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Monday, 16 November 2009
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
Emptiness and detachment
I am writing this from a quaint B&B--The Elms--in Bedford, England. I am here by myself, all week long. I have done some things, and I have done nothings. I have written a lot, and it has come to my mind that perhaps I should transfer some of my ponderings to a blog, so that some of my dear friends and family will know A) that I am alive and well and B) that I am thinking, and that I wish them to think as well. What follows are smatterings of thought from the first half of my solitary holiday.
25 October
So. Yesterday I arrived in London. I embarked on the off-chance of meeting up with Dan and Jayne Taylor. I failed, but as a consolation prize I met up with the whole England Term '09 group from Bethel at the ever-lovely Celtic Hotel (this is the the part where all you ET alums let out a big sigh and say, "Weetabix? Tea for two?" go ahead... just do it). It was as it should have been: an awkward, bizarre surprise, but more or less enjoyable. I walked into the room where everyone was, and, being a year older than all of them, got strange looks of, "We know you, but why are you here?" As expected.
I finally got to The Elms about 10 p.m.... an hour and a half after my train pulled into Bedford. I could have taken a taxi. I could have even asked directions. But no... I think there's too much "man" in my family--thus bleeding into the usually-sensible women. Therefore, I was bound and determined to find my B&B on my own, 9:00 at night, in a strange city, with badly-scrawled directions from GoogleMaps. I had also forgotten how confusing streets in the UK can be. They are not blocked out symmetrically as in the US. Some streets start with one name and change 2 or 3 times over the course of a half mile. Some have a round-about in the middle of them, and you find yourself stuck in a Chevy-Chase style of navigation to get out of them. You begin to learn all the street names by heart (because you've gone around that bloody roundabout so many times), but you still don't know where the blazes you are. Some streets just stop in the middle of nowhere. And some don't have names at all. Or, they do, but you would have to be a resident of that street for at least 5 years to discover it.
Anyways, I got to The Elms (after almost making it all the way into another small village). Thankfully, Bedford is a safe enough city and there was no damage done, apart from blisters and slight dehydration. But gosh darn it, my pride was still intact. Ha.
(Just for kind manners' sake: You are allowed to stop reading this at any time. Don't feel as if you must make it 'til the end--this is merely a purging to get rid of the slight guilt I feel for being an inconsistent blogger.)
26 October
In detachment lies the wisdom of uncertainty... in the wisdom of uncertainty lies the freedom from our past, from the known, which is the prison of past conditioning. And in our willingness to step into the unknown, the field of all possibilities, we surrender ourselves to the creative mind that orchestrates the dance of the universe.
--Deepak Chopra
I lifted that from the Facebook page of a friend back in the Czech Republic.
I am tired. I am in Oxford. And Oxford, while beautiful, is too peopled. If I could extract the presence of the buildings from the presence of the people, it would work out alright. When I travel alone, I feel detached, as if I am merely an observer. And that is exactly what I am. When I am alone, I get to examine life. But the examination drains me. But I find myself searching peoples' faces, asking them, "Do you care? Do you? Do you?" And they stare blankly, and walk into Debenhams. And then I shrug, and follow them. I don't know why. Poor people, they didn't ask for my analysis. They just came to do some shopping.
When I travel alone, I have time and energy to think. I am able to devote more than 5 minutes to thinking. This is a good thing. So, I turned to a question that had been on my mind ever since I moved to the Czech Republic. Why am I a Christian? This is a pressing and very important question--one that I need to be able to answer in a non-Christian society. I thought about this on the bus ride to Oxford. I tried in vain to come up with a profound sort of C.S. Lewish-ish quote. "Just answer the damn question for yourself, you fool!" I said, almost out-loud. I wish I would have. Okay. I went to the essence, the core of it. I am a Christian because I want, I need, I am, life. I want the fullest, most complete, most true life. And the farther I get into this full, true life, the more I never want anything else. And I know I will not get the full Truth ("You can't handle the Truth!" So true.), the full completeness of life here on earth, so I live with the hope and the faith that I will experience Life in full when my earthly life is done. "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known." 1 Corinthians 13:12, in case you're wondering.
