וחסד על ידי אמונה

my witness challenge

2009-05-19T10:59:00.005-04:00

i came across this blog in a complicated, seven-degrees-of-kevin-bacon type of internet stalking, and have been checking in on the status of this man, whom i've never even heard of, and this work, which i've also never heard of. but i thought the following assignment, among the other topics he's shared with his at least partly anonymous audience, was interesting:

He writes:

What about you and me? What’s our witness?

First, think. Think long and hard about your workplace, your neighbors, neighborhood, city. What are the needs around you, where you are right now today?
Second, dream. If no one would think you were nuts… If you held nothing back… If you were brave and full of compassion… What could YOU do to meet those needs? What could your service be?
Third, write about it. Put your answer down in words. Post it if you have a blog.
Fourth, share your answer with us. E-mail me. Message me on Facebook. Leave your answer or a link to a blog post about it here in the comments of this post. Or twitter it - use hashtag #MyWitness if you do so I can find it.

think, molly: what are the needs of my workplace? my neighbors? my neighborhood? belize city? where i am right now, this moment?

in my two years here in belize, i've observed that the handful of students i've worked with here at st. martins primary school are a pretty good representation of the greater injustices, poverties, and needs that plague this country on the whole. on any given day, most of them don't have pencils, notebooks, breakfasts, lunches, fathers, mothers, toilets, electricity, doctors, new shoes, or the abilities to read, to count, to spell; some of them don't have hope, or goals, or attention, or encouragement, or love. most of them don't know the promises of god.

sometimes, the prospect of "witnessing" in the face of these grave, desperate needs is daunting. in fact, i will admit, it's so intimidating that i usually fail to even attempt to fulfill my call -- i think as a christian -- to testify to the power of god's mercy and christ's transformative love in my life.

plus, an added burden is the question of, "who am i?" -- not in the existential way, but in the way of entitlement. who am i to encourage these children to do their homework when no one else, including their parents or teachers, really care? who am i to tell these kids that they are smart, and talented, and beautiful, and loved by god, when i don't feel those things myself most of the time? who am i to tell these kids that they should have hope -- god so loved the world! -- when, tomorrow, they'll be abused, neglected, forgotten, discouraged, or told that it's okay to have sex with whoever they want whenever they want ... or drink alcohol ... or do drugs ... or skip school ... or hit someone back ... stab someone ... shoot someone ...

belize is a devil's stronghold. it is not as outwardly impoverished as some countries in africa, asia, or even some of our neighbors in central america -- you won't see starved children with no clothes on, laying under a tent with malaria. but the intrusion of abuse, alcoholism, laziness, violence, corruption, and i might add MTV, have carved avenues for the values of pleasure, indulgence, and the laid back feel of the caribbean, man. the "belizean way" has left little significance, generally speaking, on education, accountability, responsibility, family building, or the word of god.

and so, the needs -- not unlike other parts of the world, or even our own blessed u.s. of a. -- are immense. and lord only knows where to begin. how to witness. how to be a light in a dark place without shouting about it, or pushing it, or imposing it. my light, however bright or dull it is, can be uncomfortable, indeed unfathomable, for the belizeans around me at times. of course i love god: i have a nice house to move back to in the states, i have a college degree, i have a faithful and loving soon-to-be husband, i have a savings account, and i have white skin. god is good because "i have."

and so what would i do, if no one would think that i was nuts? how would i show compassion on these people? i don't know! i wouldn't start a church; they have too many church buildings here. i wouldn't preach; there are plenty of preachers. i wouldn't teach in a school; the whole system is flawed. i wouldn't change the government; it would just fall into the same patterns again. i wouldn't be a doctor; these people don't just need medicine. i wouldn't bring millions of dollars; it would still land in the hands of the few. i wouldn't start a revolution; that would lead to more violence, more death, more suffering. i wouldn't even just sit and "be" and love god and pray; i'm not faithful enough for that and i would lose patience, and energy, with the sounds of gun shots and cussing at 5 am (that actually happened this morning!) outside my house.

god, what would i do?

well, i can say honestly that the only thing i would want to do is to lead one person -- one child -- to the lord. i would want to grow with that person spiritually, to read scripture with them, to pray with them, to teach them what i know and to let them teach me what they know about god and love, and to be bridge the divide between "white folk," top-down evangelism and the perspective of the bottom-up theology of those who are told all their lives that they are underprivileged and underdeveloped because they don't have money and their streets aren't paved. i would become a fool for christ with this person, and hug tightly to them in the shadow of the lord's wings. we would reduce ourselves to knowing nothing together -- truly knowing nothing but the lord -- and we would both give away all that we have:our possessions, our heritage, our love. i would love this person solely out of my love for jesus, and they would feel the same way about me. we would not be citizens of the world, living for today, but siblings in the lord and living only for the glory of the kingdom. when i looked at the person, sat with that person, held hands with that person, i would see only jesus christ.

lofty goals, hmph. but, as i recently memorized for a bi-monthly scripture memorization regimen, "i can do everything through him who gives me strength." (phil. 4:13), right?

what's my witness, then? i wish it were, well, witness! emptiness and fulfillment all at once in god; sharing it with someone intimately, not for our own pleasure, but for the delight of god. i want to sit at the feet of christ, rubbing his feet with my soft hair and with the nappy hair of a kriol belizean, all at once with no restraint and no awareness of the burdens we carry.

so for today, i'm going to get back to shuffling paperwork and later, i'll join that handful of students in the library for some tutoring, some book-reading, and some regular elementary school shenanigans like sticking out tongues, playing pretend, and hitting/spitting/kicking/screaming inappropriately. i'm not sure where i should begin to meet the needs i see around me in this loud, smelly, raucous city; but i am certain that believing that it is me who can do anything at all is not the place to start.

2009-04-20T16:45:00.002-04:00

broke my bonds: an exodus.
led through the desert; i was starved.
belize heaps my daily bread.

I won a half marathon.

2009-04-01T11:05:00.008-04:00

Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. "Make level paths for your feet," so that the lame may not be disabled, but rather healed. -- Hebrews 12:12 - 13

Since I've been tagged a "bible-thumper" recently, I decided to open this quarterly report (way overdue, I know) with a verse that's been resonating with me for the past few days. At first, upon reading it, I took it as some inspiration for the day -- "Man up!" it called to me, after a few days of self-pitying and moodiness. "Get dressed, go to work, slap a smile on your face, and remember that God is good." And I did that ... Well, mostly; I got dressed, went to work, tried my best to smile, and made it through another, hot, loud, chaotic Belizean day.

I remember a time just about a year ago while riding my bike to downtown Belize City to pick up the mail or something, thinking to myself: "I'm tired of being pushed around by this place. I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself and not fighting back. Get scrappy, Molly. Get scrappy." With years of athletic discipline in my bones, that tactic worked for a while: when I was homesick, I set my eyes on July 15, 2008 for the visit of my family; when I was frustrated at work, I turned off all my appliances in the office and copied things only by hand and didn't check email for weeks at a time even though the internet was literally a click (and a power button) away; and when I was feeling lonely and isolated, I filled my mind with short stories and books I found in our house library. I ran probably about 25 to 30 miles a week, I didn't communicate with people from home very often, and I withdrew from a growing spirituality for fear, I think, of confronting the real questions of why Belize was so dang hard for me.

And, with all of that effort, I made it. I stayed here. I saw my family in July. I finished a year of work. I won a half marathon. I found a lot of authors I liked.

And my heart was hard.

I know I have written a bit about "humiliation" in my previous updates, but that continues to be the ongoing theme of my experience here, so I'm going to let it flow again. Besides being told yesterday at the dentist that I have 22 cavities (!!!!!!! very embarrassing) and besides ripping the backside of my shorts in front of the youth group while racing someone to a stray volleyball (it sounded like a huge fart, which made it even worse), the most humiliating thing that has happened to me recently was a conversation I had with a friend, a Belizean. She told me that for some time now, she's hated me. She listed off -- openly -- the many ways that I've hurt her, the many ways I've failed to support her, and the many ways she laments the distance that has grown between us in the past few months. Wow. In my meek defense, I will say that there are some cultural and personal circumstances that have also contributed to such miscommunication, but the bottom line is that this friend, in whom I've invested the most effort, the most intentionality, and the most care over my past 20 months in Belize, doesn't feel loved at all. Now, with two months left, my heart is broken for the self-absorbed determination that has been hammered between me and someone I love.

And so, my reflection leads me to recall the second half of that verse from Hebrews. What it speaks to me, then, are not words of chastisement akin to the "encouraging" words of coaches and even sometimes parents who tell us to get back up, to try a little harder, to fight a little more scrappy ("Get to the bloody ball, JP!!!!!!!!!!" -- Amy Milhomme and Kristen Blake know exactly who I am talking about!). Instead, these are words from a loving God who wants us to be disciplined in Him, focused on Him, so that the "lame may not be disabled, but rather healed" on His even path. I think that is so beautiful; I don't want to be strong for only myself anymore, or to speed crazily along my own bumpy path focusing only on the end result and not the fact that I'm getting serious whiplash and also dragging people along behind me -- so far, that method has got me nothing but a hard heart and a lot of awkward conversations! No, thank you.

I am a determined person by nature, and I like a challenge just as much as the next adventure-seeking tomboy. But how blessed am I for the experience here that has shown me which things are worth being determined for, and which adventures and challenges are worth seeking. I know from documentation in the pages of my four filled journals from last year that my main goal was "to make it." To make what? My time commitment to JVI, to St. Martins, to Belize? I think, in reading between the lines of my own writing, my actual goal was "to not fail" -- to not fail that time commitment I pledged to, to not fail my job responsibilities, or my placement in this program. But instead, I failed myself and more importantly, as He already knew -- and already accepted -- that I would, I fell short of how God has called me to be.

For some strange reason, this whole bit makes me think about my dad and the skating rinks he used to build in our backyard for us growing up. They were awesome, and certainly the coveted "toy" of the neighborhood. Kids who I was never even friends with would suddenly start talking to me at school, or even less discreetly, would just show up at my house with their skates and a hopeful smile. Anyways, my dad would be out there in the yard in the wee morning hours, shoveling the snow off the rink, spreading a thin layer of hose water on top and circling the ice with his homemade zamboni broom/cloth contraption that smoothed out the water over all the bumps and cracks in the ice. By the time we came home from school, the ice would be hard, smooth, and ready for me and my "friends" to skate and play hockey for the afternoon. The few times when bumps resurfaced, or cracks split in the ice, I remember wiping out unexpectedly, and falling flat on my face. Playing pick-up hockey on bumpy ice was a) not fun, and b) dangerous; while my dad's disciplined daily care of the rink was a little bit a result of his control compulsion, it was also in the sake of his concern for us. He understood that it was to his own benefit to make that ice good quality: when he evened out the ice and made it look nice, we wanted to play. And when we wanted to play, we wanted him to play with us. And when he played with us, he knew he would always win.

If you have the time, which I know most of you who have real jobs and mouths to feed probably don't, I'd love to hear your personal reflections or thoughts on the verse above, on life, on my aimless emails, whatever.

Much peace and love to all,
Molly

It's really all of your business.

