The Immersion

muddied feet were bare

river Crossed on stepping stones 

she waited on me.

----------------------
My friend Chip just recently returned from a remote village in Haiti.
He and his daughter (and about 17 others) spent a week sleeping on cots in a cinder block building.
Every morning they would pack up and clear the area to make way for their makeshift clinic.

When I was growing up in the Philippines I knew some people that really immersed themselves in the lives of people they wanted to help.
They believed immersion to be a necessary step for helping impoverished areas.
They found it more effective to  first build relationships with a community by living with them and then working side by side to improve a situation.
When Chip described their accommodations in Haiti, I got reminded of this word: immersion.

-----
Chip told me a story about how one hot afternoon he and his group were walking from one village to another, through the heat and harsh terrain.
Not an easy trek, their varied capabilities ambled on a couple of miles.
Tired, thirsty and deliriously sticky they came to a muddy river crossing.
They removed their shoes to cross over.
One of the local villagers walking with them waded into the waters beside the rocks they were on.
Tucking her long flowing skirt into her waist band, she gestured and spoke Creole-French and beckoned each one to her so that she could wash their muddy feet before making it to the other side.
I asked Chip if it was possible to have declined the foot wash? (I was imagining Steve in this situation, wondering what Steve's options would have been.)
Chip said,  "She compelled you."
This woman did her own immersion.
It was such a humbling act of love and service--
As I listened to this story I could not help but think of how symbolic and Christ-like this woman's actions were. (John 13:14)
I was awed.
As they were giving, they were given.
They experienced church,
in the river crossing somewhere in between two remote villages in Haiti.

Without a Shadow of a Doubt

A Poem For You

A Parable of Immortality

By Henry Van Dyke

I am standing upon the seashore.

A ship at my side spreads white sails

To the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.

She is an object of beauty and strength,

and I stand and watch until at last

she hangs like a speck of white cloud

just where the sea and sky

come down to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, "There she goes!"

Gone where?

Gone from my sight - that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar

as she was when she left my side

and just as able to bear her load of living freight

to the place of destination.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment

when someone at my side says,

"There she goes!" there are other eyes

watching her coming and other voices

ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes."

(sent to me by my friend PF after my Dad died in 2009)

Columbus Day Weekend

October 5, 2007
(For My Older Sister)

Saturday. October 6, 2007
(Pictures of Filipino Dinner here.)

Sunday. October 7, 2007
(Pictures from the creekhouse here.)

Monday. October 8, 2007
(Pictures from the Science Center here.)

Expectations

What did they expect to find when they got at me?
At first, the lid was stuck, my air was thin,
I was at their mercy.
And then it was a hacksaw that revealed me:
Up from the river I came—
I was wet—and dizzy
—and deafened by the ringing of the bells,
but I could tell
that every part of me
was new!

I was exactly what I had expected:
I was alive—
and I was what I had to show for it.
So I didn't stand serenely
like Jesus in the Jordan on his baptism day,
the sky opening and closing around him—
I had to work my own riggings,
supply my own light
—on that day I finally
came alive —

there—beneath the mantel of the Horseshoe,
with the slender Bridal Veil, shimmering to my right
—and everyone's eyes on me,
everyone's hands, handing me along,
steadying me—reaching out to touch me.
You can see the Hallelujah in their eyes—
for that one moment—
before their lids screwed down again,
and they realized
I wasn't quite what they'd expected.

(Excerpt from Joan Murray's narrative poetry
--Queen of the Mist, about Annie Taylor, who in 1901,
became the first person to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel.)


I am going to take the girls to Niagara Falls.

And then I will reward myself with some alone time
like this.

Untitled

Tirso

photo: by Seamus Kearny

Last week this article gave me the impetus to
dabble in an unhealthy dose of introspection.
The introspection lead to self-flagellation, which in turn caused me to self medicate.

In a fog (euphemism)
I found myself shamelessly adopting a lion for a writing circle.
A writing circle whose meshing points are short stories, poetry and the like.
I am no poet.
(Perhaps one has to get poetry in order to write it.)

Anyhow, given the task of naming my lion and allowing him to inspire prose/poetry--
I named my lion Tirso.
This is what Tirso has inspired:

variegated mask easy
to succumb to joy and pain
stable
in a changing world charging
through time
misunderstood.


I wondered if I was unshrouding myself as I characterized Tirso.
Perhaps I should take Steve's advice to quit B.U.I.
(Blogging Under the Influence.)

What are you Grateful for?

Last night on Grey's anatomy, Cristina's character stood at the foot of her best friend's bed willing her to live.
Considering that this is exactly what I did nine years ago, I thought that I would not be able to watch this scene--especially when the TV version does not end up the way my version did.
However, this is what I have discovered:
Whether it is a failed relationship, a dismal career move, a death or a traumatic experience--

I am learning that human minds heal when we allow our attention to shift to positive things.


I will let my memory of my friend rest for another year...but before I do that, allow me to post one more poem written by my friend Benj.