28 October
I was going to go to St. Neots today--another town near Bedford, just to "look around." I got back from breakfast and decided, no. Not today. I thought, I will get some work done today instead. I got to Costa Coffee and decided, no. Not today. I finished Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead." It had a sad ending, but a complete one. It ended as it should have--how the book wanted and needed to end. Rarely do I find a book that ends right.
I planned to go to the Hobgoblin (this is a pub) tonight, but chickened out just before I opened the door. I proceeded to walk around Bedford for the next hour, searching for a more "friendly" pub. I have discovered that no pub looks friendly to a young single girl traveling alone. It is unfortunate, but true. It is at times like these that I wish I were a man. Then it wouldn't matter, and I would be sitting in the Hobgoblin with my fish and chips and pint of Guinness. But, such as it is, my better judgment told me to accept my position and situation, and so here I sit at... drum roll please... Pizza Hut. But I intend to enjoy myself to the fullest extent. I have a glass of chardonnay before me. I never knew you could order wine at Pizza Hut. My surroundings--the music from the 90s, the ghastly, too-bright colors of the carpet and walls, and the young family sitting across the aisle from me--do not fit with my thoughts and state of mind. But it makes it humorous, and kind of quaint. So I will embrace it. I intend to get dessert, too. I think that will help.
I do not talk much around here. It makes sense--why should I, when I know no one? I only notice this because it is a complete 180 degree change from less than a week ago. My demeanor has completely changed. I do not smile much. I can imagine that I have a sort of off-putting air--a non-welcoming look on my face. But I need it to be that way. I am not so naive to think nothing could ever happen to me, just because I am in a country whose language I can understand. But inside I feel alive. I feel a sort of emptying of emotions, of worries, of responsibility. I feel cleansed, and free to think through things I have not had the time or energy to think through. I must look strange here, a young woman alone, sitting writing at a Pizza Hut with a glass of chardonnay. I don't care.
I don't know how to end this smorgasbord of a blog, so I'll cut it off like a Monty Python skit (i.e., a weight drops from the ceiling onto the stage) or even better, like Shakespeare (Exit, pursued by a bear). If you made it to the end, my apologies.
Blessings on you all, and thanks for all the e-mails/letters. They are much, much, much appreciated.
25 October
So. Yesterday I arrived in London. I embarked on the off-chance of meeting up with Dan and Jayne Taylor. I failed, but as a consolation prize I met up with the whole England Term '09 group from Bethel at the ever-lovely Celtic Hotel (this is the the part where all you ET alums let out a big sigh and say, "Weetabix? Tea for two?" go ahead... just do it). It was as it should have been: an awkward, bizarre surprise, but more or less enjoyable. I walked into the room where everyone was, and, being a year older than all of them, got strange looks of, "We know you, but why are you here?" As expected.
I finally got to The Elms about 10 p.m.... an hour and a half after my train pulled into Bedford. I could have taken a taxi. I could have even asked directions. But no... I think there's too much "man" in my family--thus bleeding into the usually-sensible women. Therefore, I was bound and determined to find my B&B on my own, 9:00 at night, in a strange city, with badly-scrawled directions from GoogleMaps. I had also forgotten how confusing streets in the UK can be. They are not blocked out symmetrically as in the US. Some streets start with one name and change 2 or 3 times over the course of a half mile. Some have a round-about in the middle of them, and you find yourself stuck in a Chevy-Chase style of navigation to get out of them. You begin to learn all the street names by heart (because you've gone around that bloody roundabout so many times), but you still don't know where the blazes you are. Some streets just stop in the middle of nowhere. And some don't have names at all. Or, they do, but you would have to be a resident of that street for at least 5 years to discover it.