2009-01-26T11:20:00.016-05:00

My experience of JVI so far (I still have a lap to go) has felt nothing short of being blind-folded and sent out onto a stage in front of thousands of people buck naked. Seriously. The people I have met here have shined a gi-normous spotlight on my most private parts (not the external ones) – the parts of me that I've worked very hard over the past 23 years of my life to cover up. For all this time, I’ve been ashamed of who I am and what I (fail to) stand for; being in Belize has swiftly and effectively stripped my soul of that inner shame, and slapped it right on my forehead for all to see.

It’s been really great to be one of oh, say, about 12 white people in this small city where everyone’s business is quite literally, everyone else and their mother’s business. There’s really nothing like being yelled at, “White girl, you’re getting wet!” while bike riding in a rainstorm. Yes, I know, thank you. I can feel it. What if I am choosing to ride in the rain? What if I enjoy bike riding in the rain? And if I am not choosing to, and I’m not enjoying it, then that probably means I’m disgruntled because I’m 15 minutes late to a meeting and all my crap is soaked – so STOP YELLING AT ME! Kind sir with many rasta dreadlocks wrapped around your head, my rainy bike rides are really none of your business.

I am beginning to accept the degree of my incompetence, I think: how incapable I am at controlling things, how my thoughtlessness results in hurting people, how easy it is to fail others’ inborn and sometimes unexplained expectations, and of course, how limited I am in my skills and knowledge of “how to do things.” The “how to do things” part covers most of what people usually call “common sense” – after spending some time recently with my younger sister Martha, I would guess that this deficiency is genetic, but I can’t be sure. In any case, it inhibits things like my cooking skills, my card playing skills, my general wit, and of course, “getting things done” in the workplace. Well, maybe that has more to do with motivation and investment, but whatever.

While all of this is humiliating even as I write now, there has been nothing as humiliating (and correct my common sense if I’m wrong, but I’m using the word humiliating as in, “it incites humility”) as living in an intentional community. Jeepers, talk about inescapable confrontation with one’s own very human and not-so-capable self. I can say, knowing that my favorite part of community is the second best aspect of my life, that the worst—the hardest, most uncomfortable, most frustrating—parts of community living have actually given birth to some of the most meaningful experiences and conversations in my life.

Basically my experience of community living has looked, at different points in time, one of two ways: either I’ve been wandering around the house, internalizing my perceptions that I’m annoying and can’t do anything right OR I’ve been in a conversation where I’m being told that I’m annoying and can’t do anything right. I’m kidding, kind of – what I mean to say is that community living, for me, has been a humbling affirmation of all the complications that my feelings, experiences, and beliefs bring to the table. Those added to all the feelings, experiences, and beliefs of my housemates – all of which are equally as valid as my own – makes for some pretty permanent knots and kinks in our relationships.

In any case, I write this today (yes, I’m finally getting to my “point”) to share some of what’s been going on in my life. Not a smooth segue, I know, but what’s been happening over the course of the past six months has contributed to these insights on community living, and the feeling of vulnerability that’s associated with it.

As you (all four of you who read this) probably are aware by now, Trey and I have decided to get married. We are elated, not only because, in the wise words of my good friend Jenny Bilsten Woodrow, we’ve “found someone we want to hang out with for, like, forever,” but because we both feel as though this is an important step in our respective spiritual walks, and soon, in our joined service to God. Discerning marriage was a confusing and muddled process at times, but sorting through the thoughts and ideas surrounding both my fears of commitment and my compatibility with Trey has been so rewarding. I feel remarkably at peace about my life with Trey, and all that God has planned for us. When it comes down to it, I can rely on Trey to be by my side in my efforts to love God, and Trey knows that I will be there likewise for him.

All that said, this decision has of course made a splash. I mean, six months ago, I was still debating whether or not I wanted to stay in Belize because I was so unhappy – and since, I’ve not only met the love of my life, but have decided to get married? Just eight months ago I questioned God and declared that life was just easier if I didn’t believe – and now I’ve come to Jesus, yearning to feel loved, desperately so, and trying to get to know God as deeply as humanly possible? Yes, these changes are sudden and, in the way that they’ve been sewn together, inexplicable except if I trust that God has put them there with great intention. And I do.

But in the reality of my circumstances, this newness of my spirit is hard to convey. In community, for example, it’s been heart wrenching to see the ways that my happiness has inflicted discomfort on others: the seriousness of my relationship with Trey is not an advisable practice in intentional community living, and my spiritual conversion has been defined by an affection for Protestant doctrine. Moreover, it’s aggravating to see the ways that my own pride has come between protecting my relationship with Trey and developing relationships with my two other community mates, and also in my attempts to explain my spiritual regeneration. How is it that my heart hurts for these circumstances and the unhappiness or discomfort they’ve created for others, yet selfishly, I have found a deep joy in their very essence? Complicated, I tell ya.

Even beyond community however, the implications of these changes in my life have created tension and confusion in my family. I understand so clearly how surprised they have been with my seeming fickleness, but that’s just it: I think I’ve been fickle my whole life – that’s the Molly they know – and now, for the first time, I’m not. But, this is just the beginning and there’s really no way to prove that these changes in heart and spirit are lasting. And anyways, I don’t think that those things are really mine to prove.

Kind of like the rasta man on the side of the road who so aptly pointed out to me that it was raining, or like the people waiting for the bus outside of the post office who like to remind me to lock my bike as I’m wrapping the chain around my wheel, or like the students who like to tell me that I have chalk on my butt or tell me I’m fat, or even like the grocery store clerks who look intently at each of my items and sometimes even ask me what I’m planning on doing with them, hearing—perhaps for the first time ever—what my most beloved friends, family members, and community mates are concerned for in my life is all at once embarrassing, frustrating, and even though I don’t want to admit it, helpful. With the exception of a few creepy men who have said things to me here on the streets of Belize City that aren’t really worth documenting, all of these people have expressed themselves from a place that falls along a spectrum of care. Okay, maybe not the kids who call me fat, but everyone else. Most of all though, I have felt in the presence of these tough questions and even tougher answers the love of my family: my mom, my sisters, my dad; my community mates. Even when it's hurt.

There is much about being open with people and sharing yourself that seems scary, and I will attest that such a fear is a legitimate one: the risk, and my result for one, is that you bare your soul and instead of being wrapped in warmth and love and told that it is beautiful, it is poked and prodded. If I took one valuable lesson away from my business degree though, (besides LIFO, FIFO, and pension accounting, of course) it is that the greater the risk, the greater the reward. That is not a necessarily conditional statement in that order—great risk can obviously lead to great loss, too—but in reverse, it is: in order to have great reward, great risks are necessary. And I believe in a God who provides for us, for me, when I take great risks in His name. Moving to Belize was one of those choices, though unbeknownst to me at the time, and marrying Trey is the same deal. And while it’s been trying and disappointing, I’m more than humbled that such a clear decision to me has been so unclear to many others … Why, I ask myself, would one let herself be pushed onto a stage in front of thousands of people, blind-folded and naked? The best answer I can come up with is, of course, another question: Well, why would God let himself be dragged and nailed to the cross? Perhaps, then, that's what I'm called to do: to hang my business, all the substance of myself and what my life stands for, out for all to see.

Belated Tidings

2008-11-26T09:45:00.004-05:00

Dear All:

Officially, happy season of the holidays, 2008! I regret my slacking – I'm not sure what the fines and penalties are for belated quarterly updates – but I am happy to report that my lack of news has been, according to the old adage, good news.

As I am rounding lap #3 (lap #3!!!) of my time in Belize City, I can finally say that my adjustment to this experience, which had been delayed for approximately a year by homesickness and various forms of personal stubbornness, is coming to a cacophonous and praise-filled close. Of course, the feelings of familiarity, comfort, and routine arrive just before I am forced to enter into yet another period of transition and adjustment, but in the wise words of my favorite 8^th grade pop group, B*Witched, c'est la vie. I'll be ready when June rolls around, I suppose. Do I even have a choice?

As for now, much has contributed to finally feeling settled in my community, in my job, and especially in my faith. In terms of my job, I'll admit that most of my adjustment has been in resignation—not an "I'm helplessly giving up" but in an "I'm humbly giving up fighting against it" kind of way. Much of that accomplishment has to do with feeling settled in the other two areas, so I will highlight those instead of dwelling on the disappointments and frustrations that have come with working in a ministry for which I am ill-equipped.

When I mention "community," I speak to both Belize and to the other three volunteers with whom I currently live and share this experience. Being accustomed to language and communication nuances has been a huge help on both of these fronts this year so far: I am finding my understanding of Kriol and its spicy character immensely helpful in my everyday routine, including answering the phone at work and playing some sort of unqualified disciplinarian role for students in the school library (school zoo is more like it), and I am finding a second year of living in an intentional community very beneficial to my practice of articulating, expressing, and listening to the needs and feelings of our household. While I'm not sure I'll ever utilize my comprehension of Kriol again, I'm pretty sure that the communication tools I am gathering through the intentional relationships that this living experience demands will be helpful in the future. Or at least I know that conversations in life couldn't possibly get any more awkward. Amen, amen.

Much of my last year's maturation has shown me that inevitably, I will become exactly like my mother, which is to say that I recently adopted two kittens who were rescued by the Humane Society (you wouldn't know from the swollen-nippled mange that wander the streets—impoverished dogs, I mean—but yes, Belize does have a Humane Society). These cats were already fixed, and up to date with their shots; basically it was a deal that could not be refused. I let them sleep on me, I feed them scraps while I'm cooking (and eating), I let them sit on the table, bite me, fart in my room, and wake me up at 4:30 am every morning to "play." I clean a full litter box every day, I spend portions of my small monthly stipend on special indoor cat food, and I always revert to baby talk when speaking to them, even though I understand how absurd I sound. Where my other housemates have kept true to our commitment of disciplining these animals and not letting them ruin our lives, I have let them define me in ways I couldn't have possibly imagined. I am obsessed with them, and I let them walk all over me as I believe that such is just a small price to pay for making our cement and sparsely-furnished house feel more like a home. A poopy-smelling, hair-covered, and havocked home, sure; but it is a home nonetheless.

In terms of sharing about my faith and feeling more settled in that realm, I should admit first that I entered into this Christian volunteer program assuming that simply being here would clarify—and remedy, for that matter—all the uncertainties I had about religion. I was a person in desperate need of direction (aren't we all?), and I figured that at the least, two years of service under the auspices of the Catholic Jesuits would buy me a good seat come judgment time. With the added components of community celebrated "Spirituality Nights" and working for a parish, I was sure—very sure—that I would leave Belize nothing short of an active theologian and steadfast Catholic. God, I thought, would come to me in Belize.

That, actually, was not—and is not—entirely the case. In all of that Christian thinking, can you believe what I forgot? Jesus! Geez (not to be redundant), it still astounds me; talk about seeing the trees but missing the woods, or however that saying goes. Anyways, I won't bore you with a testimony here—I will just say that I think God has come to me here in Belize, but only after I have realized that His revelation is not a catering service; I speak now from a place of comfort in beginning to see the ways to get off my sorry butt and seek Him. "God!" I remember saying over the summer, "Where are you!?!?" A housemate (and beloved) of mine rolled his eyes and tossed his Bible at me. And it's been all downhill—scenic, but still a little scary—from there. Yes, I can say, I was saved while doing mission work. Is that ironic?

