity of people living in that far off metropolis. A picture of Paris caused my host dad, Genry, to pause in wonder for a few minutes, while a winding road through Tuscany caught the eye of my host mother, Esther. Keren, my younger sister, seemed to love the site of the peaked rooftops of Kyoto, while Helson marveled at a shot of a climber poised atop a peak called Mont Blanc, high in the Alps. The lights soon came back on and the family scattered to their different pursuits, but for those two hours we were all transported by pictures of the marvels of this world, transfixed by wanderlust.
And I think I’ll stop there. I could go on and on with these special moments that have given me pause of late—moments where life’s richness seems to finally make its way through my often dulled senses, awakening a joy that any of this is happening at all.

I think one truth of life is that sometimes our senses do become dulled by the forces of routine and stress and overload, but these bright moments that break through the clouds wake us up and give us pause, give us perspective, and remind us to celebrate the small stuff.

I hope that you all are having a wonderful fall, and that life is bringing you some rich, sacred moments amidst the hustle and bustle.

Uphill

I’ve been reading a fair amount of poetry lately, which is not a normal thing for me. Normally, poetry doesn’t stir me … I typically can’t make myself stay focused on the long, lyrical ones, such as “Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner,” and some of the shorter stuff either seems trite, to me, or simply lackluster. I’ve always been a big fan of novels, and of fiction that reels out a web of character and plot and gives you some meaty question about humanity to chew on. Maybe, however, I just wasn’t old enough or versed enough in the ways of this world to appreciate good poetry before.

My Dad lent me a very special copy of a poetry anthology while I was visiting the US in June, and the significance and history of the book have made me want to give my poetic ignorance a little more attention. The book, called “Other Men’s Flowers”, compiled by A.P. Wavell, is accessible in a way that I haven’t experienced before: organized by topics, such as “Love”, or “Music, Mystery and Magic”, or “The Call of the Wild”. Having these classifiers, I think, has given me an inroad that allows me to dip into the book based on whatever mood I’m feeling, stopping at titles that strike my eye. Also, the book used to belong to my Dad’s father—my grandfather—whom I never knew. The inside cover bears his signature, in pen, and there are comments throughout the pages, in pen and pencil, which could belong to my father or my grandfather. I don’t think I really want to know. I just know that I want to add my comments—I want to be a third generation of words in the yellowed pages of this hardcover tome.

Here are two that have struck me lately, perhaps because I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how tough this Peace Corps road has been, the whole way, and about how to think about my actions for the rest of my service. Courage, and Kindness, and the certainty of shelter from the storm—and friends to help guide the way—are some of the things that I believe in, and which these two poems seem to champion:

Man’s Testament

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Question not, but live and labour,
Till yon goal be won,
Helping every feeble neighbor,
Seeking help from none;
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone,
Kindness in another’s trouble,
Courage in your own.

---

Uphill
Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

---

I think I’ve been reading so much poetry because my head is trying to chart a new course in my Peace Corps service, and to redefine the way I look at my days here.

I suppose, when I let myself think rightly, I know that this experience is finite and passing. The days pass and the months rack up, and sooner or later it will all be finished.

Yet it’s easy to lose sight of this. Sometimes it feels like life has changed so drastically that it might never get back to that old normal of the American way of life. Like I said—clearly that’s not the case, but things are just so different here … and maybe on some level I’m curious about what life would look like if things didn’t ever return to that normal.

That’s the interesting part about this. Although it’s hard to be away from family, hard to be away from friends, hard to get used to the lack of physical comforts … there’s a certain pride when you DO persist, month after month, in being away from them. There’s a certain sense of accomplishment. I’ve begun to realize just how variable experience is, and just how different your life outlook becomes when you take yourself out of one culture, out of one socio-economic structure, and plunk yourself down into another set of experiences that are vastly different from the first.

What I’ve been faced with recently, I suppose, is how to make sense of the block of time that I have remaining. I’ve been in Peru now for almost 11 months, and I’ve been fighting the feeling that I have “nothing to show for it. This is, of course, wrong-headed, but I’m just trying to be honest about the stream of thoughts that’s going on upstairs. After all, I don’t have a lot of things going on at the moment. I have a couple of short projects, and several starts and stalls, but nothing still going on.

I taught English for several months during the kids’ vacation period. I’ve been trying to start up a trash program for months on end, with a ton of setbacks threatening to halt the whole thing. I’ve attended a lot of meetings regarding the AIDS awareness work that some other volunteers are doing in neighboring towns. I did a community diagnostic project at the beginning that allowed me to interview and get to know about 50 different families.

From here, according to Peace Corps, I’m supposed to harness all of the information I’ve culled together, all of the contacts I’ve made, and all the trust I’ve gained in town in order to improve the town’s access to potable water and trash collection services. I’m supposed to petition for grant funding from several sources that the Peace Corps connects us with. This seems a rather daunting process to me at present. I can’t get five people from town to meet for a trash committee on a regular basis, but I’m supposed to harness their ideas to write a project plan and a grant proposal by mid-August. I’ll do it, I know that, but it’s giving me a lump in my throat. If I do this project well, it will be the cornerstone of my service, and it has the potential to really improve the health situation in town. That’s where the lump comes from: I want it to work. I don’t just want some project that looks good on paper, works for a while, and then falls short when my time here runs out (as many of these types of trash-management projects do). There’s a town nearby that hosted a Peace Corps volunteers a few years ago, did a trash project with small micro-landfills in the peoples’ backyards, and right now there’s virtually no evidence that Peace Corps was ever there. I’m not saying that to downplay that volunteer’s service at all—I’m just saying that the prospect of that type of transient impact is scary.

It means, to my mind, that I should re-double my efforts for the trash project to focus on behavior change and small, finite steps toward the final goal, rather than trying to tackle it all in one go. If I can change 30 families habits, cleaning up one section of town, that’s a success that will last.

But more than that, I also think that it means I ought to focus on the present, on individual experiences and positive interactions, and not get so caught up in the big-picture “what’s my service going to look like” questions.

Sitting outside tonight, looking at the glow of the street lamps in the dark black night, I listened to the dogs bark down the street, posturing at each other, snarling, playing; I listened to the quiet murmur of my host Mom and her sister in law discussing their kids, other women on the street, gossip of all stripes; I listened to the sporadic honking of moto-taxis chattering down the dirt road in front of the house; I heard the cry of the toddler next door. All of it’s so familiar these days that I hardly stop to think about the new world I’ve come to feel comfortable in. At times, on quiet nights, I compare sitting on the porch here to sitting on the porch at my parents’ house back in Pennsylvania, and I get sharp pangs of homesickness. I remember being more relaxed, generally, on that porch in Pennsylvania, while I’m less so here. Here, I think, I let myself get too stressed about what I SHOULD be doing, and as a result I don’t always let the impact of what I AM doing sink in. People accept me here now. I’m a part of their days, and an actor in town. Though I’m somewhat of an oddity still, I’m a known oddity. Years from now, most of them will still be living here, walking the same ruts in the earth, leading a different generation of cows and goats in from their farms, and I will be elsewhere—an elsewhere that I can imagine a big better than they can.
But why imagine it? Why not just let it be, having faith, or trust, in the ability of the present to work out my future? I’ve been spending so much time wondering and extrapolating what COULD happen down the line that I feel more than a little bit guilty. I’ll never do anything like this again, and I want to cherish it in whatever small ways I can find.