Anyways, I got to The Elms (after almost making it all the way into another small village). Thankfully, Bedford is a safe enough city and there was no damage done, apart from blisters and slight dehydration. But gosh darn it, my pride was still intact. Ha.
(Just for kind manners' sake: You are allowed to stop reading this at any time. Don't feel as if you must make it 'til the end--this is merely a purging to get rid of the slight guilt I feel for being an inconsistent blogger.)
26 October
In detachment lies the wisdom of uncertainty... in the wisdom of uncertainty lies the freedom from our past, from the known, which is the prison of past conditioning. And in our willingness to step into the unknown, the field of all possibilities, we surrender ourselves to the creative mind that orchestrates the dance of the universe.
--Deepak Chopra
I lifted that from the Facebook page of a friend back in the Czech Republic.
I am tired. I am in Oxford. And Oxford, while beautiful, is too peopled. If I could extract the presence of the buildings from the presence of the people, it would work out alright. When I travel alone, I feel detached, as if I am merely an observer. And that is exactly what I am. When I am alone, I get to examine life. But the examination drains me. But I find myself searching peoples' faces, asking them, "Do you care? Do you? Do you?" And they stare blankly, and walk into Debenhams. And then I shrug, and follow them. I don't know why. Poor people, they didn't ask for my analysis. They just came to do some shopping.
When I travel alone, I have time and energy to think. I am able to devote more than 5 minutes to thinking. This is a good thing. So, I turned to a question that had been on my mind ever since I moved to the Czech Republic. Why am I a Christian? This is a pressing and very important question--one that I need to be able to answer in a non-Christian society. I thought about this on the bus ride to Oxford. I tried in vain to come up with a profound sort of C.S. Lewish-ish quote. "Just answer the damn question for yourself, you fool!" I said, almost out-loud. I wish I would have. Okay. I went to the essence, the core of it. I am a Christian because I want, I need, I am, life. I want the fullest, most complete, most true life. And the farther I get into this full, true life, the more I never want anything else. And I know I will not get the full Truth ("You can't handle the Truth!" So true.), the full completeness of life here on earth, so I live with the hope and the faith that I will experience Life in full when my earthly life is done. "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known." 1 Corinthians 13:12, in case you're wondering.
28 October
I was going to go to St. Neots today--another town near Bedford, just to "look around." I got back from breakfast and decided, no. Not today. I thought, I will get some work done today instead. I got to Costa Coffee and decided, no. Not today. I finished Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead." It had a sad ending, but a complete one. It ended as it should have--how the book wanted and needed to end. Rarely do I find a book that ends right.
I planned to go to the Hobgoblin (this is a pub) tonight, but chickened out just before I opened the door. I proceeded to walk around Bedford for the next hour, searching for a more "friendly" pub. I have discovered that no pub looks friendly to a young single girl traveling alone. It is unfortunate, but true. It is at times like these that I wish I were a man. Then it wouldn't matter, and I would be sitting in the Hobgoblin with my fish and chips and pint of Guinness. But, such as it is, my better judgment told me to accept my position and situation, and so here I sit at... drum roll please... Pizza Hut. But I intend to enjoy myself to the fullest extent. I have a glass of chardonnay before me. I never knew you could order wine at Pizza Hut. My surroundings--the music from the 90s, the ghastly, too-bright colors of the carpet and walls, and the young family sitting across the aisle from me--do not fit with my thoughts and state of mind. But it makes it humorous, and kind of quaint. So I will embrace it. I intend to get dessert, too. I think that will help.
I do not talk much around here. It makes sense--why should I, when I know no one? I only notice this because it is a complete 180 degree change from less than a week ago. My demeanor has completely changed. I do not smile much. I can imagine that I have a sort of off-putting air--a non-welcoming look on my face. But I need it to be that way. I am not so naive to think nothing could ever happen to me, just because I am in a country whose language I can understand. But inside I feel alive. I feel a sort of emptying of emotions, of worries, of responsibility. I feel cleansed, and free to think through things I have not had the time or energy to think through. I must look strange here, a young woman alone, sitting writing at a Pizza Hut with a glass of chardonnay. I don't care.