So … to my last seven months in Belize: Bring on the metaphysical contemplation! Bring on the regret of scrutinizing opportunities foregone! Bring on the frustrations of a lifestyle that holds no measurable or external gauges of success! Bring on boredom! Bring on precious relationships from home maintained only by echo-filled phone conversations and hasty emails and four-week old letters! Bring on the temptation to give up! Bring on mosquitoes and sweat stains! Bring on anxiety about the future and what in the heck someone like me should do with her life! … Seriously, bring it on. I double-dog dare you!

I'll just cuddle up with one of my smelly cats, pick up a Sudoku, and pray in thanksgiving. After all, God's got plans for me—"for good," He promises—and I have to believe that Belize was, and continues to be, a part of them.

Cheers to Barack Obama even though my absentee ballot arrived on November 3^rd (postmarked through Belarus—can you BELIEVE it?!),

Molly

Herbert (left) and Zeus (right)

Juanda, Kristen, and I with FRANK BIDEN

Mrs. Bee, Flange, and I try on donated dresses

JVI BELIZE

2008-10-14T18:39:00.005-04:00

There is nothing quite like watching a six year old boy read himself a story.

I don't have much time -- or mental energy -- to write much of anything about my recent adventures as the St. Martin de Porres Primary School Librarian (official title), but in reeling back the last six weeks of school, three distinct moments come to mind. First: the afternoon that the back zipper of my ugly-teacher-uniform skirt was unzipped ... All the way. It just so happened that the one boy who decided to point out my ridiculous blunder is a clown and I wrote off his "but Miss, I can see your underwear!" as an attempt at a crass joke to get his buddies' attention. Not until I went home to change out of said ugly-teacher-uniform skirt that evening did I discover the truth and feel horribly embarrassed.

Second: the afternoon that a 13 year old girl -- a notorious trouble maker -- sat at the table with me in the library and finished all of her homework. Not only did she prove absolutely competent and capable in the three subject areas completed, but she guarded her studies with a wave -- or a swift side punch-- to any nosy youngins lingering over her shoulder trying to get a glimpse of this big-time bully adding and subtracting fractions, whizzing through the dictionary, and looking up "Columbus, Christopher" in the index of the "C" World Book Encyclopedia. It was marvelous; she is hilarious, and smart, and absolutely feisty. I have reason to believe that despite the whole irrational temper thing, she's really going places.

Third: The day I met Rydell, a six year old, cross-eyed, and simply adorable young boy who can't read a word or even recognize a letter of the alphabet. He doesn't know his teacher's name, or how to spell "Rydell," (I'm guessing phonetically on that one, as well as with "Jaslynica," "Franzita," "Nutricia/Julicia," and "Ionie." Oh, and there is a little girl named "Cheney" -- I thought that was HI-larious) but he sure tells a good story, usually better than the corn-crap these people are passing off as children's books these days. Rydell comes to the library every day, without fail, to peruse the four shelves of story books and pick out the perfect one to "read" at our kitchen-table-turned-library-desk in the center of the room amidst the chaos of, what I like to call, "the St. Martin's after-school indoor playground." Due to such circumstances, and my own selfishness to hear his small voice animate the pages before him, I have recently been offering the corner of my check-out desk for him to use as he "reads." The best narrations Rydell has given so far, I must say, are for the "I Spy" books. "But Mr. Yellow Ducky couldn't open the boat, because his gold key was lost in the bucket." There are no words.

“ . . . I’ve got the drums of my Father beating in my bones . . .”

2008-09-03T12:13:00.000-04:00

It’s the moment in which we know we’ve fallen in love. It’s the moment we know we’ve let go, we’ve transcended the limits of our very humanity; it’s the moment we know we’ve lost control.

I am, and have been, so deeply moved by Belize. This country has brought me to my knees more times than I care to count, in reverence, in shame, in despair, and in love. I’m embarrassed, feeling like an emotional train wreck all the time: in front of my co-workers during a hard day at work, in the face of community mates who love my prickly self, and by my lonesome, swinging in a hammock and letting my soul moan and pray with God the things that my mind will just never understand. Belize, the country herself, is challenging my very essence. She is testing my limits, she is pushing me to a dangerous edge, she is whacking me behind the knees; she is luring from me questions of what constitutes a “good life,” and what it means to be a Christian, really and truly, deep in my bones.

At any one moment, I could cry, I could laugh, I could scream—at the top of my lungs—things that would make the Devil blush. I could run, but not very far; or I could stay. I could complain, or I could man-up. I could question, or I could accept. I could seek, or put off the search until later.

I’ve let my hand be held here—there’s been little choice—by small children who just want to be accompanied to their classroom on the first day of school, by community mates while blessing our blessings, by the unity and the cadence of the Our Father—twice—every Sunday, by care packages and letters expressing longing and love and bearing trail mix and silly pictures.

And I’ve learned that things don’t add up. Linear reasoning is a myth; things are not meant to make sense, but to coexist irreconcilably. Even reality and un-reality, they are meant to ride piggyback on one another; when one starts to weaken, to become parched, the other backs the tired weight. When my faith in this world, and in myself, begins to dissipate, my imagination picks up the slack. And when my imagination runs dry and shrivels, Belize carries me forward.

Someone once described to me the beauty of dance, and why it holds a key (on a large ring of jingling keys) to happiness: dance is good. Dancing precludes logic. It is meant for pleasure. It is meant for liberation, for a surrender of consciousness, and for the soul to beat according its own rhythm without interference. Dance is a living artifact, a four-dimensional approach to crossing cultures of past, present, and future. We don’t know why we do it, but we, God’s people, dance.

When everything else has gone wrong here, in Belize, in life, and I feel worthless and hopeless and I convince myself that I am utterly unhappy, I know that she, Mrs. Bee, will be dancing around the office: “Ms. Molly Dee!!!!!!!!!! Come dance with me!”

I will wallow; I will begin succumbing to the temptation to fill the pot of my spirit with misery and disappointment, and to stew. She will stop, stomp her feet and shuffle to my chair. “We don’t need music,” she will say to my protest. Her smile will melt my heart.

That’s the moment in which I know I’ve already fallen in love. That’s the moment I know I’ve got to let go, that I can transcend the limits of our very humanity; that’s the moment I know I’ve lost control.

“Come on and get up,” she will say. “I’ve got the drums of my Father beating in my bones.”

You know you've been waiting for it ...

2008-08-25T18:07:00.005-04:00

Hi, all!

Welp, the time has come for another dazzling update. I have officially passed the one-year marker in Belize -- a leap year, no less -- and have congratulated myself with a Hershey's dark chocolate bar, a beer, and a long weekend at Francis Ford Coppola's Belizean Resort (kidding about the last one!). Instead of boring your pants off with my long-winded descriptions of the last few months, however, I have decided to ask my sister, Martha, to write a reflection from her recent and oh-so-fun trip to Belize. Her visit with my mom and surprise guest Heather Ferron (best birthday present ever!!) was virtually indescribable (I have attached a few representative pictures), and I am so blessed to have been able to host them here, at my home, in Belize. The comfort of familiar faces, familiar laughs, and familiar hugs was invaluable and has filled my soul to the brim with love and joy -- the currency that will be needed to invest myself in my second year. I think that Martha's words do my current state justice; Belize has been a place of difficulty for me: brokenness, struggle, injustice, homesickness, and exhaustion. But it has also brought me redemption: I have never felt as proud as I did in the moment of embrace between Mrs. Bee, my most beloved co-worker, and my mother, my most beloved role model. A close second was the morning that Melisha and Monique, my favorite Belizean 6 and 8 year olds, showed up in their Red Sox shirts.

I hope that all is well with everyone! Peace be with you all.

Keep on rockin' in the free world,
Molly

As many of you know my mom, Heather Ferron, and I traveled to see Molly in Belize earlier this summer. Although I knew this would be an experience I would treasure my whole life, I did not anticipate how much I would learn about myself, my sister, and the world outside of our suburb home in Acton, MA. Although Molly has definitely dealt with ups and downs throughout her journey in Belize, she has accomplished so much and her hard work and dedication should be recognized. Knowing Molly, like you all do, she would be too humble to talk about her own success so I'm using this opportunity to show how proud I am of my big sister!

On July 15^th, 2008 our plane landed in the Belize International Airport. At the sound of a "ding" I jumped up from my seat, nearly hitting my head against the short ceiling of the airplane. My mom, Heather, and I were ready to run to the door but were forced to abide by the rules of society; waiting for each person to slowly unbuckle their seat belt, reach in the overhead bin for their luggage, and slowly walk towards the exit of the plane. After what seemed like ages, we made it into the airport where we faced more lines and more waiting. The anticipation of seeing Molly, the sister I had missed and needed so much during the past year, tingled through my whole body as we waited in line for our passports to be checked and continued to wait for our luggage.

As we finally entered the customs line, the last obstacle to tackle before seeing my sister, I was overwhelmed by emotion. Yes, I was excited to see my sister and relived that we had made it to Belize without any major setbacks or complications. However the nervousness I felt forced me to remain quiet and uncertain as we walked toward the customs officers. The feeling was similar to the one I felt when I entered high school as a freshman and was faced by experienced sophomores, juniors and seniors. It was the feeling of intimidation found when entering a community that has its own people, rules and customs - the feeling of being an outsider.

By the warm welcome of hugs and kisses we all received from my sister I knew that my mom, Heather, and I were all wanted in Belize and I was happy to be there. This calmed my nerves slightly but as we began our trip back to Molly's home in Belize City, I could not shake the feeling that I was different from her and did not belong. I felt like an outsider to Belizean culture, especially as (dread!) a tourist.

This feeling only worsened as we entered Molly's neighborhood and drove up to her house. This was the place that Molly lived, the place that she called home and yet I had never even been there. Later, as we walked to her office at St. Martin's church we passed unfamiliar houses, roads and buildings. To me these were just sights to see, an interesting picture to capture with my digital camera. It was hard to grasp that for Molly, these were the roads she used everyday to walk to work or to the market. These broken down houses were not just decaying buildings but the homes of her neighbors and friends; they were of the members of her community. Although Molly showed us around with love, excitement and a true desire for us to experience what she experiences every day, I still felt insignificant to the bigger picture of Belize City that I could not yet understand.

And then somewhere between Molly's home and the church it hit me. Just one year earlier Molly had flown to Belize City feeling the same nerves and excitement I had felt. She drove to an unfamiliar house that she was forced to call home and was thrown into a strange and different culture and told that she was supposed to live there for two years. She had walked this same road for the first time to a strange church and building that she was going to work at for two years. Although she chose this journey, when she walked into the community of Belize and a house of second year veteran volunteers she must have felt like me an outsider, a visitor to a unfamiliar place- insignificant to a world that was already functioning without her.

After experiencing the culture in Belize I know that it must take patience and commitment to truly absorb it and become a member of the communities there. It has proven to be a great temptation, even for Molly, to give up and return to the comfort found in our familiar culture. After seeing where she is and what she is doing I can understand the struggle she has felt to stay safe and happy in such a foreign country, but she has not let her fear or sadness end her journey in Belize.

The experiences and happiness we shared during our trip as well as Molly's smile, laugh and love remind me that she is the same big sister I have always had, but she is also changed. Through her hard work and dedication she has grown into a recognized member of her Belizean community. She lives humbly with her peers in Belize City, aware of their community's condition and feeling the restrictions of a small salary, a tight budget and simple means. She is not on some overly righteous personal mission to save Belize or lead the community to some revival with her own knowledge and skill; instead she is working hand in hand with the community of St. Martin's and other JVI's on a smaller scale to give the community the support it needs, putting her pride aside and completing jobs and tasks that even many members of Belize society would not be willing to do. The love the Belizean community has shown toward Molly and her fellow volunteers shows that simply their presence as individuals in the community is as treasured and valued as the effort they put into the actual jobs they do every day.

