Grace walks the halls

     One night shortly before Christmas, as I begin my shift at St. Joe’s, the Palliative Care chaplain asks me to check on one of his patients, an 87 year old man, who is dying from heart failure.  (For privacy purposes, we will call him David).  Nothing more can be done medically for David and the family has agreed to transition him to comfort care (meaning no further medical intervention other than pain medication will be provided to keep him comfortable).    My colleague briefly sketches the portrait of a World War Two veteran who has led a rich and colorful life.  He is the head of a well-known mariachi band, married with at least ten biological children and four or five more foster children.   On the elevator up to the Intensive Care unit, I meet one of David's grand-daughters and a great-grand-daughter.    I escort the young women to David’s room, where no less than twenty assorted family members are already gathered around the beloved patriarch’s bed.  I squeeze into the crowded room and quickly identify his wife, Edna, an exhausted looking woman who is steadfastly holding vigil by her husband’s side. Her mascara is smeared and her hair is in disarray.     Her hand is resting lightly on David’s chest.   Occasionally, she leans down and whispers soft words of encouragement in her husband’s ear.   I introduce myself as the chaplain on duty.  Edna requests a prayer, but asks me to wait until the last of her sons arrives.  While we’re waiting, I glean a little more information about the head of this very large family.   He is an active member of a Catholic parish and has been performing mariachi music for forty years in churches of all denominations in the Denver area.    A son in law tells me that horns were once considered unseemly instruments for Catholic mass, so David wrote to the Pope asking permission to perform with his band in a Catholic church.  Permission was granted and the rest is history.

One of the daughters suggests that we sing, and immediately, the cramped hospital room comes alive with the familiar lyrics of “Amazing Grace.”  After that, the family breaks into familiar Mexican folk songs, De Colores and Las Mananitas, followed by a few other Latin hymns I have never heard before. The dying man moves his lips to the beautiful music that he has brought to so many people over the years. 
 
Finally, the son we have been waiting for steps into the room, takes his father’s hand, and says softly, "Hola, Poppy, I'm here. "  He  begins to sing “The Impossible Dream” in a rich contralto voice.  He forgets some of the words and falters, so I quickly jump in and fill in with as many of the lyrics as I can remember.  

The music flows out of the room and wafts into the ICU—blessing anyone lucky enough to be within hearing range of this touching outpouring of family love.  The nurses all have tears in their eyes as they go about the business of caring for their patients.  

There is a hush in the room as the last poignant notes echo in everyone’s heart.  Edna asks me to lead them in prayer and our voices join together as we recite the time-honored words of the “Our Father”.     Shortly after we finish praying, I am called down to the Labor and Delivery unit to comfort a woman who has been abandoned by her family after she delivered a baby boy.    The nurse tells me that the woman’s husband and teen-aged daughter had gotten into a heated argument and stalked out of the hospital in anger. 
 “I don’t know what you can do for her,” says the nurse, “but I think it would help if she had someone to talk to.” 
 I find the upset mom sitting up in bed, her long brown hair carelessly gathered into a loose pony tail, lending her the appearance of a disheveled Madonna --the baby,  is sleeping peacefully in a crib by the bed. 
 I tiptoe softly over to the crib, "Have you named him yet?"
With tears in her eyes, she nods, "His name is Darren, after my husband." With that, she breaks down and begins to sob.

 The contrast between the loving family tableau upstairs and the lonely young woman down here in the delivery room is heartbreaking.    In between sobs, the woman, who I will call Ann, describes the turmoil which has plagued her family over the past year. The daughter is struggling with her sexual identity and attempted suicide last summer.  
“We’re a good Christian family and we're just having a hard time accepting that my daughter is gay”, she explains.  
Ann and her husband had briefly separated because of the tension in the home caused by the daughter’s issues.  When Ann found out she was pregnant, they reconciled, but their issues are not even close to being resolved.  Ann tells me that her daughter- an only child for seventeen years- has unfortunately reacted to her new brother’s birth with resentment and hostility, saying she feels 'left out'.   What should have been a happy occasion has been marred with the ugly drama of family dissension.  When I offer to bless the baby, she perks up and quickly gives her consent.  I hastily go online and research the significance of the name Darren and discover that it means 'little great one' in Irish. I don't know if the child has any Irish blood, but my hope is that he has come into the world to reunite the beleaguered family he has been born into.   I bless the little guy and hand him over to his mother’s waiting arms.   I fuss and coo and take pictures—in short, I try to do everything for Ann that her family should have done had they not left in anger and hurt. 