I don't know how to end this smorgasbord of a blog, so I'll cut it off like a Monty Python skit (i.e., a weight drops from the ceiling onto the stage) or even better, like Shakespeare (Exit, pursued by a bear). If you made it to the end, my apologies.
Blessings on you all, and thanks for all the e-mails/letters. They are much, much, much appreciated.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Birth and re-birth
We had our first English Club last night. We packed 18 students into our building, ate cookies, drank tea, and discussed such in-depth questions as: "Would you rather eat moldy bread, or lick a dirty toilet?" "Would you rather eat a bar of soap or drink a bottle of liquid soap?" "Would you rather have all the hairs on your body plucked off one by one or have all your toenails and fingernails pulled off?" Our brain cells were enlivened--especially when someone turned on Hannah Montana's latest hit, and we all learned the dance steps. Well, mostly everyone. I "took pictures." I'm lame.
Three guys stayed until midnight, long after everyone else had gone home. The guitar--the great connector-- was brought out, and we joined in together with "My Heart Will Go On" on a rusty, out-of-tune upright piano. Is there anything better? Doubtful.
One of the students began to play a Czech worship song on the guitar. There are not many who are so openly Christian, but this guy is. I thought, am I that brave? I am a foreigner--I am excused to be strange and have stupid religious views. But this guy lives every day as a true Christian in an atheistic community, and he doesn't care. He is not careful not to offend anyone. So what if his Christian lifestyle spurs on conversations and controversy? He is the 21st century Paul of Tarsus.
And there are others. There are others who are working hard for change--and not just on Sunday, not just at Youth Group, not just during their five minutes of daily prayer. It is constant, and it is noticed. It is incredible--and an honor--to live among these people. I thought that I was going to this place to share my faith, to open eyes, to teach. No, I am the one that is learning, that is having my eyes opened. You want a testimony? Talk to a Czech Christian. They will give you a real-life account. Most did not have the opportunity to "grow up" with Christianity in their family; they had to make their own choice, their own commitment, to follow Christ. It is a daily thing to choose to do it, to be real, to be true. I have never seen this kind of faith.
I am alive. I breathe in and out, I walk, I talk, I think. It is here that I see what it means to live in Christ. I have never understood this before. There is a deep joy that comes from this life--it is the best and, for me, only way to describe it. It is rooted, and it does not leave. It is not always exuberant, not always energetic, but it is a quality of joy that is unlike anything else. I hold out my hands, first to receive, and then to pour out. I am experiencing life, both again and for the first time.
Three guys stayed until midnight, long after everyone else had gone home. The guitar--the great connector-- was brought out, and we joined in together with "My Heart Will Go On" on a rusty, out-of-tune upright piano. Is there anything better? Doubtful.
One of the students began to play a Czech worship song on the guitar. There are not many who are so openly Christian, but this guy is. I thought, am I that brave? I am a foreigner--I am excused to be strange and have stupid religious views. But this guy lives every day as a true Christian in an atheistic community, and he doesn't care. He is not careful not to offend anyone. So what if his Christian lifestyle spurs on conversations and controversy? He is the 21st century Paul of Tarsus.
And there are others. There are others who are working hard for change--and not just on Sunday, not just at Youth Group, not just during their five minutes of daily prayer. It is constant, and it is noticed. It is incredible--and an honor--to live among these people. I thought that I was going to this place to share my faith, to open eyes, to teach. No, I am the one that is learning, that is having my eyes opened. You want a testimony? Talk to a Czech Christian. They will give you a real-life account. Most did not have the opportunity to "grow up" with Christianity in their family; they had to make their own choice, their own commitment, to follow Christ. It is a daily thing to choose to do it, to be real, to be true. I have never seen this kind of faith.