Molly has accomplished something very hard and I am proud that she has stuck with such a tiring and intense journey. I am thankful that I got a chance to share Molly's experience in Belize and now I am even more aware and proud of what she has accomplished knowing where and how she has done it. It is unbelievable that she has overcome the differences in culture that she has faced, and that she has been able to cope with the many personal struggles she has encountered in Belize. Molly is an amazing person and I am lucky to have her as a sister!

Love,

Martha

Hilarity, Rarity, and Liquid-arity

2008-07-09T13:50:00.001-04:00

Good tidings from

Belize

! Summer has been welcomed with its absence of school bells and screaming uniformed students; life in the office and school library has been quiet and productive.

I have three things to share, which I hope will capture the essence of my “nearly-approaching-one-full-year-in-Belize” state of mind. They are, as the title of this entry gives away, pertaining to general Belizean hilarity, divine instances of rarity, and as I have so spoofed the JVI language of “solidarity,” my recent musings of “liquid-arity.”

Hilarity

American Idol has always represented nothing but ridiculousness to me. Whether it be the contrived stage scene, the endless Coca-Cola and Ford commercials, the promotion of good looks and bad talent, Ryan Seacrest (shudder), my mom calling in her toll-free vote—or worse, texting it—over and over again, the cruel and embarrassing set up of people like William Hung who will reap the benefits of a sympathetic but mocking crowd only until next season, this show has come to embody a lot of what really bothers me about our American culture. Perhaps the worst part is the fact that admittedly, I have watched and enjoyed it, all the while knowing how ridiculous it really is.

In Belize, however, the reality-TV meets talent-quest program is a horse of a different color. I recently had the opportunity to watch the premier of Duets, an hour of 3 minute auditions by self-proclaimed talented Belizean duos. It was set up much like the first rounds of American Idol except, of course, everything was done Belize-style, which is to say, not as, umm, professionally? Excessively? The host, William Neal, was outfitted much like the overly stylish American host Ryan Seacrest with chic glasses, a fashionable and rather fancy shirt, and—duh—jeans, and he even said such Seacresty things as, “You’re not sure what you’re going to have but you’re going to have something spectacular once the cameras are turned on … So let’s turn the cameras on!” He interviewed each pair, like Seacrest, before and after they performed, trying to get them to say how great they think they are and how well they’ll do in the rest of the competition.

The judges—oh boy the judges—were hilarious. They too were set up in a similar panel to the American version, with Ann, Santiago, and Jenny as the respective Randy, Simon, and Paula personas. They each played their part, except rather awkwardly—Ann usually commented first, but with a tremendous lack of insight; Santi would look over the notes he had scribbled down during the performance and report back to the pair rather strangely in the 3^rd person reading directly from his paper: “they had good extension on the lifts, but poor eye contact”; and Jenny—a true character and my personal favorite—who actually knows a lot about music and singing, would supply useful comments like “sing from your stomach, don’t shout from your throat” yet, at the same time, would always end with something that Paula Abdul would say: “I’m sure you’ll go on! Great job!” During the performances, the judge’s expressions especially got me as the camera would cut, mid-song, to their ogling looks of joyous astonishment to sickly embarrassment. Where the American version is manipulated in the audition stages by advanced TV editing and professional camera maneuvering, the Duets judges’ reactions were exposed at unexpected times during the acts as were the angles and shots of the performers. Not so much flattering …

These auditions were held in the lobby of the Bliss Performing Arts Center, a beautiful modern building overlooking the sea here in Belize City used for dance, art classes, and big performances. In just this first episode, the talents ranged from modern, hip-hop, and bolero dancing to singing and guitar-accompanying to expository drama. There were old folk and young, married couples and priests, kids and teenagers alike. Their performances induced the same embarrassed laughter as the initial stages of American Idol with similar crapshoot stints—you never know who will sign up for these things.

The best part is that because Belize is so small, Belize City being even smaller, even I, the American volunteer who has only been here for a year, recognized many of the faces on the screen. Santi, the judge, is the owner of an importation company whose name is perhaps more well known than the Prime Minister’s; Jenny is a counselor in real life, who I actually spoke with earlier this year when things were looking down; Maria knew one of the husbands of a husband/wife dance act saying, “Hah! I’ve talked to him on the phone before!”; Trey knew one of the teenage singers doing a female Streisand/Dion rendition from the youth group he works with at Calvary Chapel; and so on and so on. Between the ten of us watching the show (the JVs, the Panton family, and some randoms), every performer could be linked to, if not by direct blood relation then by work, friends, friends of friends, or some other type of pervasive Belizean gossip; the whole country is one big Kevin Bacon game. In my mind, you have to have a lot more cajones to put yourself and your sharp/flat/atonal voice or slippery dance moves or terrible acting ability out there what with all the commentary you know you’ll get from the peanut gallery—the whole country—the next day.

I don’t remember a time in the past year when I laughed so genuinely as I did while watching Duets. The reasons for which (the descriptions of the various abysmal or not-so-abysmal performances and their deserving or not-so-deserving judgments) are not even worth trying to re-create here; I would never cheat them of their cultural and contextual hilarity. The comedy of it all was so … Belize … that I found myself overcome with affection for this place and its people. I doubt that I’ll return with open arms to the overwhelming and rather annoying seasons of American Idol—like most things these days, I find the Belize version much more likable.

Rarity

Last weekend, Mrs. Marin and I took the youth group to Chetumal, Mexico. Chetumal, famous in Belize for its Sam’s club and McDonalds, is about a two and a half hour drive from Belize City and makes for a perfect Saturday shopping excursion. As shortages and monopoly race each other up the pole of price inflation here in Belize, many folks journey across the northern border to find refuge in the wholesale Mexican marketplaces.

A lot of the kids in our youth group had never been, and I was taken aback by their exuberance towards things like highway overpasses and the lines of grocery carts in the parking lot of the mall. I unexpectedly suffered a bit of reverse culture shock; I haven’t stepped foot in anything remotely resembling a mall in over a year and was surprised with the disgust that flooded my mind regarding consumerism and advertising. I hadn’t thought much about these things in a realistic way in just about twelve months.

Belize is certainly modern in its own turn, but because it is so small and because it has absorbed more of the Caribbean culture rather than the Latin style of its neighbors (oh yes, and because it was an English colony until 1981), it has nothing like the developments of the Mexican city and suburb, shopping plazas, and price competition. And there I was, in the middle of a strangely familiar but strangely foreign scene of traffic lights, nicely paved streets, and mannequins in shop windows in downtown Chetumal, Mexico.

The real gem of my trip was our experience at Sam’s club. The first half of the day was dedicated to gazing through the windows and shops of the mall and eating greasy fast food in food courts. The second half of the day, however, was per orders made from the students’ mothers—every single one of them had been given money to buy the Chetumal staples from Sam’s Club: huge bales of toilet paper and 5 gallon containers of laundry detergent.

The kids were adorable in their shopping. They wound up and down the aisles all together—15 of them—and fit their necessities into two shopping carts. They stopped every few feet to admire the goods lining the shelves in their ridiculous bundles; I thought we would never get through the candy aisle. Most of them brought little calculators, which they didn’t know how to use, to calculate the currency differences. When they couldn’t figure it out, they asked me, and marveled at the way that something labeled $600 in Pesos turned out to be only $120 Belize. When finally everyone had collected what they—their mothers—needed, we headed to the check-out line.

I stood, surrounded by 15 loud and joyful black kids, a mountain of about 500 rolls of toilet paper, and a young Mexican cashier who was trying to yell to me—in Spanish—that only three people were allowed to buy on the one membership card we had. After finally quieting the students enough to mentally translate what this speedy Spanish speaker was trying to tell me, I panicked—like the stereotypical American, most likely—and immediately decided that all but three of the kids should return what they had grabbed to the shelves. Defeated, I started to explain this to the kids. They had none of it. “Miss, we can all pay together! Isn’t that the same as just one paying?” Good point.

In words and broken sentences that would shame the 10 years of Spanish teachers and professors I had, I bargained with the teller to let us pool our money together and make the purchase as one with the lone card in our possession. He agreed reluctantly, as we both understood that doing this simply rearranged the fact that what we were doing was against the store’s rules. In any case, there I found myself with thousands of pesos pouring into my hands from all directions—Kriol yelling in one year, Spanish in the other—and with adorable and lively black faces bumping all around me, contrasting the light-skinned and elegant features of the employees curiously gathering around our register. And of course, the acoustics of the warehouse were such that our raucous was amplified throughout, rendering stares and glares from the Mexican patrons.

In those fleeting moments, I felt freer than perhaps I ever have before; it was a rarity I truly appreciated—being the only white person in a Sam’s Club, counting money bilingually, and being anonymous, in a way, to my former life in the States where nothing like that would/could/did ever happen to me. Not unlike watching Duets, that experience in Sam’s Club instilled in me a pride for being associated in this skewed way with Belizeans, vibrant and energetic, and it washed me with a deep gratitude for the happenstance circumstances that this country has offered to me.

Liquid-arity

A few short words on my philosophical musings of late . . .

Solidarity, as the guiding principle of countless organizations and missions around the world, is a concept that I am wary of. Aiming, I suppose, for unity and fellowship most prominently with the economically oppressed, solidarity has become rather cliché, I think. It’s one of those terms that are thrown around quite a bit, but I think it’s more loaded than the university service-trip colloquialism it has become. I was interested in JVI specifically to learn more about what solidarity means by “living” it, yet after one year of supposedly doing so, I am further than ever before from a grounded understanding of its manifestation in the world. So much of our lives exist in our mind, even when we try to extend ourselves, that I don’t know if attempting to unify my reality with anyone else’s—my sister’s, my community mates’, or my Belizean friend Angie’s—is the most appropriate goal.

Liquid-arity, solidarity in its liquid form of course, is at least a better descriptor, for me, of the intentions and relationships I have developed throughout my experience of life thus far (a mere 23 years, I know). In Belize specifically, I have experienced union and fellowship, community and friendship, that has transcended economic means, I guess, but I still don’t know if that “solidifies” my reality with that of those around me as there are things about my life—past and future—that will forever separate me from the people I work and live among here. My relationships, as I have come to understand them, seem more fluid; I share what my perceptions are, and in return, must try to understand the perceptions of everyone else. It’s not easy, and I’m not very good at it, but by at least admitting off the bat that the best we can do as human beings is mix together the juices of our spirits, stories, beliefs, pains, joys, and love, I have been relieved of trying to understand what it means to live side by side in solidarity. Like any good high school chemistry student knows, a solution must be composed of a solute dissolved into a solvent; my relationships with my housemates and with my Belizean community have changed me in that same way.

Ultimately, perhaps a solid is produced through this alchemy of life. Until then though, I’ll stick with my liquid experiments and hope that what I pour out from my heart is filled up again with the liquid-arity of others.