  As Ann gently lays Darren on the bed and inspects him from head to toe, she tearfully tells me, “I’ve been praying so hard for all of us—I want my baby to have a happy family!” 
 "Would you like for me to say a prayer?"  She nods and I begin to pray softly (so as not to wake the baby) for a peaceful resolution of this family’s problems.   Darren's eyes (which have been closed tight the whole time) suddenly snap open.    He levels me with a knowing stare that literally gives me chills.   I see the wisdom of an old soul who has not yet forgotten who he is and where he came from.  I imagine that he is reassuring me, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this!”  In that moment, there is little doubt in my mind that he is indeed a little great one--an early Christmas gift sent as a  symbol of the mutual understanding and love this family needs to bring them together. 

I leave Ann and her baby to rest and go back to the ICU where David’s family is softly singing Christmas carols at his bedside.  The nurse tells me that David’s blood pressure has stabilized.  It is her belief that the singing is keeping him alive. I ask the nurse to call me if there's a change.   With that, I head back to the sleep room in the basement, in awe of the incredible spectrum of life that I have been privileged to witness.

 You hear people bandy the word “grace” around a lot.  It is defined as God’s infinite love and good will, but never have I felt it as strongly as I have on this cold winter night one week before Christmas.  It has walked the halls of St. Joe’s hospital- a palpable presence, flowing gently in, through, and around all those whom I have met—touching their hearts and lifting their spirits.   It has come to escort a loving soul out of the world, and to bring an old soul into the world; it has brought comfort to the loved ones who will be left behind and filled the hurting heart of a new mother with promise, light, and hope.  Most of all, it has made me grateful to be a chaplain. 

Moonstone Magic

On Sundays, the happening place is the Farmer’s Market at Baja Bean in Pescadero— a small village about ten kilometers south of Todos Santos.   You can get locally roasted coffee that puts Starbucks to shame and a tasty brunch while listening to live music.  Local venders from all over South Baja sell produce, homemade jams and salsas, clothing and jewelry.  Last week, I spotted an exquisite moonstone ring in an elegant silver and copper setting, but I figured I didn’t need another ring and besides, it was too expensive. But all week, I couldn’t stop thinking about the ring.  There was just something about it that called to me.   When I mentioned the ring to Frank, he very generously offered to buy it for me as a belated birthday present.  So we went back this past Sunday and bought the ring. All the way home, as I admired the opaque qualities of the stone—the way it changes colors with the light, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my beautiful ring is more than a shiny bauble.  So I went online to research the significance of moonstone.   Apparently, since ancient times, moonstone has been revered for its connection to the magic of the moon.  It calms and teaches the natural rhythms of Earth.  Hmm, how interesting that the ring came into my possession on the very day when the moon is full.   I went on to read that moonstone is symbolic of an inward journey towards long forgotten pieces of the soul  which need to be brought to light. It's even more interesting that  I just happen to be in the business of helping people to recover their souls, in other words to remind them of the inner resources that will sustain them in the face of heartbreak, loss, and life-threatening illness.  Yet one of the drawbacks of being a chaplain (or anyone in the caregiving profession) is that, in caring for other people, it's really easy to lose pieces of yourself.  Sometimes, I get so caught up on a treadmill of working long shifts and recovering from long shifts, I neglect friends, family, and those simple pleasures that feed my spirit and sustain me.   

Normally,  Frank and I are active people, but down here we have been quite content to spend hours sitting by the sea. I’m not a naturally calm person, but there’s something about the ocean that soothes my often restless spirit.  I don’t think I will ever tire of witnessing its many moods and the stunning diversity of life that it supports.  Every day, we’ve seen the humpback whales as they drift south to Central America.   Sometimes, they slip stealthily past, like submarines on patrol, with only the tell tale spouts to indicate their presence.  Other times, they like to show off by breeching and slapping their gigantic flutes (tails) emphatically, or lazily waving to us like the Queen of England, if you can imagine her Majesty having sixteen foot flippers.  It’s an awe inspiring sight which never fails to delight and uplift us.   We’ve witnessed a couple of baby turtle releases and have signed on to “babysit” turtle hatchlings as they incubate in a greenhouse near our house.