I am alive. I breathe in and out, I walk, I talk, I think. It is here that I see what it means to live in Christ. I have never understood this before. There is a deep joy that comes from this life--it is the best and, for me, only way to describe it. It is rooted, and it does not leave. It is not always exuberant, not always energetic, but it is a quality of joy that is unlike anything else. I hold out my hands, first to receive, and then to pour out. I am experiencing life, both again and for the first time.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Teach me to care and not to care
Cheb has got me wrapped around its finger. It never ceases: each day I come from school filled up. I think to myself, when will the high stop? When will I come back down from the clouds and realize that I am in a foreign country where few share my language, my customs, my beliefs? When will I realize that this is hard?
But it is hard, as all teachers know--whether you are a teacher of subjects or a teacher of life. It is hard to care so much. In one of my classes today we read an excerpt from "A Long Way Gone" by Ishmael Beah, which is about Beah's experience as a child soldier in Sierra Leone in West Africa. I asked my class, does it matter what happens in Africa? Fred said, yes, of course it matters. Frank said, no, I don't care. I care about what happens to me. Why should it matter to me what happens in Africa? Fred said, what about your ancestors? They stole from Africa. Your history includes Africa. Now, Fred is Vietnamese. Frank is Roma--a Gypsy. They come from completely different backgrounds, and neither one is truly and fully "European" in the colloquial sense of the word. But Fred cares about Africa. Frank does not. They argued in class--and in English!--for a few minutes, until they decided they simply had different opinions. And then they made up (talk about maturity), and their catch phrase for the rest of class was "war and peace." I loved it. It was all I could do to keep myself from bursting into a passionate rant. I have to keep myself on-task, you know. 45 minutes goes by quickly.
But my heart breaks for people like Frank. To not care? What's that like? What can I do for them? What do I say, to show them how to care, to show them that I care? What will it take? And it is only October.
I plan for much more of this to happen. I am not here just to "do my job." I am here to care, whether they like it or not. Can I make them care? Probably not. But there might be a chance. I want fights in class. I want debate, argument, heated opinions... Is this a young teacher's folly? Probably. Shake your head at me all you want. But I am here, I am ready, and I am going to milk this for all it's worth.
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
But it is hard, as all teachers know--whether you are a teacher of subjects or a teacher of life. It is hard to care so much. In one of my classes today we read an excerpt from "A Long Way Gone" by Ishmael Beah, which is about Beah's experience as a child soldier in Sierra Leone in West Africa. I asked my class, does it matter what happens in Africa? Fred said, yes, of course it matters. Frank said, no, I don't care. I care about what happens to me. Why should it matter to me what happens in Africa? Fred said, what about your ancestors? They stole from Africa. Your history includes Africa. Now, Fred is Vietnamese. Frank is Roma--a Gypsy. They come from completely different backgrounds, and neither one is truly and fully "European" in the colloquial sense of the word. But Fred cares about Africa. Frank does not. They argued in class--and in English!--for a few minutes, until they decided they simply had different opinions. And then they made up (talk about maturity), and their catch phrase for the rest of class was "war and peace." I loved it. It was all I could do to keep myself from bursting into a passionate rant. I have to keep myself on-task, you know. 45 minutes goes by quickly.
But my heart breaks for people like Frank. To not care? What's that like? What can I do for them? What do I say, to show them how to care, to show them that I care? What will it take? And it is only October.
I plan for much more of this to happen. I am not here just to "do my job." I am here to care, whether they like it or not. Can I make them care? Probably not. But there might be a chance. I want fights in class. I want debate, argument, heated opinions... Is this a young teacher's folly? Probably. Shake your head at me all you want. But I am here, I am ready, and I am going to milk this for all it's worth.