Octopus Head

2008-06-18T16:02:00.004-04:00

“'Help' is a prayer that is always answered. It doesn’t matter how you pray—with your head bowed in silence, or crying out in grief, or dancing. Churches are good for prayer, but so are garages and cars and mountains and showers and dance floors. Years ago I wrote an essay that began, 'Some people think that God is in the details, but I have come to believe that God is in the bathroom.' Prayer usually means praise, or surrender, acknowledging that you have run out of bullets. But there are no firm rules. As Rumi wrote,'“there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.' I just talk to God. I pray when people I love are sick, and I prayed when I didn’t know whether I should have a baby. I pray when my work is horrible, or suddenly, miraculously better. I cried out silently every few hours during the last two years of my mother’s life. I even asked for help in coping with George W. Bush …

When I am in my right mind, which is about twice a month, I pray kindly."

--Anne Lamott; fellow feminist, fellow dog-lover, fellow soul-searcher, spirit-seeker, comfort-requester, fellow child of mother nature, and, of course, fellow octopus head.

Like Clock Work

2008-05-08T12:14:00.002-04:00

Greetings, All!

Well, like clock work, here's another 3 month update! It's strange really; I mean, it's not like I've been sitting on my hands for the three months since my last excruciatingly long mass email, but quite naturally, I have found myself with enough reflection material every three months or so to share with you fine people. It's kind of like my body's "wake-up-two-minutes-before-the-alarm-is-going-to-go-off" phenomenon—except not nearly as frustrating. That inner timer of mine is sharper than any piece of modern technology, I tell ya.

So, what's been happening in Belize? Since I last wrote, a lot! There have been democratic elections that gave the People's United Party, office mongrels for the past ten years, a swift kick to the street (their campaign plug was a "one laptop per child" program—come on!) and replaced them with the United Democratic Party who boasted the catchier: "PUP FIRE, UDP HIRE" which you can still find emblazoned on just about every billboard, telephone pole, and vehicle in town (one of the drawbacks of using spray paint on your campaign trail). The PUP's promise to "supply each primary school student nation-wide with a laptop" actually seems more feasible after the fact as apparently, the Belizean Government had received $20 million US in grants from Taiwan and another $20 million from Venezuela over the course of the last five years. Those funds, however, seem to have mysteriously disappeared from off-shore bank accounts just as former Prime Minister Musa packed up his office on February 8, one day after the election. Weird.

As I am employed—kind of—by the Catholic Church, the last three months have kept me busy with such things as palm blessings, cultish fire-pit worships, walking the streets behind a crucifix singing songs of trembling hearts and fearful adoration, candlelit vigil-ing, and ritualistic water blessing, pouring, and submerging. Yep, Holy Week was a busy time here at St. Martins, and I am truly thankful that a) I was present to witness it and b) it will be a whole ¾ of a year until we have to do it all over again.

The spring, liturgically speaking, also holds the celebrations of First Communion and Confirmation—Sacraments that are a little nearer and dearer to my heart due to the fact that I have been helping the students to prepare for such occasions for the majority of the school year. Last Friday, I had 30 Standard V students (roughly 7^th grade—yep, 30 of them, one of me) on a retreat as a last reflection before Confirmation. I had to spend most of the day trying to stop them from writing on each other with the complimentary pens I distributed all too early in the morning's activities. By the time we left, most of them were covered in blue lines and scribbles and complaining that they couldn't do the evaluation form because their pen had run out of ink. The few who had usable pens for the evaluation forms however, thoughtfully answered my "Suggestions for next year?" question with: "Good luck!" I'm not sure if this was a cultural misunderstanding or a reflection of my frenzied attempt and failure to control the pre-pubescent Bic warriors.

Hmm, what else? In early March, two of my fellow Jesuit Volunteers and I accomplished the great feat of La Ruta Maya, a four day canoe race snaking its way from Belize's most western border to the Caribbean Sea. That's 170 miles, folks. I have learned that while kicking things seems to have come relatively easy to me over the years, upper body strength is not really my thing. Plus, I'm not really keen on doing things I'm "not good at," like, say, steering and paddling an overweight bathtub of a canoe. (It was quite a ride, and if you're interested in more details, I suggest you check out my blog posting below.) Let's just say that besides the t-shirt and medal I earned in the experience, I have since blocked our 5^th-from-last finish from my memory.

These days Belize City is hotter than Hades, but the mangoes are a-blooming which provides pleasure in the face of humidity and general sweat stains (especially when said mangoes are mutilated into smoothie form). I, myself, am doing well—not yet riding life's rollercoaster with my arms outstretched, but definitely loosening my grip on the over-the-shoulder harness and maybe I'll even be pulling off a smile for the camera flashes at the end of the scary tunnel. I'll send you a copy.

Recently, a few Jesuits visited from the St. Louis province to give a presentation on a recent conference they attended in Rome for the election of a new Father General. During the discussion of the Jesuit mission and its manifestation in various ministries, Fr. Tom, the Provincial, said something (that shows how much I was paying attention) about "our broken but lovable world." I have adopted this, or perhaps plagiarized it, as the overarching title of my experience in Belize. It is not what I expected: Belize, for me, is filled with disorientation, with acute disappointment and loneliness, observations of abuse and pollution, experiences of heartache and confusion. But it is also filled with beauty—a kind I've never taken the time to appreciate; it is filled with cute kids in school uniforms asking for help with their project on simple machines, with vibrant and dynamic scenery and people and landscapes, with families who attend church together every Sunday (all seventeen of them in matching Garifuna attire), with relationships from home that have somehow grown stronger despite such limited contact, and with community mates who accept me for all that I'm not. My experience so far is certainly broken—that's not debatable—but I guess, in more ways than I'm willing to admit on a daily basis, it is also lovable.

Well, that's all that's fit to print for this quarterly report. I hope this finds you enjoying the rebirth, renewal, and refreshments of spring time wherever you are. Know that here on the crust of the Carib Sea, we're sweating our faces off!

Much love and peace to you and your families,

Molly

P.S. If you are interested in catching a few shots of our Belize City Photo Scavenger Hunt, my pictures are posted at http://www.flickr.com/photos/15964583@N04/. Don't be alarmed that in practically all of my pictures, I am wearing the same three or four items of clothing. Hand-washing has inspired me to maintain a pretty tight rotation. Enjoy!

La Ruta Maya

2008-03-12T11:29:00.008-04:00

'One (splash), two (splash), three (splash), four (splash), five (splash), six (splash), seven (splash), eight (splash), nine (splash), ten (switch, left, splash) ...'

On the morning of day three, I got all the way up to 539 -- strokes, that is -- before I lost count. At that point, we were winding somewhere between Bermudian Landing, a small village lush with tropical greens and rain forest chirps, howls, and splashes, and Burrell Boom which is just west of the Belize City International Airport. Though the route is easily driven in less than 15 minutes, Trey, Fino, and I were busy paddling for well over six hours. Thus, the counting.

La Ruta Maya is, for some people, a canoe race. If you are inexperienced, untrained, and utterly incompetent however, it becomes something much more like self-inflicted torture.

Day 1:
Wake up at 4:45 am in San Ignacio, Belize -- a beautiful city set on the slopes of Mountain Pine Ridge overlooking the conjunction of the Macal and Belize Rivers just 12 miles from the Guatemalan border. The misty fog sits on the water like a scene from Hogwarts as we tie our precious supplies -- Nalgenes and PB & Js -- to our canoe, a borrowed bathtub-esque barge that will be our home for the majority of the four days to come. Minutes past 6:00, the airhorn blows and -- honk -- we've begun.

It takes our team of three, "Wait Fi Wi!," less than five minutes to realize the horror we've subjected ourselves to. Teams 'dig' their paddles ferociously through the choppy waters, some tipping due to extraordinary weight shifting in said ferociousness and some just kicking ass. As it turns out, team "Wait Fi Wi!" named ourselves with tremendous foresight; soon enough, adrenaline has transformed into desperation and we begin whining, literally: "Wait for us, dammit!" Old Bessie the Bathtub just can't keep up.

We figure out pretty early on that paddling is not like riding a tandem bicycle: when one boatwoman/boatman stops rowing, her/his dead weight pushes the others to near asphyxiation. Hence, water-logged peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are folded, smushed, and shoved into mouths as fast as possible for "lunch" and require a three, two, and one minute warning: i.e. "I'm sandwiching in three." Chewing, however, is not done so that such "sandwich" can be enjoyed over the course of a few slimy, drooly, and short-breathed minutes.

By mid-afternoon of the first day, entering hour five, team "Wait Fi Wi" hurts. The monotony of rowing and the never-ending landscape of green, leafy, gurgling bends in the river is driving us to frustration. And I am reminded of a classic line from Mighty Ducks 2 from the red-headed, glasses-wearing Lester Averman in response to Coach Gordon Bombay's "haven't you guys been training in the off-season?" ... Sorry, coach. I knew we forgot something!

Approaching 8 hour and 15 minutes from the start, we hear the sound of the airhorn through the woods separating the meandering bends of the river signaling the finish of the team just ahead of us. We paddle harder than we have since the starting line, and coast our way to a finish of fifth-to-last for Day 1.

Day 2:
We are aware that this will be the longest day of paddling. For Belize Bank and Caribbean Pride Limited, the first and second place teams who are comprised of hired and sponsored foreign paddlers, this leg should take about five hours. For team "Wait Fi Wi!," it will take 10 hours and 37 minutes. But at 6:30 am, we don't know that yet.

Day 2 will prove to be the most formative of the overall experience, at least for me. With aching arms and backs, we step into the boat and sit down on our ghetto-rigged foam seats, still wet from the day before. Yum. The paddle feels surprisingly comfortable in my hands, and my mind coaxes my muscles into believing that they know what they are doing. The horn sounds the start of a new day, and before we know it, old Bessie has us dawdling near the end of the string of canoes coursing the turns of the river, paddling in front of just one Japanese Volunteer Corps boat (the "other" JVC) who is methodically chanting cadences in native tongue, and another boat of Canadians so-called "Chillaxin" powered by two older white women and one young white man with dreadlocks in his beard smoking a cigarette.

This day has "low morale" written all over it. The three of us in "Wait Fi Wi" seem to have nothing to talk about -- no jokes, no interesting tid-bits about ourselves to share that we haven't already learned in the eight months we've known each other, not even any complaints. The tension is finally broken when Trey spontaneously belts out the first verse of the Belizean national anthem, and bridges straight into a very inappropriate song by an A Capella group named DaVinci's Notebook. Hilarious. We laugh. And then we remember that we are still rowing on an f-ing river and that even immature distractions can't take away from the fact that it's hot as balls and my sandwich is wet.

Needless to say, the afternoon is much better. Delirium sets in somewhere around hour seven, and though we pass by sparsely populated banks every once in a while, the limits of our human interaction -- mine being the backs of of my two teammates' heads and the constant exclaims of "what?!" and "huh?!" as our forward-facing direction warps the sound waves of their voices such that I can't hear a word they say -- basically begins to drive us nuts. And this is no Boston Marathon; I mean, though that race's sidelines are approximately 90% intoxicated during the 26.2 miles of concrete, at least people are cheering. In Belize, apparently it is appropriate to stare open-mouthed at the white folks who canoe through your backyard -- no encouragement needed, thanks! Perhaps it is due to our pace (we went by too quickly for them to respond?) or maybe a cultural barrier ... not sure. Either way, we mosey on by -- don't mind us, just paddling 170 miles -- and instead of absorbing energy from out there, we conjure it up from giggles within as Trey decides after a while to cheer them on: "keep it up, spectators! you're doing awesome!"