It’s easy to feel connected to the Earth’s natural rhythms with the Pacific Ocean ebbing and flowing at my feet, so generously sharing its abundance.  It’s somewhat more of a challenge being attuned to these rhythms in the rush to meet all of my daily responsibilities at home.  But I have my spiritual practices and the Rocky Mountains to keep me centered and most of all,  I’m fortunate enough to have the kind of work which immerses me in the ebb and flow of life.  Odd as it seems, the hospital where I work is not that different from the ocean because it is so like a unique ecosystem containing the whole glorious mystery of creation.  One minute, a soul exits the planet and in the next,  a lullaby over the loudspeaker announces the arrival of another soul.   I can place all of the human judgments I want on the events that happen in a hospital (and some of them are unspeakably tragic and inexplicable) but in the end, I have to believe that there is an order and symmetry to all of it—just as there is so much more happening beneath the surface of the ocean than what my eye can see. 

I came down here hoping to gain some clarity and perspective on what my next steps should be because I always need to be working towards a goal (or so I tell myself).    I don't believe in coincidence.  Is it possible the moonstone ring came into my life to assure me that I'm right where I need to be, doing what I'm meant to be doing?   I just need to lighten up, restore some balance in my life, and be a little less goal oriented. 

 

 

More "tails" from Todos Santos

Our time in Todos Santos continues to flow seamlessly.  That niggling guilt  I initially experienced for being unproductive has come and gone.   Frank and I have succumbed to our natural rhythms, eating when we’re hungry, allowing the soothing surf to lull us to sleep when we’re tired, and getting up with the sun each morning (with the help of a strong cup of locally roasted java).   The only numbers we go by down here are how many shrimp tacos we snarf down for lunch or how many whales we spot in a day (more about that marvelous spectacle later).     

I am slowly falling in love with Todos Santos for its unique colonial charm and unpretentious authenticity.  Even though tourism is a big part of the economy, the town has nothing to prove and is more like the ‘anti-Cabo’.    No Senor Frog or Cabo Wabo here.  Rather than the frenetic activity and crass commercialism of a tourist town, there is a more a relaxed warmth.  People take the time to visit.   At La Esquina, a popular eatery which has become our favorite hang out, the local ex-pats are friendly and quite chatty.  There is Dave, a soon to be refugee from Los Angeles, who is planning his escape from traffic jams and a frenetic pace he finds intolerable.  He is having a house built so that he can live down here for seven months out of the year.    “Everything you need is right here,” he tells us, “I don’t need excitement, I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.”    Dave points out that most of the ex-pats who flock to Todos Santos are on the south side of sixty, either retired or semi-retired-- in search of a more conscious and simpler way of life.   If you look around the restaurant, you do see a lot of grey hair—I’m betting most of the grizzled customers could probably tell you what they were doing when President Kennedy was shot. 

Anita from Vancouver British Columbia and her Mexicano husband are also building a home off the grid which is completely dependent on solar power.  A day without sunshine means a half day without power.  “I hate cloudy days” she grumbles.  But the unpredictable weather is a price Anita is quite willing to pay in exchange for the sense of community she finds here.   She plans to apply for permanent resident status as soon as the immigration laws allow.     When asked if she won’t miss her family and friends from home, it turns out that one of her daughters lives in Cancun and two of her brothers live in the Los Cabos area.    “My whole family will be here for Christmas,” she says happily. 

Abel, one of the local entrepreneurs who originally hails from Jalisco, Mexico,  tells me that he came here five years ago expecting Todos Santos to be a real city—instead he found a laid back little pueblo where there are no drugs (maybe some pot here and there) and little crime.   “You don’t have to lock your doors at night” he assures me in Spanish.

Todos Santos seems to attract individuals in search of serenity, simplicity, and a sense of community with maybe a little surfing thrown in.  We’ve heard many people mention the innate spirituality of the place where yoga, meditation, healers, and Tai Chi classes abound.  On Sundays, you have a choice of guided meditation or Catholic Mass at the Mision de Santa Rosa de las Palmas.