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
A Small Lunchtime Anecdote
I was standing in the lunch line today with a bunch of little kids. Usually I use my Teacher Power and cut in front of whoever is nearest the trays and silverware, but today my lessons ended early and I had nowhere else to be but in line with the cheeky little Czech youngsters. One kid cut in front of me, and immediately the one ahead of him turned around, pointed at him and started jabbering at me in Czech. I assumed the intended accusation was to see whether I would do anything about said cutter or not. I said "It's okay" in English. That gave me away. "Učitelka?" (Teacher?)
"Ano. Anglicky." (Yes. English.)
...jabber jabber jabber...
"Učitelka?"
"Jo. Jsem z Ameriky." (Yeah. I'm from America.) BAH!!! Eruption. Ten small children turned around, wide-eyed and suddenly hysterical. I was an instant celebrity. Apparently they had heard about me--or at least about someplace called America. One lad kept asking me the only English phrase he knew: "What is your name?"
"My name is Ms. Roe. What is your name?"
"My name is Jan." Silence. "What is your name?" Sigh.
...jabber jabber jabber... They asked me questions I couldn't understand. "Česky? Česky?" (Czech? Do you speak Czech?)
"Nerozumim. Ne Česky." (I don't understand. No Czech.)
"Česky?"
"NE."
...jabber jabber jabber... More questions. I shook my head. They kept asking questions, only this time louder and slower. "I still nerozumim. Ner!O!Zu!Mim!" Kid, it doesn't matter. I don't speak Czech, no matter how slowly or loudly you speak, and I am most certainly not stupid, which I know is what you're thinking. And now your little brain is infected with, "All Americans must be stupid. They can't understand me." It's not AmeriCAN, it's AmeriCAN'T. Ah, me. Thus are stereotypes born. Alas. Attempt at gaining favor with the young'uns = Fail. I'll stick to befriending the lunch ladies. I get extra dumplings from them.
"Ano. Anglicky." (Yes. English.)
...jabber jabber jabber...
"Učitelka?"
"Jo. Jsem z Ameriky." (Yeah. I'm from America.) BAH!!! Eruption. Ten small children turned around, wide-eyed and suddenly hysterical. I was an instant celebrity. Apparently they had heard about me--or at least about someplace called America. One lad kept asking me the only English phrase he knew: "What is your name?"
"My name is Ms. Roe. What is your name?"
"My name is Jan." Silence. "What is your name?" Sigh.
...jabber jabber jabber... They asked me questions I couldn't understand. "Česky? Česky?" (Czech? Do you speak Czech?)
"Nerozumim. Ne Česky." (I don't understand. No Czech.)
"Česky?"
"NE."
...jabber jabber jabber... More questions. I shook my head. They kept asking questions, only this time louder and slower. "I still nerozumim. Ner!O!Zu!Mim!" Kid, it doesn't matter. I don't speak Czech, no matter how slowly or loudly you speak, and I am most certainly not stupid, which I know is what you're thinking. And now your little brain is infected with, "All Americans must be stupid. They can't understand me." It's not AmeriCAN, it's AmeriCAN'T. Ah, me. Thus are stereotypes born. Alas. Attempt at gaining favor with the young'uns = Fail. I'll stick to befriending the lunch ladies. I get extra dumplings from them.
Saturday, 12 September 2009
Calling All Onions
Last night I went to a bonfire at a Czech cottage.
Homemade guacamole. "Healthy" water. Canned bamboo. Fresh grilled fish. Tiramisu. Guitardrumskazooharmonicavoices.
It was the music that was the connector. These people, these free-for-all bonfire-ers... all we needed was an out-of-tune guitar, and life could start, could include all of us, regardless of backgrounds, views, stories, lifestyles, beliefs. We sang OutKast, Dispatch, Beatles, Jason Mraz, Paul Simon. We sang everything we knew, everything we didn't know but didn't care a lick about it anyways because who needs lyrics when you've at least got the music? Until now I have taken it so much for granted. The piano lessons we plodded through for so many years, the endless choirs and concerts we sang in, the tinkering around with the guitar (the most beautiful tool of procrastination known to man)--it all has new meaning. Right now, my dad is singing on my iTunes, right along with Elizabeth Hunnicutt and Damien Rice. I have taken what belonged to one home and transplanted it in another, and miraculously, it fits. It is a connector in every culture. It is transient, real, truth.