At 4:00 pm, I take my watch off and sit on it. Checking the time every 8 minutes or so was not a life-giving operation.

I pray.

Just before dark, we pull into the station finish line. We pitch tents, scarf down a plate of rice and beans, and pass out promptly.

Day 3:
It's raining. Hard. Things are wet. I'm cold. And today, I'm really not up for it.

After the abysmal performance of yesterday however (third-to-last overall and two near-death experiences -- luckily, there was nothing but my small Swiss Army pocket-knife to use as weapons on each other), we decide to go hard. Paddle, paddle, paddle. This is where my counting begins.

We make it through the morning with still 6-8 boats behind us. We know today will be shorter, but we also know that the rain is contending our speediness. Things are relatively quiet -- determined, but subdued. I have some fleeting hope that we will be the acclaimed underdogs of this race, just you wait. And then we are passed. And again. Until finally, as always, it is just us and the Japanese.

At this point though, the continuous -- and foreign -- rhythm of their boats (all seven of them -- six of which have passed us) have really begun to rub raw. I thank God for Trey, who again breaks out in reactive hilarity and sings back at them some ridiculously American ditty. They don't understand, and continue chanting.

We become especially disheartened as we are passed by a safety boat who yesterday had chided us for our "lack of effort" -- how rude -- and who today, begins to poke fun at how hard we are working yet how slow we are going. We just can't win with these guys.

"Yep," says Trey. "We're really doing it. 170 miles. In a canoe. You have a motor on your boat Mr. Safety man with a bandanna on your face and an indiscernible accent [he really did have those things]. BACK OFF!"

I don't even hear the airhorn sounding our finish today. I just step out of the canoe, shivering on my wobbly legs.

That pretty much sums up day 3.

Day 4:
The last day! The last hoorah! The standings say that we are in fourth to last place overall ... And to me (and perhaps to Lloyd Christmas) that means you're sayin' there's a chance! We can do this! Just a few short hours until freedom!

The adrenaline gets us from the start -- hard, dig, come on, we can do it ...

Alas, our determination is not sustainable. The worst part is that by 10 am we are in recognizable territory: where there used to be howler monkeys and dripping tropical landscapes, there is now the familiarity of old tires, trash, and zinc lean-to shanties crowded on the banks -- yet another uplifting aspect of the whole experience -- the landmarks that tell us that we are paddling through the backside of our very own neighborhood. And then we see it: THE BRIDGE. The finish line. The grand finale.

Lo and behold, there is an echo to our paddles' splashes. A next boat -- the Japanese -- is gaining on us. The hum of their cadence haunts me ... Are you kidding? They are going to pass us! The competitive drive in me is heightened to an all-time high. No way! I didn't come 170 miles to be passed at the last minute, especially not by the fascist chanting of the Japanese volunteers!

Trey gets a splash of water in his eye. He can't see. That's because at this point it's not just any water -- it's Belize City's own toxic waste river water, the alternative to the city dump (which doesn't exist). Fino's hand cramps up. We can't stay straight. I want to get out and swim the damn thing. Kill me.

"Honk!" ... point two seconds later ... "Honk!" They beat us.

We pull up to the concrete banks of Belize City and as we step out of the canoe for the last time (thank God), a few of the officials help us tip old Bessie to empty the morning's rain water we had been towing for the past few hours. In fact, as one of the men points out, that's not all we had been towing. As he releases a small plug in the hull of the canoe, two minutes worth of a heavy stream of water flows out from inside the boat. As if rowing an upside-down kitchen table wasn't enough, she was carrying extra water, too!! What a joke.

* * *

Well, in two day's hindsight now that my back muscles have stopped spasming and my blisters are starting to heal, it was a great four days. In the end, everyone got medals anyway -- what was I so worried about?

And most importantly, I learned a lot about myself. I can't say, like Trey and Fino did, that I will never do something so "ridiculously stupid and pointless" again -- I wouldn't put it past myself. Torrential rain? Goooood. Camping in torrential rain? Fuuuuun. Paddling until your arms feel like they will fall off? Awwwwwesome. Rowing for four days what can be driven in less than two hours? Greeeeeeat idea. La Ruta Maya: What's not to like?

(more pictures: http://www.flickr.com/photos/15964583@N04/)

Everyting is Everyting

2008-02-27T16:40:00.004-05:00

A few words on my best, most favorite co-worker Mrs. Benguche (a.k.a. by the general population of Belize City, "Mrs. Bee"):

She is incredible. "Good mawnin' miss Molly Deeeee," she greets me every day, with a huge smile on her face. "Everyting is everyting?" Yes, Mrs. Bee -- everything is everything.

Half-expecting her to rattle off the rest of the famous Lauryn Hill lyrics, I ask Mrs. Bee, What does that saying even mean? "You know," she says. "It means dat everyting is a-okay."

Between our frequent rants in the office -- "72 copies? Why would a teacher need 72 copies of a worksheet with one math problem on it!?" (me); "what in Gaad's name does dis even say?!" (Mrs. Bee) -- and our lengthy conversations about Belizean "Politricks," Mrs. Bee and I have gotten particularly close. She is spunky, she is hilarious, she is absolutely great at what she does (she has single-handedly eliminated the need for a volunteer in my position at all), she reminds me of my mom, and best of all, she has made my work days in Belize more than bearable -- sometimes by blasting the radio and showing off her Punta dance moves, sometimes by telling me humorous stories about what it was like growing up in a village, and sometimes by kicking or swearing at -- "oh my trials!" -- the nearest piece of technology that gets busted in our office (computer, photocopier, printer, fax machine, coffee maker, etc.). Not to mention, she has the cutest granddaughters ever who are undoubtedly my two best Belizean buddies -- Melisha and Monique (we have an "M" club) -- whom she has raised.

I have really struggled in my "work" here -- I say "work" because: a) What is work anyways? Simply a way to feel good about ourselves? To feel productive? To gain recognition or accomplishment? b) I understand that my experience as a volunteer has very little to do with whatever amount of said productivity I am able to bring to the table -- the way I see it these days, as long as I'm not prohibiting others from being productive, I'm doing okay. And c) My job as a pastoral associate (okay, my title should just be "Father Dan's personal assistant") at St. Martins doesn't lend itself to, well, too much work. There are always things to do, of course, but mostly, my job consists of photocopying, dispensing out water and pencil sharpening sessions at school break times, going to church way too much (is that possible?), and hanging out with Mrs. Bee.

Okay, I'm being hard on my work experience so far. There have been bright spots, most of which have occurred in the past week. Last Sunday, the Youth Group played a massive game of Jeopardy which was not only awesomely engaging and exciting for high-schoolers that don't usually want to do much of anything, but also really fun for me to plan. Most of the categories were interactive; the final product was more of a Jeopardy/Cranium/Carmen San Diego combination with categories ranging from "The 10 Commandments" to "So You Think You're a Rockstar" to "All things Molly" (not one of them believed me that my real name wasn't "Molly" but MaryGene -- I had to show them my license!). On Monday, my Confirmation class -- also consisting of high schoolers who don't usually want to do much of anything -- was surprisingly in a good mood, enough so that I followed their lead and found myself turning a lecture on the gifts of the Holy Spirit (what in the ... ?) to a group question and answer session about peer pressure and different forms of prayer (my favorite one being a 2nd Form student -- sophomore -- who said that he always prays when he's going to the bathroom! He's got the idea!). And finally, yesterday, I had the group of St. Martin's Primary 1st Communion students who needed remedial Baptism lessons before they were ready to receive their 1st Communion (this place has weird rules). Basically, I had all the troublemakers. A group that was supposed to be 8 kids turned into 15 and then 20 and by the time we got to the exercise where I made everyone hug each other, I'm pretty sure there were about 25 kids milling around the parish hall. Considering I had spent a fair amount of time planning specific activities relating to Baptism, I was surprise at how flexible I became as soon as the room flooded with students -- most of whom were sent by teachers who just wanted a break. Where I thought I was anal, shy, and under-confident, I was suddenly animated and on fire with spontaneous games and activities -- apparently I have some inner reserves of some accumulated elementary school/retreat/birthday party repertoire.

In any case, I'm not sure that this job is the right fit for me. For some time now, I think it has been contributing to a fair amount of identity crises I have been experiencing (post-collegiate, perhaps?), and quite honestly, the draining aspects of parish life -- the scrutiny and demands of the congregation ("I'm sorry, M'am. I can't Baptize you're baby! I've told you, I'm just not qualified!"), the administrative work and photocopies galore, and even the growing frustration of balancing my personal, work, and spiritual life -- have made my complete withdrawal seemingly imminent. Lately though, my outlook has been more positive; as to whether or not this will be my job for my second year in Belize, the jury's still out. But at least I'm feeling more excited that there will be, in fact, a second year for me in Belize.

And so, I am a-okay. I have been spending an increasing amount of time out-of-doors lately which has slowed down the rapid pace of my journal marathon-ing, but has allowed me to "enjoy the view," as my dad so perfectly advised, at the start of this second lap. I have stopped compartmentalizing so much my feelings, the time, and my relationships and am finally growing into the idea that for right now, this is my life. Life, life, life. And my life, albeit absolutely, 100% different than the life of Mrs. Bee or of any of the students I am interacting with on a daily basis, is Belize. The people, the food, the company, the strength, and the heartbreak -- all belongs to Belize, and all belongs to God. And accepting that has made it so much easier to go with the flow, to rest in the fact that it will all be alright and that, at the end of the day, everyting is everyting.

The Home Stretch ... of Lap Numero Uno

2008-01-29T12:29:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure if I am assigning too deep of a meaning to the countless timed mile fitness tests I partook in over the years of soccer pre-seasons, but for some reason, I have recently found myself reflecting on the different feelings I had throughout the preparation, anticipation, and completion of those God-forsaken events. Why did I dread them so much? Was I afraid of losing, or not passing? Was it because simply put, running as fast as you can for four laps is not a pleasant experience?

I always had trouble training for the pre-season mile test. I have a mental block against tracks -- I'm not sure why -- and so, the best I could do to prove to myself that I would pass would be to step out of my driveway, press "start" on my watch and run as fast as I could for however long the time limit for the upcoming test would be. After five minutes and forty five seconds, six minutes, six minutes and fifteen seconds, I would stop running, walk the rest of the way home, hop in the car and drive the exact distance I had made it in the given time. Usually, the odometer slowly rolled to 1.000 miles just as I approached the mailbox, the telephone pole, the stick in the road that I had used to mark my distance. I would breathe a sigh of relief -- a relief that lasted about two minutes before I realized that, in less than a week, I would have to do the same thing all over again ... except that the next time, it would be around a track.

Well, in the course of this two year experience in Belize, I am just about to cross the line marking the completion of my first six months. 25% done. 1/4 of the way there. 3 times the amount of days that have gone, to go. Whichever way I rationalize it to myself, I can't help but think back to both the feelings of triumph and discouragement -- "one down" and "three to go" -- that I always felt in the heat of those races as I finished the first lap.

That first time around the track was always the hardest for me. I never warmed up properly, and my muscles felt tight and leaden. I struggled to find my pace, caught up in the initial rush that makes everyone go a little bit too fast. I also remember being aware that the adrenaline would fade, and letting that get my spirits down before it chemically happened -- mind under matter -- letting myself feel discouraged that even after completion, the first lap would be hardly a bite in the whole cake that lay before me to eat. (Bad analogy -- I really enjoy eating cake!)