Personally, I’ve been drawing my spiritual sustenance from the ocean.  To be in the presence of this vast body of water is to be touched with a sense of the sacred.   For our Sunday “service”, Frank and I are drawn to a beach near town where we are treated to our first heart stopping sight of  humpback whales joyously leaping and cavorting in a stunning display of acrobatics.   Sea world could not have come up with a more magical show than the performance we are privileged to witness on this beautiful afternoon.   When one of the huge creatures explodes nose first out of the water as if shot from a canon, we hold our breath the second before its massive form arches and comes crashing down with a belly flop of epic proportion.   At one point, three of the whales gracefully vault out of the water, one by one, in what looks like a beautifully choreographed ballet.  It is an unforgettable experience which brings a sense of awe to my heart and tears to my eyes. 

Just before sunset, as if to remind me of the infinite abundance of the Universe, I spot a turtle drifting in the  clear turquoise waves and miracle of miracles-- yet another humpback emphatically slapping the water with its enormous flute.  Can it get any better?  Stay tuned for more “tails” from el Pueblo Magico. 

Just Another Shitty Day in Paradise….

       Frank and I are already ten days into our month long stay in Baja, Mexico.  It’s taken me this long just to empty out the mental garbage which has accumulated from busily hurrying through a  daily routine regimented by numbers:   how many shifts I work, how many patients I visit, how many minutes I spend with each one, how many meetings I attend, how many times I work out in a week, how many calories I burn.  So far, the days down here have been filled with a whole lot of nothing.   It's been a bit unsettling and I've had to overcome a niggling guilt for spending long unproductive hours napping and reading airplane novels.  


     Our excuse for coming down to this part of the world (as if we need one) was the destination wedding of Frank’s nephew.  We spent our first few days on the East Cape by the Sea of Cortez lounging around the pool of our resort by day and participating in wedding festivities at night.  After a brief visit to Cabo Pulmo, where we snorkeled at the only live coral reef in this neck of the woods, we made our way over the mountains to Todos Santos on the west side where we’ve rented a spacious two level house for the month.  Our new home, "Casa Gallo" comes equipped with a raggedy looking though friendly white cat and has spacious well proportioned rooms all of which overlook the Pacific ocean.  From the first night when our designated greeter, a pleasant young man named Chewy, merrily welcomed us, Todos Santos has gradually yielded its many charms.  Ever since hippie artist types "discovered" it in the mid-sixties, the once forgotten town has become an intriguing  mixture of ex-pat art galleries, expensive shops and restaurants, juxtaposed to taco stands and super mercados.   Less than an hour drive from La Paz to the north and Los Cabos to the south, Todos Santos offers amenities which have attracted a colony of full time gringo residents from all parts north--we've seen tons of South Dakota license plates.  And who can blame them for wanting to live here?  We've already experienced the friendly warmth of a close knit community and its natural beauty is truly unique--the kind that slowly grows on you.  The semi arid desert landscape rolls towards rugged mountains shrouded by clouds to the east  and pristine beaches stretch for miles along the west coast.

       The area is known for a stunning diversity of birds, turtles, humpback and grey whales that migrate from Alaska and come up to the shore so close, you can see their eyeballs.  The fact that powerful waves and deadly currents make swimming dangerous can be forgiven because there is not a single high rise hotel, a vender hawking cheap jewelry, or a jet ski in sight. 

      It hasn’t taken us long to institute what has become a precious daily ritual.   Every afternoon about an hour before sunset, we haul books and beach chairs down to the beach.  My husband and I are simple people.  It doesn’t take much to entertain us.    We are quite content to quietly watch the pelicans play chicken with the waves as the departing sun paints the sky and sea with bold strokes of rich color.    Last night we both agreed that we will probably never get tired of watching a capricious and unpredictable body of water which promises endless possibilities in any given moment.     Like children anticipating Christmas morning, we crane our necks and strain our eyes searching the horizon for the sight of a dolphin playfully leaping, a whale breaching, or a turtle’s head poking up from the waves.  Even if we see none of these things, we delight in the waves hell bent on self-destruction as they swell and form perfect turquoise arches before slamming into the shore and disintegrating into a chaotic jumble of froth; we are addicted to the delicious sea spray and the gently cooling breezes; we luxuriate in the spaciousness of having the entire beach to ourselves; we are simply in jaw dropping awe of the magnificence of each night’s light show—no two sunsets are alike, each one competing with the last for best of show.   Already I have taken dozens of photos in a vain attempt to capture the grandeur of each one. 