So I have decided to make a renewed effort here. A renewed effort to live each day with purpose. To wake up just a bit earlier, to keep a schedule with the varied network of community leaders I’ve come in contact with, and to write out step-by-step plans for the projects that I think will improve the quality of life here. I also want to do some small projects that I’ll enjoy … like a community art and environment club (I just got $450 in grant funding for that!) … like a household composting bin/small vegetable garden … like a world-map project to teach the kids some geography. There’s a certain initiative I haven’t taken to date because I’ve been up to my eyeballs in culture shifts, language difficulties, and unhelpful community partners. Others in Peace Corps came to their sites and replaced old volunteers, inheriting a network of counterparts and projects that they could fall into. Others just lucked into sites where there was an NGO already working, or a health post with particularly strong leaders. I have none of that here in Oidor. What I have is a community that’s never been helped much by anybody, and which has come to distrust people who say they’re going to bring change. I’m determined not to let them place me in that category.

Earlier in the evening I was running, doing repeats up this somewhat steep hill outside of town. I was actually enjoying the effort involved, the exertion, the inherent thrill in conquering a slope, any slope. And I thought about the existentialist ideals that I first learned in English class in 12th grade (thank you Mr. Skinner)—about the myth of Sisyphus and his constant struggle to push that boulder up that hill. I liked the myth, and always have, but for very basic reasons: there’s something noble about the struggle, about gritting your teeth and continuing, through boredom, failure, lack of progress ... there’s something human in the idea that the struggle, any struggle, is not just worth it in order to reach some finite end, but inherently the struggle IS the end. The struggle, and how we comport ourselves during it, defines us.

Up until now, I’ve been in the arena of this service experience, but I’ve been sort of taking rests in the stands whenever things start to look tough. If the credit belongs to those who are in the arena, who are giving it their all day in and day out … then I think I’m ready to make a more concerted effort. I think I’m ready, now that I know I have friends in the Peace Corps here in Tumbes who are rooting for me and wishing me well. Now that I know I have other volunteer friends spread across the country. That support, I suppose, makes me realize that I’m not a solitary figure with shoulder bent to the rock … I’m one of a hearty team. Here in Oidor, where so many days look the same, where the people pass such listless hours, I want to practice a new type of discipline—not because I think I’ll someday get that rock onto the summit, but more so because my efforts, in themselves, might speak the words that I still haven’t learned how to say in this foreign tongue.

something a little closer to the bone ...

If you have built castles in the air,
Your work need not be lost—
That is where they should be.
Now put foundations under them.
- Henry Thoreau

When I’m ‘on’, there’s a certain thread running through all of my days, making me feel as though the world’s a place with a good breeze and a lot of valid chances … I feel strong and confident, running on a certain faith that the things I believe in most—the importance of staying open and receptive to new cultures and ways of life, the soul-liberating nature of travel, the all-important value of interpersonal communication and service—will be affirmed for me somewhere out along that distant horizon where the castles I’ve built way up high in the air await the completion of the foundations I toil over day after day.

When I’m ‘on’, It feels as though I’m riding the coattails of some benevolent giant, in a way, hanging on for dear life to a sweet, sweet feeling that threatens to outstrip me if I don’t let the choke off of my exuberance. I’m not sure how other people think about exuberance, but I’ve come to view it as the most valuable form of expression we humans have. Pure, unbridled joy is a blazing and beautiful thing, and so rarely expressed in this world. Yet when it comes, it inspires crowds. It inspires action. It inspires hope and changes for the better. That giant with the long coattails isn’t trying to leave us behind, after all … he’s just trying to show us the speed it takes to catch our dreams.

That’s me, though: that’s what I conceptualize on the inside where I don’t usually let people look. Maybe I read Roald Dahl’s “Big Friendly Giant” too many times as a kid, who knows. But I like viewing exuberance through the lens of giant steps, where all of us are hurtling along in a land of magical realism, and if we’re lucky, we’re sharing our ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ with as many our fellow travelers along the way.

You, undoubtedly, have your own frame of reference for life’s goodness, and only you know how it feels inside when things are flowing and you can maybe—just maybe—make out the contours of the road ahead and the things you’re meant to do.

Yet the truth of life is that we’re not always ‘on’, as all of us have come to figure out in our own separate ways. Jobs get old or lose their sparkle, people disappoint us, or maybe we just feel alone in a place far from home. Whatever it is, I think all of us experience times where it’s difficult to shift gears … difficult to find the velocity to be adventurous.

I worked part-time on an adult psychiatric ward for several months the summer before I came here, and things have been so crazy this year with all of the ‘change’ that Peace Corps involves that I’ve hardly had time to process the experience. Yet lately some of the more vivid memories started creeping back into my skull. Some of the patients were so far out that it was hard to really get a read on what was troubling them. With no training or prior psychiatric experience, those were the times when I felt like I was in over my head … those were the times I wondered why I’d been drawn there in the first place. But then there was something magnetic about it at the same time that I couldn’t deny, and which kept me up at night: all of that emotion and pain felt more real to me, sometimes, then the masks and fakery you sometimes experience in the America of offices and suits and 401k statements. Out there, sometimes, it felt miserably lonely. Too many people believing that tears and laughter were unacceptable forms of expression in a world with such serious problems to solve. I, however, feel that the world’s problems are such that they’ll never be solved unless people recognize the value of sharing … on all levels, from resources to feelings. So the psych ward was a change of pace, I guess you could call it. A world of stories and lives halted in mid-step, and a chance to connect and learn from all of them, and maybe, maybe, help somebody just a little. Although there were more tears than laughter, it was something, at least.

There were recent college grads, mid-twenties people who had just lost their jobs, late-50s men whose wives had left them, and all of their stories were sad and troublesome. I could tell, with a few of them, that they’d lost the thread of whatever it was that had held their days together, and they were struggling to rediscover their reason for going on. They remembered what it felt like to catch the coattails of some benevolent giant of happiness, and they cried for the loss of that feeling. They needed a place to rest, a place to reassess, and a place where people—even if we were paid to do it—would sit down, look them in the eyes, and listen to the swirling thoughts inside their skulls. It was powerful, and it was instructive. It made me think hard about the choices I was making, the choices I’d already made, the people in my life … the whole shebang. It made me re-analyze my decision to join the Peace Corps, and I came away from that summer believing in the spirit behind this thing we’re all doing even more than I had before: in a country like America that makes it so easy for its young people to feel like cogs in a wheel, institutions like the Peace Corps that encourage searching and community and cultural sensitivity are essential.