In any case, I find myself retracing these familiar pathways of my mind these days. Though the landscape is unfamiliar -- the people are different, the place is different, the task at hand is different -- my mind is falling back into its similar patterns of quantifying and compartmentalizing the time, deflating the natural adrenaline rushes with the constant reminder of the difficulties that lay ahead, while also trying to celebrate the landmark of sixth months spent living abroad; it's like back in July, I raced ahead and planted myself a bouquet of flowers at the January 31 mile-marker, and am pretending to be surprised now I as I stoop over to pick them up from the side of the road. "Awww, for me? From me? You really shouldn't have ..."

I can't say that things have gotten too much easier in the past few months, except perhaps my acceptance that this experience is really hard. I have had some ups and downs with my job, like most recent graduates I'm sure, wherever we are -- I guess I'm just trying to find my groove while also desperately trying to understand what my purpose here, in Belize, really is. Community life has been equally as difficult in more abstract, yet somehow reaffirming, ways. Something much greater than the five of us drew us to be together in Belize City, to live in the same house, to share the same resources, to live parts our lives through each other. Never have I been so open and so exposed, yet so lonely all at the same time. My relationship with words -- both in the reading of others' ideas as well as the articulation of my own -- has grown, and is something I find myself dependent on to process the internals and externals to my daily life: the invasiveness of Belizean culture, the beauty of this country, and the crude sights, sounds, and smells of this city. And finally, the distance from home has evolved such that I wake up in the middle of the night from dreams of the second-floor bathroom of my house at 6 Mohegan Road, or at random times during the day, my mind floods with memories of junior high and high school -- things and people that I haven't thought of, or heard from, literally, for years.

In the grand scheme, it's only been six months, one lap. Time -- either around a track or in life -- doesn't stop, and for that, sometimes I am thankful. On the days when I'm really not sure that this, Jesuit Volunteers, is what I'm supposed to be doing right now in my life, time keeps me going. And on the days that I can imagine myself nowhere else but swinging on a hammock breathing prayers and Belizean sunshine, I am glad that time is something I'm aware of -- and in these precious, orginal moments -- that I can hold on to.

And, when all is said and done, I think back to this past August when, for the first time in God knows how many years, I didn't have to run a pre-season mile fitness test around a track. And boy, am I thankful.

Huma la aburemei. Peace be with you.

Much, much, much love,
Molly

Merry Christmas!

2007-12-24T13:51:00.000-05:00

Happy holidays, everyone! Thank you for all of your prayers, letters, and blessed packages!

Love,
Molly

‘Twas the day before Christmas, when all through Belize

Not a raindrop was falling, not even a breeze;

The palm trees were decorated in yards with detail,

In hopes for a lee bit o’ shade while enjoying some ale;

The JVs were a-lounging, all sweaty and hot,

Sharing family holiday stories, which perhaps they should not;

Trey’s on the sofa, guitar in hand,

And Mon’s out on the verandah surveying the land;

Maria is sprawled, reading a book,

And Kate’s in the kitchen: the talented cook;

Molly is sipping a cup of hot tea,

While the lights shine colorfully from the fake Christmas tree;

When out on the lawn there arose such a yell,

Just Frankie, they thought, and neglected to dwell;

“Now, white people!” he exclaimed, through the burglar bars

“let me in, I bear gifts,” his eyes shown like the stars;

A broken fan in one hand, a flower pot in another,

They let dear Frankie in—after all, he’s like their brother;

After some drunken stories about France and the army,

Frankie offered a lone swimmie plastered with “Barbie”

He was thanked for his thoughtfulness, generosity, and cheer,

But was helped out the door as the night drew near.

Next up the stairs was a girl named Angie,

Silent and scornful when Molly called her “Flangie.”

She sat at the table while the volunteers reminisced,

Recalling traditions, apparel, and movies they missed.

Angie left quickly, as fast as she came,

She wouldn’t even accept the Christmas cookie they offered—boy, that was lame.

The JVs settled ‘round the table, for a game of “Oh, Heck”

When, yet again, they heard a knock from their deck.

Oh Gosh, they thought, not another passerby;

It was growing late—they were tired—and Christmas was nigh.

Through the door they heard but a chuckle,

And around a big box, they saw a white knuckle;

It was Fr. Harrison, S.J., that jolly good fellow!

He was dressed in his fake Crocs, and a t-shirt of yellow,

A box of goodies, he held in his arms—

His eyes bright with love, hospitality and charm.

He looked a lot like Santa, the volunteers thought with glee,

With his white beard, box of gifts, and round-ish belly.

A wink of his eye, and a twist of my dread,

He conjured some crackers and a vegetable spread;

Some chocolate, some ice cream, some candy canes, too,

Some apples, some cookies, some wine of fresh brew;

And giving a nod, to the shocked faces around,

He smiled and turned to leave without a sound;

And behind him he closed gently the old metal door,

Lest they could hear, “at least they’re not Peace Corps!”

And to bed the volunteers headed, to be rested and ready

For the Christmas festivities scheduled already:

To Rosie’s, to Mrs. B’s, to Dawn’s, and Ms. Jean’s;

With great joy, good company, and plenty of rice and beans.

2007-12-06T17:57:00.000-05:00

So the parish truck was stolen ...

Fr. Dan had left it parked outside of the church's garage before the 9:00 am mass on a sunny Sunday morning, locked and pretty well hidden from the main road. But when he went to go drive it back to the Jesuit Residence after the 7:00 pm mass, it was gone.

Now, we're not talking a 2008 Dodge Ram with 5 seats, 4 wheel drive, leather interior, a CD player, and chrome rims -- no, no. The St. Martin's parish truck is a 1994 red Ford, trusty as all get out, but with few functioning parts (i.e. the radio only works sometimes, and when it does there's no volume control; the windows are, in Ellen DeGeneres' words, "churn butter-esque" and squeak terrible going up or down, which is often considering the A/C is also shot; the muffler shakes and bakes like a putting motorboat; the ignition locks so as to embarrass the driver as people stare wondering why the Gringa can't start the vehicle; and of course, as any classy truck should have, the spare tire is padlocked to the roof) -- and, to be honest, I know nothing about automobiles and the heart of the truck is undoubtedly in worse shape than the unaesthetic exterior. Needless to say, I love this vehicle and because I have yet to learn how to maneuver our motorcycle, I spend about five hours a week in it tootin' around Belize City running errands for the parish and school, rusty muffler and all.

So, I was pretty disappointed when I heard the news.

We moped around Monday and Tuesday, Fr. Dan bitter about having to go get the mail (my job) on the scooter during rush hour, Mrs. B stressed as to where we would possibly get the money to buy a new truck, Esidoro upset that he couldn't go get the supplies he needed to fix the door of the church, and Angie and I disheartened at the cancellation of our afternoon joyrides. At this point, we were certain our truck was absolutely dismembered -- probably in Guatemala -- and the parts that were of no value were probably being sold as playground toys for children. Shucks.

And then, Tuesday evening as I sat in a dreadfully boring and doodle-filled St. Vincent de Paul Meeting (another entry -- I'm not yet ready to talk about how I spend my Tuesday nights), I heard the familiar "put put put," and thought to myself, no...it can't be. With a quick sneak of a look out the upstairs parish meeting room, I saw a beautiful sight: Esidoro, Mrs. B, Fr. Dan, and Ms. Florette (the cleaning woman who is, inadvertently, hilarious) getting out of the two-person cab of OUR TRUCK!

I have since vowed that anything in my life can be solved by this unstoppable foursome. Ms. Florette, who knows not only how to get a stain out of anything but also the names of every cop in town (though she won't admit how), had mentioned to her "cop-friend" 'Coon (short for Racoon -- I'm not sure if this refers to looks, or what) that the parish truck had been stolen. 'Coon said he'd keep his eyes and ears open, and that he'd spread the word around. Mrs. B, whose husband was a BDF member (Belize Defense Force), asked around as well. And my favorite -- Esidoro called all of his friends in the "auto industry" in Belize City; he knew a guy who sold tires and whose stock, incidentally, is received anonymously ... maybe they had gotten some parts from a Ford recently? And Fr. Dan, well, he's a priest. So I'd like to think he had God on his side. In any case, these Fantastic Four had their eyes, and the eyes of all their friends, peeled like a street vendor's orange.

As it usually happens in Belize, gossip got the better of this "teef" (thief, in kriol). The truck was found less than 48 hours from when it was stolen, less than two blocks away from the church and, hilariously enough, one lane over from Mrs. B's house. The truck was missing only the grill (which was probably a blessing -- that thing was rusty!), the lightbulbs from the headlights, the back bumper, the spare tire, the two emblems that said "Ford," and as we found out later, one windshield wiper. We'd like to think that this character started to take the things that were easiest to carry first, and then halfway through his work, he/she let their conscience get the better of them: "I am stealing from a church, for God's sake! What am I thinking?" And so, as they loaded up their bag of truck accessories, they decided it would be best to leave the truck -- in tact and absolutely drivable (except in the rain and at night) -- by the good church lady's house. "She'll definitely find it."

And a good deed it was. Fr. Dan's scare with the errands has passed and I'm back behind the wheel towing Angie around town; Esidoro can again accomplish his skilled carpentry work; and Mrs. B's heart rate has finally slowed to just about a healthy rate. Although our church still has no money, at least we're not in the hole. Better yet, we all had a great laugh together -- especially at the contacts that revealed themselves through the frantic race against time and Belizean looting. When Fr. Dan called the Belize City Police Department to cancel the report he'd filled out (on the back of a receipt with a "Hello Kitty" pen -- I was there, I know) he mentioned, "I just wanted to let you know that your buddy 'Coon really helped us out."

"Who the Hell is 'Coon?"

And that, my friends, is why I love my co-workers.

perhaps

2007-11-27T10:29:00.000-05:00

i am going blind.

my eyes exploding,
seeing more than is there
until they burst into nothing

or going deaf, these sounds
the feathered hum of silence

or going away from my self, the cool
fingers of lace on my skin
the fingers of madness

or perhaps
in the palace of time
our lives are a circular stair
and i am turning

a plain sunset over St. Martin's school, taken from my roof

Belie. Believe. Belize.

2007-10-30T13:30:00.000-04:00

My dearest friends, familia, and pickney (children),

How yu di do? Wehdagoan?

Approaching the official three-month marker of my time in Belize in mere hours, I thought it would be appropriate to send out yet another dazzling update from what is still, according to my sources, the birthplace of the mosquito.

Life in Belize is, well, interesting to say the least. I have enjoyed getting to know my housemates as we plug along each day, struggling on our own and together with both big and small challenges, and celebrating - when we can - the small victories that life in Belize City, plagued by violence, corruption, and Carnival Cruise ships, has to offer.

The way I see it, there are two distinct aspects to my life here. One: all that is internal to me and my crazy mind. And two: all that is external, which I see, smell (unfortunately), and hear everyday. Perhaps this is the way that all people's lives are, and it's just a conclusion that's taken me a little longer to come to; in any case, the divide is glaring me in the face - from the inside looking out and from the outside looking in. It has launched me into a never-ending orbit of questions, affirming, disproving and then reaffirming my initial motivations for a program like this, an experience like this, and struggles like this. And, of course, it has not yet ceased to constantly readjust my expectations for what's to come...