 

The great turtle escape

But we are most excited about the turtles. The beaches near Todos Santos are home to three different endangered or vulnerable species of turtles—Olive Ridley, Leatherback and Black Turtle.  Once considered a delicacy in this culture, the eggs are now collected by various groups of local “tortugueros” devoted to protecting these species. From October through April, the tortugueros  patrol the beaches at night, searching for nests hidden in the sand by the mama turtle, and then carefully transport the eggs to a hatchery where they can incubate safely out of the reach of predators and poachers.  After 45 days, the hatchlings are ready to be released into the sea, facing odds that are not exactly in their favor—only one in a thousand (a conservative estimate at best) will survive to maturity. But without the efforts of the dedicated tortugueros, the survival rate would be even more dismal.  On our first Saturday night in Todos Santos, we decide to see for ourselves what all the hoopla is about. We find that it is an unexpectedly moving experience.   To witness these little guys purposefully scurrying to their almost certain doom is to feel the wonder of the incomprehensible mysteries of nature.  Even after all of the years I spent photographing countless wildlife releases for the Colorado Division of Wildlife, it’s hard to overcome my inclination to interfere (can I take them home and feed them?) and withhold human judgment (poor babies!).  To witness the whole kamikaze mission definitely requires a certain amount of faith that there’s an order and purpose to it all beyond our limited understanding.

Brave little guys heading out to sea
 

    Despite the fate awaiting the hapless creatures, I root for them anyway as they valiantly scuttle headlong towards waves that will swallow them up and Fed-ex them to their destiny.   There is always the possibility that one of these brave hatchlings will be the very one who gets to live and thrive and prosper for two hundred years.       

Stay tuned for more tales from Todos Santos--el Pueblo Magico!    

Just another day.....or is it?

  On the surface, my 64^th birthday is just another day, beginning with a monthly meeting with my chaplain peers.  Of all days, it is my turn to present a case study for peer review.  I’ve been dreading it for months—it’s meant to be a learning tool to keep us chaplains on our toes, but sometimes it seems more like Monday morning quarterbacking.  In any event, I get through the verbatim account of a visit with a patient.  I am relieved when the criticism I've been expecting (and think I deserve) is not forthcoming from my supportive colleagues.   Gift #1.

After the meeting, I drive to the East side of town to meet with the daughter of a dear friend-Elizabeth- who unexpectedly passed away in June.   Between getting married and changing careers, I had lost touch with my old friend, kept meaning to call her, thinking that I had all the time in the world.  Turns out, I didn’t. A couple of weeks ago, I officiated at Elizabeth’s memorial service, a bittersweet honor which was far more difficult than I had expected.    After the service, her daughter Lee asked if I might want some of her mom’s things as a keepsake.  So this morning, I find Lee undergoing the heartbreaking task of dismantling Elizabeth’s home.  She is frantically trying to reduce her mom’s life to a few boxes that can be transported back to her home in Oregon.  I find many gifts that I have given Elizabeth over the years-souvenirs from my travels—a tiny bejeweled elephant from India, a miniature painting from Ecuador, a gold bracelet I gave her for her birthday. I am painfully reminded how close we once were.   We celebrated birthdays and holidays together.  We spent long evenings talking about important stuff—the meaning and purpose of life, our spiritual beliefs.  A few times, she accompanied me to the Bar D (my property in the mountains) for a weekend of luxury camping in the airstream.  I feel like a vulture pawing through her life, but Lee is intent on giving me as much stuff as I can fit in the trunk of my car.   I drive away crying-- the taste of regret bitter in my throat.  Regret that I didn’t spend more time with my friend.  Regret that I didn’t even know she was sick until I got a phone call from a mutual friend telling me that she was in the hospital—my own hospital, where I work as a chaplain.  Even after paying her a couple of visits and seeing how sick she was, I didn’t really think she would die.   With all of my clinical experience, apparently I am still buying into the pretty little fairy tale that says our dearest friends are supposed to live forever.  The lesson here is obvious.  Gift #2 

