space traveler

Has the journey ended? Has it just transformed...? To travel in ones own space, from house to yard to pasture, down to the mailbox, out to the chicken coop. Leaping from dirty coffee cup to dusty house plant, spanning the space from window ledge to table top to traverse between the crumbs of last nights dinner. Time, too, is relevant. The rythm of light and darkness, moon and star, sun crossing the sky (now so far to the south), seeds germinating, growing, setting seed, dying, the shift of birds clocking in to relieve the previous crew. A log burns, the eggnog goes sour, the frozen bowl of dog water thaws in the thin winter sun, its time to cut my bangs again.

surprise!

A new year, a new post, a year since the last.... A shift of focus, the great eye regains clarity and sharpens its stare. The winged heart settles to the ground, pecks and scratches, turns three circles, makes its nest, allows roots to set. A natural progression, but one never considered. Easier to believe the world is coming to its end than to believe in transience finding a home. A home. Home.
So, as life transitions so does my blog. The need to practice writing for others to read, not just the usual secrets I scrawl in books I keep hidden from you, is apparent. A present wrapped lovingly in paper, tied with ribbon, taken to the ledge and drop kicked, left on the lawn to disintegrate in the rain, to bleach in the sun, to be pawed open by a curious animal. Whatever. Its out there now.

Agradable agradecidos

Abajo de la luna llena en Xexecom, Quitche


Christmas gift giving in La Ventosa. Don Geronimo is in the red striped pants, mostly likely giving tiny speach.


Hugs hugs hugs. Feliz navidad niños queridos.

These photos are small windows of the moments I have passed here in Guatemala the past two months. They are the people and places that I hold close to my heart. Thank you so much to everyone that supported me in my journey here, once again. Stories soon to follow...

Este etraño poder

Aqui estoy. Aqui. Aqui. Aqui en Xela. Like returning to a memory. A memory in full, not selected for its sweet moments, its good times, its warm hearts. A memory so close to reality, one that doesn´t edit its self to my liking. Such a strange power to return to a place like this one. So far away in distance, in style, in way, in life. Just money, just a plane, just ten hours and I return to the dream. The dream has lived this past year as I have lived, one more freckle, one more heartbreak, one more crack in the cement, one more pair of adidas over the power line. Physically we travel through this time space side by side. Almost undecernably the same is this place I have loved and set free. The red tin roofs, the unfinished cinderblock buildings, the clothes on the lines, the dogs in the street, the bus culture, the flowers in the cemetery. I am recollected by the characters of this dream, Doña Lucy, the orange juice lady, Leonora and her old mother, who hug me and pinch my arms, by the children and teenagers I spent so much time with, the chubby girl at the food carts in Parque Central. My best relations here expected my arrival, awaited my magical return from the mysterious lands of the north. The place where money is cultivated, where wealth explodes, where poor volunteers go and return rich with Christmas presents for all. They swallow this impossible reality with little questioning, grace me with the their acceptance of the unknown.
The strange power overwhelms me, earases the past year of my life. So many times I´ve questioned the knowledge, the experiences of the time I´ve spent here. What are they worth? In what context are they applicable? What good is this understanding I´ve gained? And suddenly it all makes sense. As I get in a cab and bargain for the price, as I take the right chicken bus to the right destination, as I go where I want to go flawlessly, comfortably, making friends along the way, opening my heart to a place that so many fear and misunderstand. My education here was priceless. Every hard earned lesson blesses me with the wisdom that follows.

Of gifts and goodwill

Many of you have recieved this already, but I thought I would post it just in case.