So the summer ran out, I flew to Peru, and I found myself thrown into a fog of culture change and language differences and homesickness and general emotional malaise that I think I’m only just now getting a handle on, 10 months later. To say that I “lost” that thread would be understatement: I’ve never cried so much in my life as I have in this country, nor have I ever had so many listless days where even the bright, hot sun of Tumbes couldn’t cut through the shades of gray.

But I’m beginning to feel my speed pick up again, here in this little Northern Peruvian town surrounded by banana and plantain trees. I’m beginning to remember the playfulness in my heart, and I’m finding that laughter has replaced crying as my dominant expression of emotion. What did it, finally, was communion with others … what did it was a small group of other volunteers, their willingness to share of themselves and the wisdom gleaned from their walks through life, and their time. Where before it felt like I had put life on hold back in the US in order to come here, now it feels like my life is clipping along at an insane pace, and I have a cast of characters around me, spread out from north to south throughout this eclectic countryside, all of whom need communion, too, in order to puff up their sails and give flight to their exuberance.

As I traversed up and down the Peruvian coast and back to America for my first return visit in June, I found that in each place I visited, be it Chaclacayo, Lima, Pennsylvania, the Delaware shore, Washington, or Pacasmayo, I encountered friends. I encountered people willing to sit down and make eye contact. Willing to tell stories. Willing to give of themselves. I spent a day and a night with my old host family from training, and was overjoyed to find that our connection still remains and their lives are full and happy. I spent a day and a night with the new class of volunteers—here’s to you Peru 15, welcome—and I got a bit emotional watching all of their faces and hearing the uncertainty and expectancy in their questions. I went for a run through the streets of Chaclacayo early one morning and realized on some guttural level just how far I’ve come in six short months since our training period ended. And then I went home to Pennsylvania, and I sang and danced and talked the days away in a flurry of exuberant motion. And then I returned to Peru, half expecting to feel pain and heartbreak upon my arrival. Instead, I felt a surge of hope. A friend called to make sure I was ok, and within 24 hours I was surrounded by a merry crowd of volunteers, some of whom I already feel a very close kinship with. I realized that I have community here, and I have connections that inspire me and make me want to live life hanging on the coattails of that elusive zeal that touches us all on our sunniest days. Friends who make me laugh and feel joyful. Other volunteers whose direct and confident pursuit of good works in their sites buoys my faith in humanity.

A favorite author of mine, the late David Foster Wallace, wrote this about personal freedom and communion with others, about service and the authentic display of emotion:

“There are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the ‘rat race’ - the constant gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing.”

None of us feels ‘on’ all the time. That’s not how life works. But I wanted to write this article for all of us volunteers—all of us—who are here, each of us striving in our own ways to put our best-selves forward, to do our best for our new families and the families in our new homes. America is a big place, with a lot of big problems …. yet the freedom it has afforded us, the freedom to choose this walk and to choose to serve others in whatever ways we can find—that’s a strong weight on the positive side of the scales. I wanted, initially, to write some sketches here about a few people in my site who have inspired me to action, or given of themselves, or taught me some vital truth about Peruvian life. But this came out instead.

I believe sometimes we all forget just how important the little bits and pieces of experience are that make our connections last. Maybe you stop to play a game in the dirt outside your house with a small Peruvian kid, just ‘cause it reminds you what it was like to be that young, to see the world through more innocent eyes. Maybe you linger longer over dinner with your host family, because something tells you that your presence is warmly welcomed. Maybe you go home to visit family after a long time away and it hits you, harder than it ever has before, just how incredibly blessed you really are to call these people ‘yours’ … to be amidst such kind souls.

Sometimes, I believe, we all need to focus on the basics for a while until that old familiar joi de vivre comes back into focus. And when it does, maybe we just need to grab hold for dear life, keeping in mind as we’re whisked away that the people in our worlds need our attention, our awareness, our discipline, our effort. What else are we here for?

Pilgrim's Progress

Kris Kristofferson put out a brand new album recently, “Closer to the Bone,” and listening to it today for the first time filled me with layers of emotion the likes of which I haven’t felt in a long time.

I’ve had an unyielding enthusiasm for Kris Kristofferson’s music ever since his album “This Old Road” came out in 2006. That album, made up mainly of spare guitar licks and Kris’s gravelly, wizened voice, was chock-full of anti-war ballads, songs about life on the road as a musician, songs about redemption, and words of optimism for Americans growing up in our time.

When I first heard it, I had just graduated from college and was about to start my first job—and I was freaked out. On a personal level, the job I was taking was convenient more than anything else, and I think that maybe a part of me could already feel that I was taking the easy road rather than the idealistic one. On a national level, our country was looking more troubled than it ever had in my lifetime, six years into the most destructive presidency our country has ever suffered through. In both those contexts, it felt good to hear an old man sing about hope and the ‘good fight’ … it felt like I had found some type of grizzled mentor coming to me through the stereo’s speakers.

In a song entitled “Pilgrim’s Progress”, he sings of a determined, optimistic struggle for personal development and social justice that still puts a wind in my sails every time I hear it:

“Am I young enough to believe in revolution?
Am I strong enough to get down on my knees and pray?
And am I high enough, on the chain of evolution,
To respect myself and my brother and my sister,
And perfect myself in my own peculiar way?”

I could go on and on about how that album affected me throughout that year and the years that have followed, but I’ll spare you all. From that point on, I scanned the web for articles about Kris’s life, I scanned the racks of my local Borders for his older albums, I looked up the work of the other classic country artists he alludes to in his songs, and I just generally immersed myself in his music. It was a rabbit hole filled with long and meandering side tracks, but the musical journey it began continues to be the most fulfilling that I’ve ever experienced.

Kris’s music vaulted me into a love-affair with the lilting voice of Willy Nelson, gave me a newfound respect for Johnny Cash, introduced me to the likes of Waylon Jennings, Steve Earle, and Ray Price, and rekindled my affection for the timeless crooning of Emmylou Harris. Kris, Willy, Waylon, Johnny, and Ray were part of something called “Rebel Country” back in their day—a gritty mix of country stars singing about more than their women leaving, a lost job, or their dog dying: they were putting out inspired ballads about social problems in America and abroad, and they were putting out a type of country music that was much more complicated, rhythmic, and romantic than anything at the time.