While I’m trying to find room for Elizabeth’s things in my own home, the UPS man unceremoniously dumps a package on the doorstep.  It is from my step-daughter Dawn.  I am touched she remembers my birthday until I find out that my ex-husband is moving out of the home we briefly shared almost thirty years ago.  Somehow Dawn got roped into cleaning out the attic and found artifacts from my past stashed away in a trunk.  The fact that the package has arrived on my birthday is mere co-incidence....or is it? The package contains an eclectic collection of memories—a high school yearbook, an issue of the underground newspaper I wrote for in college, assignments for a creative writing class, an Aspen Times article featuring  myself and a wet behind the ears  reporter--we were Channel 7’s West Slope bureau team back in the late 70’s.  I am suddenly reunited with my young tender self—the self that doubted herself and yearned for something unattainable.  She was passionate, impetuous, and conflicted.   Here she is, on my dining room table, a silly adolescent recalled in hastily written year book entries by long forgotten friends, "remember Latin One when a certain girl caused another certain girl to topple over her desk?"; here is the disaffected college student, testing out newly formed ideas and opinions on mimeographed and type-written leafs of yellowed paper, here is the budding writer, and the veteran photo journalist, jauntily wielding a cumbersome 16mm camera smiling back at me from a faded photograph.  How I love all of her.  Gift #3

Later that afternoon, after suffering through yet another meeting, my husband whisks me away to one of our favorite restaurants on 32^nd Avenue.  Over gnocchi in truffle cream sauce, Frank listens sympathetically as I try to process  the strange day I’ve had. I know there’s a theme to it all, but I can’t quite grasp it.   After dinner, he offers to drop me off at home and drive to a bakery on the other side of town to procure a slice of my favorite chocolate cake.    I end the day relaxing on the couch, greedily licking the delicious frosting from my fingers-- grateful for my best friend and husband who is giving me a vigorous foot rub.   Gift #4 

My 64^th birthday has turned out to be an extraordinary day after all. So maybe it hasn’t been the day of leisure that I would have chosen, but for sure, it’s been full of surprises.   I’ve gotten a perspective on how far I’ve traveled from the gangly insecure teenager to rebellious young adult to a somewhat wiser, less insecure elder.    I’ve been reminded that that no matter how many years I’ve walked this planet there is no end to the lessons I came here to learn.  When it comes to regrets, all I can do is keep the self-flagellation to a minimum and try a little harder to nurture those precious connections with my loved ones.

 I've come to believe that everything in life happens for us rather than to us.  Heartache and failure as well as success are all part of the whole glorious package meant to help us grow and evolve.   Most of all, I’m grateful for all of the people and experiences that have gotten me here and I've gotta say, here is pretty great.  

Life's Wrong Turns

 “So what do you want to do for your birthday, my love?” I ask my hubby Frank a few days before his 64th birthday.

 

  As we are both hiking enthusiasts, his response is no surprise:   “Lets go hiking!”

 

      Although Frank's birthday promises to be plenty warm, there’s still too much snow in our favorite haunts in the high country, so we choose Roxborough State Park as our destination. Located in the foothills outside of Denver, it is a beautiful area known for its stunning rock formations and diverse wildlife.  We know Roxborough and its trails well because years ago, I produced a video for the visitor center.  With Frank serving as my faithful grip, we spent many happy hours taking pictures of the park in all of its moods. 

 

       We decide to head towards Elk Valley, one of the few places in the park we’ve never been.   We know that the trail to the valley connects to the Indian Creek wilderness, another beautiful area we’ve hiked a few times.  We are curious to see where the two properties intersect and set off in a spirit of adventure.  As we climb the steep trail, we are rewarded with amazing views of the park, the city, and the plains.   Splashes of multi-colored wildflowers decorate both sides of the trail. We spot a handsome Bullock’s Oriole perched on a dead tree snag and hear spotted towhees scuffling busily through the dead winter growth.   We follow the contours of gently rolling hills blanketed with thickets of scrub oak and eventually come upon a lush green valley below which stretches into thickly wooded foothills to the West.    The trail gently slopes down into the valley ending at a gravel road.  After consulting the map, we decide to go to the left, believing that we are heading towards the wilderness.

 

    From the moment we enter the valley, we are enthralled with its unspoiled beauty.  We pass a crumbling old homestead and imagine what it must have been like to live here a hundred years ago.  Other than a few mountain bikers we have the valley to ourselves, a rarity especially on such a beautiful day so close to town.  Every now and then, a ruby throated hummingbird executes a noisy fly-by and several Monarch butterflies playfully brush past Frank, as if to wish him a happy birthday, or so we whimsically imagine.  The fragrant spring breeze induces a sense of giddy gratitude as we steadily climb up a steep incline anticipating a view of the wilderness once we get to the top.   Instead, we find that we are facing the plains instead of the wilderness. 