(For Elaine who would have turned 40 today)


this is the moment
that we breathe in

from the countless
hurried minutes
of an endless
harried day
this is the moment

this is the moment
that we breathe in

the fret of mind
and dark of soul
are left behind
for one long pause
for sight, and sound and scent

this is the moment
that we breathe in

when you
at peace
in dream
in sleep
remind us that
this is
you are
we now must be
in this fleeting moment
breathing fully be

-by Benjie de la Pena

Peace

picass0, dove 1949

I haven't considered peace much lately I know
I've gotten too used to war.
In the papers, one man says to another
you can't have this if you don't give
this or this or even that to me. And the other man
laughs instead of cries. He knows,
it's just a game where words can alter
the shape of another man's country. I know

I haven't wept enough
over the bones of their children or the dogs abandoned by
the widows. They line the streets in other
places not here, and other countries I see
remote as the stars that circle
round our planet. I know
my tears are nothing but water and salt and
yet my hand stays open, I know.

by Peggy

To My Imaginary Friend

if we spoke today,
i would have
told you how annoyed i was
with him.
you know that recurring fight
we have?
where i have to call him to sit down
for dinner with us, whether he feels like eating or not...

and then i put the word 'darling'
in to take the edge
of my voice to mask
the frustration i have
with the same f-ing issue.

i know you would have
just let me vent. you wouldn't
even have fed fuel to the fire,
because you know that despite all,
i do love him.

if you were here,
i would have told you how
i almost got a job
that i wasn't looking
for and then
i didn't because...well

i wasn't what they were looking for
...and despite the fact that
i am relieved and that
i said that didn't care...
i do care.

if we spoke today
i would have asked you
what was bugging you.
i would have listened
to your stories of betrayal and pain.

if you called me, you would
have been able to tell me.
i would have told you about
my itchy skin. i think
its an allergic reaction to something.

the top of my toes.
my stomach,
my neck...
my entire body...
(yes, even there).

you think its psoriasis?
eczema? could you ask your mom?

you would have
noticed the difference.
if we were talking i would not
have bored you with stories
about my children.

i am aware
that unless you are their
grandparent, it is torture.

did i tell you that
every friday i teach english
as a second language?
i just realized today
that by the time
the school year is over--

i will have three children
(a somalian, a japanese and a venezuelan)
speaking english with a filipino accent.
you would have laughed.

you would have told me
what made you happy.
i would have told you what
made me happy.
you would have noticed
the difference.

if you called me today i would
have told you i am
ready to euthanize him.
he keeps urinating in the house and waking me at 4 AM.

no don't tell me
he's adorable, because
he isn't.
..if you were here i would have
given him to you already.

hey, i steamed mussels for the first time!
(in white wine and garlic)
the white wine was old (1997)
i just learned that
you do not age white wine--anyhow

my brother he wanted
some, so i gave him a glass and a half
before using the rest on the mussels.
he never knew it was old wine.

you would have laughed.
if i called you today, i would have told you that i am better.

1967- 1997

For Elaine

You called three days before
two days after.
The scribbled note ‘elaine called’
in my drawer of junk
untouched.

In dreams bigger than life
you are
biking, skating
becoming.
You call me.

I,
can
never
catch
you.

Oddly enough,
I never tire.
It is meant
to be.
This friendship.

Life and marriage
separates
For once,
I lead.
I am almost there, you say.

You are gone.
Five days after your call
seven days after.
I know you
remembered.

The the Impotence of Proofreading

By Taylor Mali


Has this ever happened to you?
You work very horde on a paper for English clash
And then get a very glow raid (like a D or even a D=)
and all because you are the word¹s liverwurst spoiler.
Proofreading your peppers is a matter of the the utmost impotence.

This is a problem that affects manly, manly students.
I myself was such a bed spiller once upon a term
that my English teacher in my sophomoric year,
Mrs. Myth, said I would never get into a good colleague.
And that¹s all I wanted, just to get into a good colleague.
Not just anal community colleague,
because I wouldn¹t be happy at anal community colleague.
I needed a place that would offer me intellectual simulation,
I really need to be challenged, challenged dentally.
I know this makes me sound like a stereo,
but I really wanted to go to an ivory legal collegue.
So I needed to improvement
or gone would be my dream of going to Harvard, Jail, or Prison
(in Prison, New Jersey).

So I got myself a spell checker
and figured I was on Sleazy Street.

But there are several missed aches
that a spell chukker can¹t can¹t catch catch.
For instant, if you accidentally leave a word
your spell exchequer won¹t put it in you.
And God for billing purposes only
you should have serial problems with Tori Spelling
your spell Chekhov might replace a word
with one you had absolutely no detention of using.
Because what do you want it to douch?
It only does what you tell it to douche.
You¹re the one with your hand on the mouth going clit, clit, clit.
It just goes to show you how embargo
one careless clit of the mouth can be.

Which reminds me of this one time during my Junior Mint.
The teacher read my entire paper on A Sale of Two Titties
out loud to all of my assmates.
I¹m not joking, I¹m totally cereal.
It was the most humidifying experience of my life,
being laughed at pubically.

So do yourself a flavor and follow these two Pisces of advice:
One: There is no prostitute for careful editing.
And three: When it comes to proofreading,
the red penis your friend.

Days of Our Lives

Sometimes, you just have to say: Enough already.

Anger, though an elixir--if carried too long becomes anti productive,
heavy and downright destructive.
Sorrow, though a natural emotion--left unchecked and bottomless,
also comes with weight, slows you down.
Patience, though considered a virtue--in excess,
leads to inertia and undue self penitence.

Pick your battles, people say
(who these people are, I just don't know)
But after anger has propelled well picked battles
and sorrow has run its antibiotic course
...patience shmatience--
it is time too move on.

Life is too short.
Time to harbor new grudges.

Guilty as sin

blogging just another version of scrapbooking
cyber-scrapbooking.
who loves to look at others' scrapbooks?
who really cares?
the beauty of the cyber-scrapbook is,
as the coerced reader/viewer,
you can look at your own leisure
--or not at all--
unless of course you're friends with one of those
rabid bloggers that might actually quiz you on their latest offering,
in which case, you are screwed.
its sort of like the photo album
that people painstakingly craft
with perfect captions and dates
(you know who you are)
is it part of a self-actualization process
or are we not (alright, i'm guilty)
just preparing photo albums
in the hope that someday, someone will say:
may i see your vacation pictures?