Now, four years after I first heard Kris’s music, his new album feels like revisiting an old friend—one who has shepherded me through both good times and bad and helped to mold me into a more experienced, tougher, and hopefully wiser version of myself than I was when Kris and I first met.

In 2010, unlike 2006, I now find myself pursuing a path that is pushing the envelope of my abilities and teaching me just how hard it is to follow your idealism. The Peace Corps in Peru has been challenging through each of the almost seven months I’ve been here thus far—and it has been nothing like I expected it to be. I expected the language-learning process to be easy, when it fact it has been incredibly difficult. I expected the projects in my new hometown to fall, ready-made, into my hands—and they haven’t. I expected to fall in love with Peruvian culture, but at times it has been almost impossible to veil my distaste for some of the practices in my community. But you know what? If any of it had been the way I had expected it to be, it would have been a vacation, rather than the profound growth opportunity it has turned out to be.

As I sit here listening to Kris again, he’s still the same hopeful older crooner. He’s still laying down lyrics about love and optimism, yet he’s somehow found new and upbeat ways of getting into my head. And his new songs are filling me with a much-needed dose of inspiration.

On the second track, entitled “From Here to Forever,” that familiar low-register, wavering voice states, “Here’s one I wrote for my kids”, and what follows is a lullaby that any kid, young or old, could probably use on tough nights:

“Cool shadows fall through the moonlight,
Soft as the breeze through your hair.
And the smile on your face while your sleeping,
Is the answer to anyone’s prayer.
Fill your heart for the morning tomorrow—
You still got a long way to grow.
And the love that you’re dreamin’ will guide you,
And live like a song in your soul.

And darlin’ if we’re not together,
There’s one thing I want you to know:
I’ll love you from here to forever,
And be there wherever you go.

There are so many feelings to follow.
So many chances to take.
So many ways you can stumble.
Some day your heart’s gonna break.

Darlin’ take all the time that you’re given.
Be all you know you can be.
And if you need a reason for livin’,
Do it for love and for me.

And darlin’ if we’re not together,
There’s one thing I want you to know:
I’ll love you from here to forever,
And be there wherever you go.
I will love you from here to forever,
And be there wherever you go.”

I consider myself an out-and-out optimist, a dreamer, and a shamelessly sappy romantic. Yet, as everyone knows, life hits you in the gut from time to time and it’s hard to go from day to day feeling the type of full-throated enthusiasm you know you’re capable of. Lately I’ve been feeling as though I’m coasting through my days, lacking the mental clarity and discipline that I typically rely on. Lost in a foreign context, I get frustrated with my inability to communicate and I feel sometimes as though I’ll never learn Spanish. And, with the woman I love living back in the US, I have days where I begin to wonder why I can’t just throw in the towel and go home to her. I know that sounds a bit bleak … but hey, I’m just trying to be honest: it’s hard to chase your dreams, it’s hard to be away from family, and it’s painfully difficult to be far away from a good love.

But lately I’ve been feeling a familiar wind in my sails when everything out on this ocean felt still and silent. I’ve been feeling a stirring in my gut telling me that it’s ok to hurt, to moan, to grieve the loss of a former life—but at some point you have to point your head up and live with purpose. I watched the movie “Crazy Heart” recently, and the main character, Bad Blake, inspired me. He reminded me a lot of Kris Kristofferson, and I heard somewhere that the actor who played him, Jeff Bridges, actually based his acting on some of Kris’s style and mannerisms. Blake is deeply flawed, he struggles and stumbles and makes mistakes, but in the end he finds a depth of hope and creativity at his core that enables him to rise up.

In the title track, he sings “This aint no place for the weary kind, so pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try.”

Not a bad sentiment to take us barreling into Spring, eh?

So while I know this has been a bit long and meandering, I guess I just wanted to flesh out some of these ideas here, and to say that if anyone else out there is feelin’ stressed or worn out or just plain low, at some point a fresh wind will come along … it always does. We’re all pilgrims, of a sort, in our own personal journeys, yet as much as we can I think we’ve got to remember that each of us are here to support each other, to lift each other’s spirits, and to love one another. It’s inevitable that life’s gonna hand us all some hard times, but it’s how we persist through those struggles that really matters. I see a whole different class of hardship here than anything I’ve ever seen before, and I hope with all of my heart that I can summon the guts to combat it.

So be well, be happy, keep dreaming, and don’t let that old, ugly cynicism creep up on the love you’ve got inside you.

“And the love that you’re dreamin’ will guide you—
And live like a song in your soul.”

Amen.

"And The World Spins Madly On"

Well it’s the last day in January as I write this, and I’ve been in Peru for almost five months now. It’s been a ‘full’ process, to date: I’ve struggled a lot, to say the least, but I think I’ve finally begun to find my stride. I teach English classes four days a week, with four separate groups—two groups of little kids, one group of teens and a group of adults—and on Fridays and Saturdays I usually go out and do interviews in my community as part of a ‘community diagnostic’ that the Peace Corps asks volunteers to do during their first three months of service. I’ve done over 30 interviews now, and in addition to helping me find out about the health and sanitation issues in the town, it’s also been a great way to meet people ... to see their houses, to understand the layout of the streets, and to learn the ‘factions’ that exist here (as I imagine they do in all small towns). I think that getting out more has allowed me to feel more like a volunteer, finally, to feel useful and, by extension, more enthusiastic.

And now that I’m a bit more settled, I’m beginning to wrestle with the ‘how’ of this whole experience—how to approach these two years in a meaningful way.

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

- Howard Thurman

My older brother Graham sent me that quote in an email a little over a week ago, and it’s been rattling around in my head ever since. It gets at the crux of life’s central conceit, I think, and one of the things which has flummoxed me up to this point: what can I do with myself that will make me feel vibrant and alive?
Too often I think I’ve been guided by the impulse to “ask myself what the world needs,” only to find that, of course, that question is too damned big and too damned overwhelming to come at from that perspective.

Now that I’m Peru, actually doing this Peace Corps thing that was just a concept in my head for so long, I find myself upset, quite a lot, about the way the organization is run and miffed as to why there’s not more organizational clarity and project management. Yet I’m beginning to realize that, for all it’s failings, the Peace Corps remains a wonderful ‘idea’, a wonderful concept, a wonderful chance to learn about another culture. And I’m trying as hard as possible to move toward a more productive sense of community development on my own terms … because that’s what it’s really all about. Sure, I would have more support if the Peace Corps were managed more effectively, but it’s not, and a person has to accept reality, right?