 

  Another consultation of the map shows us that we’ve gone in exactly the opposite direction of where we intended to go.  Duh.   We double back, laughing at ourselves for not knowing how to read a map.  But we so don’t care. We are together, doing what we love best and it is just too beautiful a day to worry about our questionable navigational abilities.   On our way back, I happen to glance up at a ridge above us and see what looks like a charred stump, about a hundred yards away.

 

  “That’s not a stump… is it?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the stump moves.   Instantaneously, we realize we’re looking at a pretty good sized black bear partially screened behind a scrub oak bush.  It is standing on its hind legs, ears quivering and black eyes watching us with an intensity that is somewhat alarming.   It sits down and then rears up again, obviously agitated by our presence. It occurs to us that this might be the female bear with a cub that has recently been sighted by other hikers.  Even though we don't see a youngster, we know better than to risk disturbing a protective mother bear, so after a last look through our binoculars, we slowly back away before inviting any more attention from mama. 

 

   On the way back, we excitedly go over every detail of our close encounter with the bear, which obviously has turned out to be the highlight of our afternoon.  Had we not stumbled off in the wrong direction, we would have missed exploring a gorgeous and remote part of the park and we probably wouldn’t have seen the bear. 

 

    Not only has our “mistake” yielded a memorable birthday adventure for my husband, but it has also served as a clever reminder that sometimes it’s those wrong turns in life which often lead us to exactly the right place.  

Stranger in a strange land

     

My long-suffering maestra-Maria Luisa
at Casa Xelaju

 Greetings from Quetzaltenango  Guatemala—I’m back at Casa Xelaju, the school where I studied Spanish 18 years ago.  Time is passing quickly and I am already more than half way through my time here.   My head hurts from conjugating verbs and trying to grasp the subtle difference between por and para. Half the time, I feel like I’m picking my way through a mine field.   Every time I open my mouth, a verbal land mine is waiting to explode in my face.  One wrong vowel at the end of a word, one misplaced accent can earn me a blank stare or worse, the dreaded correction.  My very patient teacher Maria Luisa is gentle when she corrects me, nevertheless, my first week at Casa Xelaju is a real ego-buster.  

 Me:  “Er, donde es…

ML:  (slowly enunciating each word)”….esta, donde estaaaah…”

Me: “Oh, yeah, right, er, donde esta la ollo?

ML:  (again slowly) “La olla…donde esta la olla?”  She draws me a hole (hoyo) and a pan (olla) so that even an idiota like me can tell the difference.  Sometimes my long-suffering maestra has to get her point across with crude but charming little cartoons. 

Me: (gritting my teeth) “Donde esta la olla?”

Her:  (emitting a tiny sigh before flashing me an encouraging smile) “Muy bien, Angela!”

     There is no dignity trying to master the minutiae of the language I’m currently butchering. I cringe with embarrassment as Maria Luisa marks all of the dumb mistakes I made conjugating a long list of verbs I used to know.   I tell myself I’m so much better seeing the big picture—I’m just not a detail person.  

     The second week goes better.  I can now speak a sentence, maybe two without Maria Luisa having to correct me or draw a cartoon.  By the end of week two, I know I am making progress when I manage to enthusiastically describe the plot of the Wizard of Oz to my bemused teacher.

 “Como se dice munchkins?”  Of course, a lot of frantic hand waving goes a long way towards covering the considerable gaps in my vocabulary.   I even perform a few songs from the classic film much to Maria Luisa’s amusement.  Okay, so maybe I’m jabbering like a spider monkey, but I’m confident that I’m one of the more entertaining students at CasaXelaju.

     Why am I going through all of this brain damage? I’ve always had a love affair with Spanish ever since my Dad sang my sisters and me songs about stoned cockroaches and told us stories about the small village where he was born in the high desert plains of Coahuila, Mexico.  Twenty years ago,  I put considerable effort into learning my father’s native tongue by enrolling in two immersion programs—one in Costa Rica and the other one here in Quetzaltenango (better known as Xela).  But when I got home, I had few occasions to use it so over the years I lost the ground I gained.  When I started working as a chaplain in two urban hospitals I found that it was tough trying to effectively serve the many Hispanic families I regularly encountered there.   So I decided it was time to return to Xela--a funky colonial city in the Western Highlands of Guatemala--the place where I had such a wonderful experience so long ago.  