My dearest friends and families,
As many of you know I spent the greater part of 2009 volunteering for a non-profit organization in Xela (Quetzaltenango), Guatemala known as EDELAC (Escuela de la Calle). Fifteen years ago EDELAC was founded to build and sustain a primary school in one of the poorest areas of the city where no other existed. Today it provides over 200 children, grades 1 through 6, with free education. A dormitory, El Hogar Abierto, was later created as a safe, abuse free environment for children without families or whose families live in an area with no available educational services. Almost all funding comes from the hard work of a group of volunteers known as the Quetzal Trekkers. The Quetzal Trekkers work as hiking guides, leading tourists on multi-day treks throughout the highlands of Guatemala, with 100% of their proceeds going to the children of EDELAC and El Hogar Abierto.In my time as a guide for Quetzal Trekkers I witnessed a fully functioning organization run on the goodwill, dedication and love of its past and present volunteers and associates. I was blessed to spend time living, learning and playing with the children and teenagers of EDELAC and El Hogar Abierto. I left not only with new friends, but with a family to whom I am connected and care about.
So in the spirit of this holiday season I am planning a journey to Guatemala. I would love nothing more than to share gifts, money, supplies, gear, joy and love with children who deserve every resource they can get to succeed. I am presenting you with the chance to give to those who desperately need the help, to a place where a little goes an incredible distance. Please help me to provide the faces, hearts and stories I know and love, with the basic opportunities most of us take for granted. I am accepting any and all donations. Please see the following information for the website my friend Jon set up for internet donations. Feel free to pass this letter on to whomever you think would be interested in donating. Please call (503-708-3564) or email (mlss.mrsn@gmail.com) if you have any questions or if you want to come with me (I’m serious, lets go!).
Many thanks,
Melissa

http://www.giveforward.com/quetzal-trekkers-christmas-fundhttp://quetzaltrekkers.com/guathome.html

A Guate Christmas

Push some buttons, type some numbers, and I have spent more money in one second than I have in the past eight months. A plane ticket from Portland to Guatemala City. Such lanes of transit exist. I will walk out the door of this house of friends, cross the wet pavement, damp leaves, coffee roasting, beer brewing, yoga studios of Portland. I will board a long, winged, slightly uncomfortable box and, just a lapse of time later, find myself in the familiar chaos of Guate. A journey that once took the greater part of the year will be knocked out in eleven hours.

This journey is different in nature. I am returning to the place I lived, the people I know, to celebrate Christmas, to bring cheer. I was invited to help my friend Jon (see old blogs) who started a fundraiser to give gifts to the children and teenagers we volunteered with like we did last Christmas. The invitation came to me at exactly the right time. A time when my mind was open to the idea, when no plans cluttered the space of my future, when I had just made a little money. ¿Por que no? So now, we have reached our goal, we are ready to go. My deepest graditude to all who have given.

Expectations loom heavy, but this journey is a simple one. Give gifts, give love, give joy to those who welcome it with out beaurocratic nonsense. Share the blessings of my situation, as a citizen of a country that offers more opportunity than ever imaginable here.

pound for pound

Some how, through the twisting, convoluted turns of the universe, I have found myself in Europe... One may ask "how this could happen," I would answer, "On an airplane." I am in Liverpool, England, where the cars are hatchbacks, the lips have mustaches and the track suit is king.
Of all the ways to travel, by bicycle must be my favorite. It is a path used for hundreds and hundreds of years by horses pulling boats up and down the canal system from Leeds to Liverpool. Finding the begining in the city is the greatest task, I ask many people for directions, I am lost, it is so much like traveling in Mexico. I find the path finally and ride toward the outskirts of town. The water of the canal is full of garbage, the brick wall banks are crumbling and graffitied. I pass factory after factory, many steaming and buzzing, but even more that are lifeless and deteriorating, making the long journey back from where they came. Eventually the banks become reeds, ducks paddle on their belly boats, ancient gnarled beech trees line the way. It is Sunday and sunny. Many people are out letting the rare appernce of sun warm their hair, touch their blue-white skin. Fishermen are a plenty. I can only imagine what they would be catching- tiny minnows, a boot perhaps. I fight the urge to tell them stories about the rivers in Montana or Alaska. I ride through green rolling hills with little fences made of stone, under tiny arched bridges just wide enough for a horse and cart, past old farmhouses with thatched roofs and cabbage patches. Boats toot up and down the canal on Sunday outings. Families picnic on lawns in English gardens. Beer is drank at tiny pubs by people who's ancestors drank beer at the same tiny pub. After miles and miles I turn and ride through a forested area. I call it Sherwood forest. I close my eyes, briefly, and imagine this land as it once was. Covered same dark tree blanket as this one. There are almost no forests left in England. I will see none in my time here. I strain to feel the spirit of the land, but all I feel is the long term presence of people. The wilderness has long been worked from the earth, the mystery has dwindled. I am so greatfull for the land that raised me. How it taught me, shaped me, how my spirit mirrors its own.
Down farm lanes, through feilds, I arrive finally at my destination. Its Simon's dad's house- everyone is drinking beer in the garden. I crack one open and lay in the grass. God save the queen.