What’s more, there are plenty of “Type-A” personalities in the Peace Corps here in Peru, doing wonderful work—they’re incredibly self-motivated and ever-energetic, but I, unfortunately, am not one of them. I prefer one-on-one conversations, small groups, quiet spaces. In his email to me, Graham offered up the idea that we can’t all be those “cheerleader” types … we can’t all be “on” all the time, and instead of trying to force myself to fit some pre-determined mold, maybe I ought to focus on the things that make me “come alive”. In other words: care for myself first, care for my enthusiasms and my passions, first, with the understanding that my heart is in the right place in this venture and good things will flow forth during my service if I can just keep myself enthusiastic and motivated.

So the follow-through, I suppose, is self-care, and it’s been doing me good. I’ve developed a ‘quiet time’ for myself—apart from the neighbors and my noisy family—when I’m out on the road running. Now I actually look forward to my evening runs, and I get to catch more sunsets than I ever did before I started. I’ve also spent long afternoons and late nights reading in my tiny little room, roaming from book to book, with the knowledge that my mind, for some reason, needs these imagined worlds and stories to stay creative and passionate about the world we live in. They’re a guide, in a way, that gets me to thinking about the past, dreaming about the future, and ruminating on the present. Meditation and prayer, I think, are two more things that could ease the pain of being away from home, and maybe allow me to remain more ‘present’ in my days.

The fruit of this presence, I think, is that on good days I’m able to enjoy the odd moments that happen here, the funny bits of time, the weird Spanish turns of phrase, the totally beyond-belief health ideas. I was interviewing a woman this past weekend as part of a community diagnostic I’m doing, for example, and when it came to my question about “who was the last person to get sick in your household and what were the symptoms?”, the woman responded that her little boy, about 2, currently has the flu, which he contracted from eating a piece of watermelon that was “too cold”. I shit you not. For Peruvians, cold beverages, any type of severe temperature change, and, apparently, cold fruit, can all cause severe throat problems and bring on raging cases of the flu. I’m working on understanding, I really am.

Other experiences are just flat out funny: I was interviewing another guy, right after that woman, and he was ticking off joke after joke, laying there in his hammock, shirtless, round belly bulging, laughing his ass off. It took us about 10 minutes to start the interview in earnest, because he kept making little quips to my counterpart and me, and then breaking out into peals of laughter. This guy was so jovial and so clearly happy that I couldn’t help feeding off his good humor. When I asked him his occupation (though I already knew he drove a taxi back and forth to the city every day), he told me he was an engineer—a profession that’s virtually unheard of out here in the campo. When I asked him what he grew on his farm, he listed the usual staples and then added ‘dos hectares de cocaína’, just to see if I was paying attention. He then proceeded to lace his responses with so many sexual innuendos and quips about his ‘woman’ that my interview, which normally takes about 20 minutes, took about double the time. His responses were all delivered with such gaiety that I walked away grinning. He was my kind of guy: bawdy and alive, and quick with a joke.

The following day, in contrast, was a particularly good day for slowness, as the one and only interview I did took over an hour, and the woman I met sat on her front porch and regaled me with stories about how Oidor used to be when she was a girl, about all the Catholic religious holidays that are celebrated, about which customs have died off over the years and which have remained, and also about her feelings on various health and sanitation issues we have in town. She was expansive and alert, whereas some of the people I’ve interviewed just seem listless and uninterested. I walked away from my meeting with this woman feeling like I’d made a friend, and feeling like I’d gotten a small window into her memories and aspirations. I realize not all interactions can be like that, but I savored that one for the rest of the day.

In short, I think maybe I’m learning to listen harder, to sit and let conversations flow, and to smile more broadly in an effort to communicate to people that I really just want their friendship and their ideas about how to improve life here in our town. I still have dark and down days with some frequency, but the good ones are getting all the better the more I strip away the “shoulds” and the idea that I need to be following some kind of script for a productive Peace Corps service. No two services are alike, and I know that I need to find the practices and people that will help me come alive, here, because that’s got to be the starting point.

I realize this has been one of the longer posts I’ve put up, and perhaps a little more ‘intimate’, but I guess I just wanted to accurately and fully communicate with you all, you know? I miss everyone, immensely, and I’m looking forward to the next time we can get together. I will be home during the last two weeks of June for a visit, and for the wedding of two very close friends, and I’d love to see as many people as possible during that time.

In the meantime, please stay in touch. I hope you’re all doing well.

Late Night Ramble

I’ve stumbled out of the gates here in the first weeks at site … slow and lethargic, itchy all over my body from some bizarre food allergy, rattled by the sounds and smells and heat and language. Surrounded by mango and plantain and banana fields, with high coconut trees jutting out from the foliage at odd intervals, the area where I live has beauty in abundance, but also a lack of proper waste disposal that leaves a collective blemish on the land. I’ll write more in the future on the specifics of everything, to be sure, but for now I guess I just want to say ‘hi.’

For now, I suppose, I just want to say that I miss everyone dearly, but that I’m ‘ok.’ I’m realizing that it’s only natural to crave silence and solace for days on end after such a grand upheaval in life, no matter how much I was expecting it. I’m realizing—and embracing—the fact that my system needs time to adjust to all that is ‘other’ about my new country, all that is different.

But I will embrace it, because I’m finding sparks in the quiet places in my days lately … I’m finding the exuberance behind my smile again, and the awe at this world that pushed me to do this. I talked to my wonderful older brother tonight for over an hour, watching his expressions and taking in his insights via the wonders of video skype, and it felt good just to know he was out there, just to connect and breathe deeply and realize that just because I’m remote doesn’t mean I can’t connect from time to time. I talked to a dear friend of mine who’s spending December at an orphanage in Kenya via G-chat, once again marveling at the ‘proximity’ that the net provides all of us.

All of us have this huge world to see, this huge place to learn about and gulp in and explore … the trick is, I think, learning to ride the wind in your sails, the wind in your willows, the wildness in your soul that will keep you buoyed and shining while you’re on the journey. When the tides shift, or the wind dies down for a time, it gets dark and lonely and lonesome.

But just today a funny thing happened to me. I woke up to the hot smells of a fried breakfast. I stumbled out to a plate of food and a cup of syrupy sweet instant coffee. I smiled at my new host brother and sister and made a dumb joke in my pidgin Spanish. I smiled at my host Mom and Dad, and another day rumbled forward.

“For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday.”

-Kahlil Gibran

"Everything Gains in Grandeur Every Day"

I’m a month in, today – 10/10 – and I’ve barely written at all as of yet. Life’s been in flux—I still find the language barrier incredibly difficult … not being able to express my thoughts or desires fully is a constant struggle.

That said, it has been one heck of a rush so far—lots and lots of new people, new foods, new customs. The weeks end just as they feel like they’re getting started, and my universe feels somehow crisp but altered: everything is exciting, but everything has been altered, so, so much. I miss my family and the people I love back home, and I try not to think of just how long it’ll be before I see everyone again.