      But honestly, besides the obvious need for a repaso I think there is a deeper reason for being here.  I’ve come to realize that the real point of studying Spanish this time is to give myself permission to make mistakes; to be gentle and accepting of myself when I make them; to let go of the need for perfection.   The incongruity between my identity as a not too bright student prattling away like a three year old and my identity as an articulate well-educated woman with an alphabet soup behind her name has created a certain inner tension which frankly, is making me come alive.   Someone once said that the whole point of travel is not so much to explore exotic cultures as it is to explore ourselves while being immersed in an unfamiliar culture.   

      Being a stranger in a strange land can definitely be a challenge, but as I gingerly taste the unfamiliar words on my tongue, I am grateful for this precious opportunity which is stretching me beyond my comfort zone.   I can’t wait for tomorrow—maybe I’ll even be able to get three whole sentences out without a correction.  Bring it on, I say!   

All things made new

     “Hon, don’t you think it’s time to take down the tree?” Frank asked hopefully this past weekend.  It wasn’t the first time he dropped a not so subtle hint about dismantling our beautiful Christmas tree, but my inner five year old pouted and dragged her feet every time it came up.   Half way into January, even I had to admit that the tree was starting to become a fire hazard. 

       Operation Christmas tree is a big event in our household, carrying far more significance than merely prettying up the house for the holidays.  The annual ritual of decorating the tree is my way of honoring long-standing family traditions and cherished memories of loved ones.  Each year, as I unpack treasured ornaments and carefully hang them on the fragrant branches, I am reminded of the years I spent Christmas with Mom at the farm in Pennsylvania.  Every year, we would commence our holiday celebration with the same argument over whether we should have a tree or not.  It was the only argument with my mother that I ever won.

      I can still hear her voice in my head. “Oh Angela, it’s too much trouble, don’t bother” she would protest.   I would roll my eyes and over-ride her objections with a breezy, “It’s not that big a deal, Mom.”  Of course, it was a very big deal which involved a hunt for the perfect tree at the tree farm down the road, cutting it down with a rusty bow saw dulled with age, dragging boxes of decorations down from the attic and wrestling with a very old and cantankerous tree stand. But the the look of childish delight on my Mom’s face at the sight of the glittering tree decorated with the familiar ornaments I remembered from childhood always made it well worth the effort.

     Early on in our relationship, Frank learned to accept my Christmas tree fetish so he knows better than to debate the topic of “to tree or not to tree”.   He just cheerfully indulges me and goes out and procures a tree.  This year he brought home an exceptionally beautiful one. But as I unpacked the precious ornaments that represent virtually every chapter of my life, I found myself more nostalgic than usual.  Maybe because last year was filled with unspeakable tragedy and loss, forcing all of us to confront the fragility of life. 2012 may not have lived up to the end-of-the world hype, but it sure pushed us to the limits of heartbreak.  How re-assuring to find that my Christmas treasures remain the same from year to year, never failing to delight my five year old heart. There are the plush Disney ornaments that Mom gave me so long ago—Gus, Gus—the mouse from Cinderella, Dodger the street wise dog from The Lady and the Tramp and Sebastian the crab from The Little Mermaid.    There are angels of every size, texture and shape from my sister Maria; a frayed pink yarn mouse from my post-college hippy days when I made everything from scratch; there are red bows and the delicately carved wooden kiwi and sheep from the first memorable Christmas Frank and I spent together in New Zealand.   And the piece de resistance—Great Grandma Jake’s hand painted glass ornament—fragile and faded—well over a hundred years old.  For years, I kept it packed away in tissue because I was so afraid I would break it.  But what good is a memory if it’s sitting in a box where no-one gets to enjoy it?  So the ornament goes in a place of honor, high up near the top of the tree. 

     Now with the tree gone and the decorations stashed away in the basement, the living room seems barren and cold. When I said my good-byes to Gus-Gus and the Dodger for another year, I was so sad that I felt like crying much to Frank’s amusement.   But as difficult as it was to let the tree go, I know that my melancholy won’t last very long.  The upside to impermanence is that all things eventually become new again. For every old memory savored and put away, there will be lots of opportunities to make new, happy memories in 2013.  It won’t be long before it’s time for flour bunny tracks and Easter egg hunts.