The music, the people, the day-to-day-ness that life has drifted into--it makes this place feel right. Everyday I walk home from school, exhausted but full. The leaves are just barely beginning to turn here. Last year I saw those first few colors as I drove down a lonely county highway in the middle of Minnesota, going to a high school volleyball tournament. How is it that I see those same colors, see that same change, 4,500 miles away, and still feel right? We are not so different, you know.
I think God may have modeled humans after onions. That top layer--the appearance of it, which is also the thinnest, mind you--is peeled off easily. In fact, it even falls away, crumbles at a touch. The deeper layers--the stories, the experiences, the cultures--they have a little more solidity to them. But the core of the onion is the thickest, and the most potent. Do you not cry when you slice through an onion? If you peel the layers off one by one, the tears do not start until you get much further in. The soul of the onion is what makes us weep in earnest.
Maybe this is the reason I travel. I want to see if there are other onions out there like me. And what I have found so far in my short life is this: American onions, Czech onions, British onions, Thai onions--they all have that same potent center, that connecting "something" that has no sufficient definition. In my opinion, it is a Connection by which we were created. The same One who created onions, created guacamole, created music and souls and connections and life.
Homemade guacamole. "Healthy" water. Canned bamboo. Fresh grilled fish. Tiramisu. Guitardrumskazooharmonicavoices.
It was the music that was the connector. These people, these free-for-all bonfire-ers... all we needed was an out-of-tune guitar, and life could start, could include all of us, regardless of backgrounds, views, stories, lifestyles, beliefs. We sang OutKast, Dispatch, Beatles, Jason Mraz, Paul Simon. We sang everything we knew, everything we didn't know but didn't care a lick about it anyways because who needs lyrics when you've at least got the music? Until now I have taken it so much for granted. The piano lessons we plodded through for so many years, the endless choirs and concerts we sang in, the tinkering around with the guitar (the most beautiful tool of procrastination known to man)--it all has new meaning. Right now, my dad is singing on my iTunes, right along with Elizabeth Hunnicutt and Damien Rice. I have taken what belonged to one home and transplanted it in another, and miraculously, it fits. It is a connector in every culture. It is transient, real, truth.
The music, the people, the day-to-day-ness that life has drifted into--it makes this place feel right. Everyday I walk home from school, exhausted but full. The leaves are just barely beginning to turn here. Last year I saw those first few colors as I drove down a lonely county highway in the middle of Minnesota, going to a high school volleyball tournament. How is it that I see those same colors, see that same change, 4,500 miles away, and still feel right? We are not so different, you know.
I think God may have modeled humans after onions. That top layer--the appearance of it, which is also the thinnest, mind you--is peeled off easily. In fact, it even falls away, crumbles at a touch. The deeper layers--the stories, the experiences, the cultures--they have a little more solidity to them. But the core of the onion is the thickest, and the most potent. Do you not cry when you slice through an onion? If you peel the layers off one by one, the tears do not start until you get much further in. The soul of the onion is what makes us weep in earnest.
Maybe this is the reason I travel. I want to see if there are other onions out there like me. And what I have found so far in my short life is this: American onions, Czech onions, British onions, Thai onions--they all have that same potent center, that connecting "something" that has no sufficient definition. In my opinion, it is a Connection by which we were created. The same One who created onions, created guacamole, created music and souls and connections and life.
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
Perspectives
Photo 1: Charles Bridge by night (Prague)
Photo 2: My teammate and I on the train to Karlovy Vary (a spa town) for my birthday
Photo 3: Prague skyline
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