Anyway, how about specifics, huh?

I’m on a combi as I write this, a commuter bus, of sorts, which take people back and forth along the Callaterra Central (the main highway between Lima and the town I’m living in, Chaclacayo). Me and a big group of Peace Corps “aspirants” (we haven’t been sworn in yet), are on our way to the Universidad Catolica, where we’re going to get some sort of tutorial on water pumps and improved water systems.

There are crumbling, dusty brick walls everywhere, rushing by outside my window … rebar sticks out of the top of everything – walls, homes – a sign that more building is expected. Another story will be built. Grafitti covers other walls … “Fujimori—Libertad” … burning trash here on the side of the road, smog and motor fumes hanging in the air.

Along the Callaterra Central, the dilapidated gas stations interrupt the crumbled brick every several blocks. Driving, here, is not something I ever hope to experience. Every combi whines its crazy honking whine, people sprint across the street (sacks of groceries held close), cars gun their engines, shooting for the tiniest of gaps.

Our combis, now, are racing each other—we gringos grinning wide-eyed through crusty windows, or looking bored, or maybe a little jittery, exchanging glances as we jockey past each other at intervals on this three-lane clusterfuck of a road.

Signs, signs, signs—Senor de Los Milagros, planos, copias, farmacia, lavanderia, mariachi’s—and a dog ripping into a bag of trash in a roadside pile. Policlinico, Banco Azteca, La Curacao. Even here, in the craziness of this traffic, a dude in his dirty white sedan is talking on his cell.

There are lots of open-air markets along this main highway—lots everywhere I’ve gone so far, really. You buy your meats, fruits, veggies and whatnot wholesale here … no Giant, no Safeway for that sort of thing. Well, not for my family’s income bracket, at least, and for a large mass of other Peruvians.

Things have changed oh-so-much in this one, beautiful year. The trick, I think, is going to be a reliance—a bear-hugging cling—to that kernel of wonder regarding each new morning, each new breath, each new sight. These days will be a memory soon—time will work its slight of hand, that much I know. What will remain, as always, will be impressions, notions of time well spent—or not—life lived in gulps or sips, taken with relish or with a grimace. Too short to grimace, I say.

Terraced houses on the hill now. Moto-taxis, clothes drying on grim, cluttered rooftops, and a big, pot-bellied, green-capped member of the policia. He’s got a dark, weather-lined face, and he’s wearing a scowl against the gritty wind, waving traffic on for no apparent reason. It’s creeping along, and not going anywhere fast. There’s a dude pissing on smoke-blackened wall. More burning trash: thick, dark, smoke pluming out and up.
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I’ve been reading this beautiful, beautiful book by Annie Dillard these past few weeks – “For the Time Being” – containing her reminiscings on a whole range of subjects … from sand to clouds to Talmudic scholars from centuries past. She included this quote a few chapters back:

“The more I work, the more I see things differently, that is, everything gains in grandeur every day, becomes more and more unknown, more and more beautiful. The closer I come, the grander it is, the more remote it is.”
- Giacometti

A few chapters before that, she included this one (both remind me of the wonder of all this vastness):

“Throughout my whole life, during every minute of it, the world has been gradually lighting up and blazing before my eyes until it has come to surround me, entirely lit up from within.”

- Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Remembrances of a Road Trip

I’ve been feeling, lately, as though way too much time has gone by since my last blog post. It’s not that I haven’t been writing – I have – it’s just that sometimes I have trouble figuring out what’s a ‘blog post’ and what’s just an internal, personal ramble.

However, I just pulled up some short little things I’ve written over the past few months, and I felt like a few of them might be good things to share with people. I’ve been wondering, lately, how best to share some of the experiences I had on my trip. I've driven over 11,000 miles in the past five months, from Pennsylvania out to California and back ... and it's been the most densely inspiring period of time I've had in my life to date.

The trip changed me in ways, both profound and subtle, that I’m still sifting through.

I have so many photos, so many journal entries … and I think that sharing some of it is a way for me to keep the experiences alive and fresh in my psyche. So here are a few little ‘ramblings’ …

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Early April:

Perhaps learning to love, exuberantly, is the central piece of self discovery, of self fulfillment. Maybe we really only find ourselves by gulping in the brilliance of those around us.

Spending days like today and last night, deep in conversation with friends like Erin, learning new music from – and talking about life with -- friends like Freddie, giving big old bear hugs to old friends I haven’t seen for months … it all makes me so deeply happy to be alive and exploring, breathing and smiling. Add to that a collection of sights and sounds from across the country and I’ve suddenly found it utterly impossible not to see the grandeur of what we’re in the midst of.

It’s been a long while since I’ve practiced any sort of dogmatic, orderly type of religion … a long while since I’ve gone to church … a long while since I’ve prayed with any frequency. Yet I feel there’s a deeply loving God, made manifest in the mountains, sparkling down from the night sky (as Donald Miller rightly says …), wishing fervently that we’d all just sit back and breathe. That we’d all stop to take stock of how much we have around us to be thankful for.

I laid in the grass on a hillside overlooking a meadow, way, way, way up in the mountains of Northern California and I stared at the blue sky for longer than I’ve stared at anything for quite some time. I felt the breeze hitting my skin, watched vultures circle down in the valley, took a brief nap on the firm ground. I thought about the things I’ve been through in the past few years, the people I know and love, the people that love me. I thought about how we’re all on our own separate paths towards our own separate visions of goodness, of worthwhile work, of family and community. I thought about what it was like when I was a kid … about how I used to sit or lie outside like that FAR more frequently, thinking thoughts that I’ve long since forgotten, but which, at the time, drifted into my psyche with a simplicity and unexamined ease that a body never quite regains when the duties and responsibilities start piling up. Yet there I was, letting them drift again, astounded by how similar it felt to those long-forgotten lazy childhood days in the sun.

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Mid-March:

Drove down Highway 101 today, all along the coast of Oregon, stopping off here and there at beaches and historic lighthouses along the way. I bought a sub and a coke and sat at a picnic table watching the sunset in a state park … and kept having this thought that maybe there was a ‘better’ vantage point. How silly is that? The simple fact of the gorgeous sun setting, anywhere, is enough of a holy bit of wonder for me.

Drinking from a bottle of wine right now in a yurt in the woods in Umpqua State Park in southern Oregon – the yurt being much more posh than I would have imagined. Little wooden laminate table, four chairs, nice lamp, forest green curtains and curved lattice-work walls … bunk beds, with a bigger, almost double-sized bed on the bottom. Also a couch, an electric heater … a front porch with a light!

I’m entertaining the idea of staying at this park for one more night, maybe getting a cheaper tent site tomorrow. That way I could drive back up to the lighthouse to watch the sunset, and then drive back on down here with supplies and wood for a fire, dinner, and a proper camping experience. Then again, I may just keep heading south. The cabin calls my name. There’s wood to chop.

I’m feeling the arc of this trip pretty fully these days. When I began, I had no idea how I’d respond to the movement and change, and now I’ve been the entire way across the country and explored a little taste of California and Oregon. This country is incredible … I hope that I’m able to come back here again and do this sort of roaming.

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Mid-December:

I believe that the single biggest concept that I’ve grasped as a result of this trip is the notion that life is too beautiful—and the people in it too precious—to harbor doubts and regrets about the life I am living.

I just sat down and looked through most of the photos I’ve taken in the past two months, starting with the ones I took of my cat, Toby, at my parents’ house in Lititz the night I left for Chicago. There are shots of me with my aunts and uncles in cities and towns all across the US … and many of those places were firsts for me. First glimpses. First real tangible ideas about what life looks like here, what it looks like there, how they talk somewhere else or what types of music and culture go on in new places that used to be outside of my experience.

And now they are all inside. And that opening, as it were, has allowed me to feel a certain come-uppance in the world. I feel as though there’s so much more to explore—but that I have made an earnest start.

Now, contemplating my return to Lititz and my family and all of the visits with friends that I will likely engineer, I can’t help but feel that my interactions with them all will be a bit more poignant, simply because something about all this travel and distance has made me appreciate the particulars and the people of my life so much more than I was ever able to before.

For a while there I felt as though I was living the earliest parts of adulthood in this completely baffled state. My choices felt rushed, my thoughts muddy … it was uncomfortable, at best, but mainly just frightening.

Yet now I feel changed somehow. I feel a profound exuberance to be alive and surrounded by such a loving mix of people. I feel deliriously excited to have the freedom to choose the rest of my path forward in life. Joseph Campbell says that “awe moves us forward.” My friend Claire, in a birthday card to me, wrote about the “awe-inspiring uncertainty” of this time of life. What a perfect way of saying it.

So if you combine those two ideas … the very fact that all of this uncertainty inspires awe is the thing that moves us forward. I am certainly uncertain right now about what path or paths to take in the coming months and years. Yet I have spent the past two months in awe … and I can already feel my spirit’s forward progress.

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ps -- I've been using Facebook as a way to share all of my photos from the trip with family and friends. However, I thought it might be cool to have all of the links culled together 'here' for other people who might not be on 'there' ... or who might just want to scan through them in a more sequential context:

Road Tripping Part 1: Chicago
Road Tripping Part 2: Madison, Wisconsin

Road Tripping Part 3: Snowy South Dakota
Road Tripping Part 4: Bend and Missoula

Road Tripping Part 5: Seattle
Road Tripping Part 6: Portland

Road Tripping Part 7: California
Road Tripping Part 8: California, Act II

Road Tripping Part 9: The Oregon Coast
Road Tripping Part 10: Arizona and New Mexico

'Dancing Exuberance'

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the sheer volume of incredible artwork, literature, media, music and creative output of every sort that we have at our fingertips. I’ve been home in Lititz for about two weeks, soaking in the vibes of my family and friends and really trying to slow down to enjoy the specific milieu that makes up my concept of ‘home.’

I have a couple of friends (I love you all ... ) who have these brilliantly active minds that seem to be constantly seeking out new sources of musical inspiration, literary inspiration -- new voices of any kind – voices to propel them through their days and help them to contextualize and make sense of this process of self discovery all of each individually go through. I love meeting them, because through their individual searches, they turn me on to new ideas and ideologies that spin me off in new directions. I know I’ve written about this before … but it’s something I don’t think I’ll ever get over. I feel as though all of this time alone and time to travel has helped me to crystallize my thoughts about the intrigue of it all … and has helped me to be just a bit more receptive.

I think each of us has an inward search going on, and the ironic thing is that the inward seeking we do is enriched tenfold when we open ourselves up to other people. It’s like there are these layers of receptiveness, and each of us (at least as I conceptualize it), are all on our own separate – yet intermingled -- journeys. I feel as though I’m learning, gradually, to become more receptive to my own inner world, and, in turn, receptive to the inner journeys of others.

I do, of course, realize that the pooling of ideas I’m talking about is a pretty basic notion – something that’s no doubt been discussed and articulated in any number of ways – I guess I’m just trying to articulate the fact that I’m finally reaching the point where I’m not at all scared of the results of that ‘dialogue of minds’, so to speak. The notion of limitless ideas and ideologies, endless books and thousands of new musicians used to scare me on some deep level. I shied from it at first, for reasons I think I’m still working out.

Now, though, I’m beginning to realize that the best thing about this life is that no matter how receptive we manage to become, there will always be this endless bounty of new voices to discover. So yeah. That’s all I really had to say … it takes me a while to spit out even basic thoughts though, ha.

Here’s a quote I’ve been loving from this movie called 'Waking Life' that absolutely floored me a few weeks ago. I’ve watched it twice now … and there are so many ideas, constructs and influences bandied about that I think it’ll take me many, many more viewings to begin to appreciate the full scope of the movie. This particular quote is by this guy named Timothy “Speed” Levitch who appears in the film … I could describe who he is, based on my admittedly limited knowledge of him, but here’s what good ol’ Wikipedia has to say:

Tim "Speed" Levitch (born 1970) is an American actor, tour guide, speaker, author and voice actor. His nickname is derived from his trademark fast talking style. Levitch has appeared in multiple films and has had his poetic and philosophical works published in books and periodicals …

The entry goes on, true to Wiki form, in voluminous detail. The article has links to various aspects of his biography, the films he’s been in … on and on. You get the picture. My Uncle just loaned me one of Levitch’s most famous films – The Cruise – and I haven’t even had time to watch it yet. No doubt when I do, it’ll spin me off in a hundred more directions … just like “Waking Life,” the film that just introduced me to him. There’s no end to it … it’s beautiful.

So! If I use up every blog I ever write from here until the end of my life writing and rhapsodizing about the beauty of these rabbit holes … I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of it. It’s fun for me to tease them out, to follow them and explain them as far as I can ... to help myself understand and remember the course. And even now, in the process of writing this all out, I’m realizing that the act of writing helps me to express my thanks for this “ongoing wow” – so PLEASE, please … if you’ve got something, some things, that are dazzling you, waking you up, keeping you awake, whatever ... share them with me.

I feel as though that’s what Levitch must mean by “this dancing exuberance,” right?
Ok, here’s the quote, finally:


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On this bridge, Lorca warns, "life is not a dream. Beware and beware and … beware." And so many think because "then" happens, "now" isn't.

But didn't I mention the ongoing "wow" is happening right now? We are all coauthors of this dancing exuberance ... where even our inabilities are having a roast.
We are the authors of ourselves, coauthoring a gigantic Dostoyevsky novel starring clowns. This entire thing we're involved with called the world ... is an opportunity to exhibit how exciting alienation can be.

Life is a matter of a miracle that is collected over time ... by moments flabbergasted to be in each other's presence.

The world is an exam to see if we can rise into the direct experiences. Our eyesight is here as a test to see if we can see beyond it. Matter is here as a test for our curiosity. Doubt is here as an exam for our vitality. Thomas Mann wrote that he would rather participate in life … than write a hundred stories. Giacometti was once run down by a car, and he recalled falling into a lucid faint, a sudden exhilaration, as he realized at last something was happening to him.

An assumption develops that you cannot understand life and live life simultaneously. I do not agree entirely. Which is to say I do not exactly disagree. I would say that life understood is life lived. But the paradoxes bug me, and I can learn to love and make love ... to the paradoxes that bug me. And on really romantic evenings of self, I go salsa dancing with my confusion.

Before you drift off, don't forget. Which is to say, remember. Because remembering is so much more a psychotic activity than forgetting.

Lorca in that same poem said ... that the iguana will bite those who do not dream. And as one realizes ... that one is a dream figure … in another person's dream -- that is self-awareness.

-- Timothy 'Speed' Levitch, from the film 'Waking Life'
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Oh, and ps – who’s Lorca? I have absolutely no frigging idea ... so I’m off to the land of wiki to find out, ha. And don't you love how sometimes it seems that certain movies, certain books, which end up being perfect for a given moment in our lives, or perfect for our moods or temperament, seem to continually find their way into our hands through whatever channels are open? I had seen mentions of 'Waking Life' years ago ... I'd already fallen in love with some of the director's other work (Richard Linklater ... he's the guy who directed 'Before Sunrise' and 'Before Sunset')... and it took me years to finally watch it. That's a function, I think, of all that is out there, along with that whole notion of receptiveness.

Ok, I'm done, 'promise. Happy New Years everybody.

Presence

It’s early December, the holiday season is in full swing, I’ve driven my car over three thousand miles in the last five weeks, Barack Obama has just been elected as America’s 44th President, and I’m at a Travelodge in Grant’s Pass, Oregon, with a guy sawing away in his sleep in the room next door.

The trip has been such a whirl of cities and suburbs, time changes and time on the road -- it has brought me closer to my extended family than I had imagined it would or could at the outset, allowing me enough time to immerse myself in the lives of my aunts, uncles and cousins in a way that I am relishing.

Tomorrow morning I’m planning to get up and out early, pointed south toward one of California’s Redwood state parks. The thought of seeing those giant trees is touching a childish part of me, an awe I can remember feeling while looking at pictures of Redwoods in books when I was very young. And that’s fun, really … I guess that’s all I’m trying to say. To reconnect with that innocence, to feel it bubbling up gradually over the past several days amidst the rush of all the other positive emotions and thoughts I’ve been having, has been a blessing.

So much of what I have been seeing is entirely new and fresh to my 25-year-old eyes. Driving through each vista, my senses seem to bound and leap to keep up with it all … I catch myself chuckling at my mind’s inability to process it all at once. I lie in bed and try to recall the images to the surface, willing myself to catalogue all the beauty. I realize on an intuitive level that the riches I’m getting aren’t those that can be filed away and saved … they’re of a different sort entirely. This sort of riches leave their mark on the subconscious, maybe, or on the chemical makeup of the brain. The eyes take them in and the mind goes “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” … and the high you get is your reward for slowing down enough to really SEE them.

I just finished reading Anne Lammott’s wonderful book on faith, Traveling Mercies. In her teasingly sardonic, clear way, she repeatedly tells of days in her life where she felt as though God has simply been showing off – making the luster of things jump more than usual, or sparkle that much more brightly. Today, leaving Portland, I had this ill-defined, sleepy, dragging mood hanging around the edges of my head. I knew the trip I was taking was fresh. I knew a part of me was happy to be back on the road … but there was another part of me that was sad to be leaving my aunt Anna Lisa after a trip where I think we both felt a real bond. The mood lasted for hours, and I was actually getting pretty frustrated. Here I was driving through fields that were, quite literally, emerald green and dotted with herds of tan sheep contrasted against the low dark mountains in the distance, and all I could think about was how much I was wishing I could relive the last month again. I have never had a month that has been more varied or stimulating, and a part of me was – and is – sad that it’s over. I was also missing my friends back home, my brother and sister, my parents. My brain was looking backwards … it was projecting forwards … it was doing everything but drinking in the emerald around me.

And then the sun began to set. Shadows started getting long. From time to time I’d see the shadow of my little car speeding to the left of me, twice as large, on the bank of a hillside. I climbed a little in elevation, passed through some low-hanging fog in the hills, and came around the bend with a beam of sunshine square in my face. The remnants of passing storm clouds hung below a dense blanket of higher grey cover. Backlit by the brilliant rays, the wispy lower clouds shone with a white intensity around their edges, giving me this whole expanse of gleaming, multi-tiered blazing beauty. God was, as Anne would say, really hamming it up ... putting on a show for the finale of the day. And like that, I was there. I was in.

And now I’m back here … back in this Travelodge. I’m thinking of the beauty of what I might see tomorrow, the guy (or gal) next door is still snoring away, and I’m trying to push back the nagging questions I have about what I’m going to do with myself once my money runs out and this wonderful trip comes to a conclusion. When I was little – and a lot of the time now, still – I’d be engrossed in the adventure and grandeur of a movie, getting whisked along in some other, fantastic world, and then suddenly I’d find myself stepping out of the plot long enough, there in the darkness in my seat, to worry about the fact that eventually the whole mystery would end, the lights would come on … and I’d have to get up and go back to my world … to a place not quite as fantastic, to people that were a little less dramatic and engaging in circumstances that seemed, at times, painfully ordinary. And in removing myself from the movie in that way, I’d killed the magic of that piece of the film … I’d taken something from the enjoyment I might otherwise have had.

My sole desire, really, for the remainder of this trip is that I can hold the ghosts of that dread at bay -- or, better yet, obliterate it entirely. I pray that I can slow down enough, open my eyes wide enough, open my arms far enough to be able to embrace those Redwoods tomorrow – but also to love the comfort of a cheap hotel room today … to love the music I’ve put on, to love the movie I just let myself get carried into, to love reconnecting with the words of Joseph Campbell on the pages of a book I bought in Portland. I am moving toward that mindfulness, gradually: that much I know. I'm learn to love the time I am in, simply because it allows me to look deeper within myself, free from the distractions that typically inundate my brain.

"The warrior’s approach is to say ‘yes’ to life: ‘yea’ to it all …
The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are."
-Joseph Campbell