What's going on inside? I think about my family and how much I miss them, the newly acclaimed World Series Champions, the undefeated BC football team, the undefeated Patriots, the undefeated Acton-Boxborough Girls' soccer team (GO MARTHA!), whether or not I like my job, what I'm going to wear tomorrow, which book I'm going to read next....things of that nature. I have spent a lot of time curled up the hammock I have hung in my bedroom, escaping to read and write, and reading and writing to escape. I like to think about what I'll cook for dinner next week and what I'll need to buy at the cut-throat outdoor city market (picture Wall Street, except with fruits and vegetables instead of multi-billion dollar funds), and I like to plan different activities that I'd like to do in and around Belize throughout the remainder of my time in this beautiful country. All of these things are nice, and they present themselves with their own challenges and struggles, but they are isolated from - and yet strangely a part of - the rest of my experience.

I was told by a few people before I arrived that the poverty in Belize was of "a different kind." What the heck did that mean? Frankly, I didn't care. With my gung-ho, save-the-day, liberation attitude, it was easy to brush off such comments with some ignorant retort like, "poverty is poverty." I should have listened; the suffering in Belize is, in fact, of a different kind.

As my roommate Trey has said, it would take about 4 years totally "to turn this place around." They have found oil - lots of it. They have jungles, mountains, Mayan ruins, ocean, pristine beaches, islands, rivers, wildlife, four different national languages, countless racial mixtures leaving the people exotic looking and for the most part, stunning. The fruit harvest is plentiful for most of the year, and the fishing industry - along with the SCUBA industry - is thriving. Why, then, is this country swirling down the toilet of incredible national deficit, and tumbling down the international lists ranking safety, living conditions, and education?

Sparing you the history lesson, a political diatribe, and the many examples of suffering families and children I have gotten to know in my brief three months here, I will tell you this: the struggles I have within, including my first-ever experience of homesickness as well as a generally difficult transition from graduating college to entering the "real world," are made more complicated by those structural injustices I witness everyday. Who am I to be worrying about my future when the attendance rates at schools are plummeting all over the city and funding for the public schools is less than the finances our volunteer program provides our five-person volunteer community? Who am I to be feeling sorry for myself when my homesickness pales in comparison to the loneliness that Mr. Lopez, a disabled elderly man who lives by himself at the end of my street and who has absolutely not a cent to his name, must feel every day. These contrasts between the familiar routes of my mind and the utterly unfamiliar route of my reality here have left me, so far, struggling to navigate my way towards some distant oasis of balance.

That said, I am having a blast with the kids I am surrounded by everyday. During their recesses at school (which are approximately every hour!), tons of the infant students - equivalent of first and second graders - come over to the parish office, climbing over me and my desk chair, wanting to play on the computer, and if they're feeling especially needy for attention, they'll line up and say, in unison, "please miss, for some wataaaa!" (please miss for some water). It's pretty adorable. I have to say that I gained myself a good reputation when I dished out the Roche Brothers Supermarket Halloween posters that my mom had sent me last week - a few of the students spent over an hour coloring in every last detail of the poster. Maybe I'm not that different than those little girls coloring; maybe we all need those escapes into our internal lives every once in a while - not to forget the reality around us, but to momentarily negotiate with its immensity and pretend, even if it's just for a minute, that we don't have to look in or out. Maybe we just have to look up.

Congratulations to all my fellow Red Sox fans out there! Oh, and the picture is to show my Belizean-Boston pride - yes, people thought my ridiculous celebrations were rather obnoxious. But they don't get it; in Boston, pride is of "a different kind."

Much love to all,
Molly

time stands still best in moments that look suspiciously like ordinary life

2007-10-24T18:27:00.000-04:00

Great Expectations

2007-10-10T11:37:00.000-04:00

I remember sitting in the dark room, on the floor, cross-legged, watching the slide show: white necks wrapped with the arms of black children, classrooms, soccer games, smiles, community, cooking, candles, and clothes hanging on the clothesline ... in the rain.

The discernment process for JVI seems so distant to me now - and I regret to admit that the image of wet clothes, slanted in the rainstorm's winds, was something that attracted me - even more - to the experience. Except I forgot to imagine what it what it would be like when it was my clothes. Until this morning, that is. And it was just as symbolic: gloom, discouragement, struggle, helplessness - all of it is captured by my sopping clothes.

So...

Recently, I have been thinking a lot about expectations. Remembering what I used to expect, oh-so-naively, from this experience in Belize seems, well, rather hilarious. Gosh, what could be so difficult, so overwhelming, when you reduce your state of being to living simply, being spiritual, living in an intentional community of others with the same goals/expectations/approaches to life as yourself, and working for justice?! Actually, a lot. (More than just wet underwear!)

In some ways, I was silly to assume that moving to Belize would ward off any lurking post-graduation transition. I mean, when it comes down to it, I am dealing with a lot of the same struggles I would have encountered if I were working at 99 High Street in downtown Boston (ahem) - I believe I have finally articulated a fearful question: What am I when I am no longer a student?

My job here at St. Martin's Parish is, to be honest, pretty boring. I don't have very many responsibilities, and unfortunately, the ones I do have, I dread. I am finding myself in some kind of unnamed limbo, floundering between idealistic ideas of the perfect job, anxieties towards reaching out for something new, and immense frustration in sitting behind a computer all day, running out of things to look up on Wikipedia. I know that what I'm craving is activity, interpersonal connection, even struggle and challenge - but I also know that I am here for a reason, and that there are no perfect jobs, especially when you're doing them for free ... and moreover, I know myself and I know that there is something inside of me that always expects the most, the best, the extreme.

I'm not worried that I won't find my niche here - I'm just discouraged by my own impatience, to a certain extent, which is precisely where my previously held expectations come in: did I really expect to waltz into some perfectly mapped blueprints with "MOLLY DANE - JESUIT VOLUNTEER" written along the top? Maybe I did, I don't really know.

A distinction I have made between me being a student and me not being a student is the source of my direction. So much of my life has been spent in a classroom or on a soccer field receiving information, absorbing words, taking note of ideas, rules, guidelines, proofs - understanding everything as either truth, or contrary to truth. Everything was linear: you get this grade, you make this level; you play well enough, you make this team. Awards, recognition, work hard, achieve. I had people giving me homework, demanding my attention, telling me to be places, making me run around a track, for God's sake - when I look back on the amount of "independence" I have had until this point, I laugh. I didn't do a damn thing for myself.

Until this.

And, in some way, I did take direction, though it came from something much, much greater. I followed an interest, a curiosity, an inner itch, a calling - if you dare go that far - to be a part of this program, to live for two years in Belize, to find out more about life and what it means to be a citizen of planet Earth. But now, I am lost. My emotions are volatile and are slipping from my control, my schedule is seemingly unfulfilled, my thirst for excitement and adventure remains unsettled and unsatisfied. One roommate just left, three more have already been here for over a year - I am discouraged, confused. I feel alone ...

... which, ironically, is necessary to be independent ...

But still, there is nowhere - besides maybe my mom's couch in Acton, Massachusetts with a cup of hot tea, a bowl of ice cream, and a Red Sox game - I'd rather be right now. And despite the difficult questions it has extracted from the depths of my student-minded brain, I know that I am lucky to have the job that I do. I'm not sure it's the right one for me, but I'm willing to try. And, with even more effort, I'm willing to bide the journey of my patience as it gets to know itself.

Someone asked me recently if this experience is what I expected. Hell, no! But, in a way, that's great! If I had expected it all - the good, the bad, the worst, the strife, the disappointment, the love - then it wouldn't be necessary to actually be here, to go through these daunting processes that only time directs, teaches, coaches. Ultimately, I will find a way to be excited, to be fulfilled, and to feel productive. And I'm not expecting anything less.

Making Cents

2007-09-13T19:37:00.000-04:00

There are a few things I have learned about myself since arriving in Belize almost seven short - or long, depending on the mood I'm in - weeks ago. For instance, given the right weather conditions (rain) and presented with self-deprecating, but hysterical nonfiction - Anne Lamott, David Sedaris, Jeanette Walls - I love to read. Also, I really love bananas. I knew that I liked bananas before, but I usually found them a tricky fruit to buy: they go bad easily, and I never figured out the right number to get. Looking back on it, I feel as though they are a fruit taken for granted, force fed to sweaty kids after a soccer game, dried and put as headliners for trail mixes, and not to mention anchoring the responsibility of the the mix-in ingredient for fabulous berry smoothies everywhere. Whatever happened to enjoying just a plain banana? Luckily, in Belize bananas are so cheap even volunteers can afford them! And even though I usually have one for breakfast, one for a mid-morning nosh, at least one for lunch, and perhaps one for dessert after dinner, I still really love them. Oh, and lastly, in light of the humidity here in Belize I have also learned that against previous beliefs, using deodorant actually does make a difference.

Despite all of these profound insights, there are many lingering questions I have from what I have witnessed of life in Belize. You can ride with your newborn child in the back of a pickup truck, but you can't ride your bike the wrong way down a vacant one-way street (the police man made me turn around!); it costs $.60 BZ for a stamp that will send a letter to the US, but if you come in with an unstamped letter addressed to the States with only one piece of paper in it, they will claim they have to weigh it and it may end up costing upwards of $3.00; and most notably for our neighborhood, it seems that the "rivalry of the Jones'" is made manifest in sound systems and karaoke machines - how loud they can be played and who can play them later into the night. Such competing clubbish noise usually comes in the form of Caribbean reggae-rock, but if we're lucky, they'll throw on the "kid's songs" titling "B-I-N-G-O" and "the Happy Birthday song" or such classics as Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On." Upon looking out my window at midnight last week during a sing a-long rendition of "Oh What a Night" expecting to find other disgruntled neighbors switching on lights and peering out windows, all I saw was a young woman, baby on her hip, swinging and stepping to the beat in the middle of the dark street.

Beyond the virtually unpredictable patterns of weather here (even weather.com has given up and just resorted to predicting thunderstorms here for the next eternity - I mean, come on, give us some credit!), there are a few more serious, even daunting aspects of Belize as I am experiencing it which are proving to exhaust my over-analytical, figure-it-all-out, make-things-efficient (right, Mo?) kind of mind.

First off, the violence. The gang activity seems to be at some kind of a high; we hear gunshots on a fairly regular basis and just in the last two weeks, there have been six reported murders. While the violence hasn't yet extended beyond the realm of those involved with the gangs (to the best of my knowledge), the vulnerability of the young boys in our neighborhood to join such groups is scary. As Americans, it is certainly not our place to be organizing or advocating for peace here, but we have been looking for groups to be on-board with who are in similar pursuits. And then - SMACK - we run right into what is perhaps the root of the problem: there are none.

We know many, many, many passionate, inspiring, capable, and influential people here in the city who also want an end to the violence, but who, deservedly so, also don't want to invest their already stretched resources to what seems to be a lost cause. All of this leads me to the next set of paradoxical, philosophical, rhetorical questions and concerns brewing within me...

What the heck am I doing here?

Recently, as I have finally started to feel the weight of my immersion in this culture bear down, I have had the wild sensation of simultaneous contradiction: every day that I spend here getting to know people, places, foods, and work, I feel more and more foreign - not just my skin color, or my clothes, or my language - but my reality. I could have left everything buy my passport at home and still, I would be an American volunteer. Solidarity, and even "accompaniment" as JVI likes to call it, seem light years away when I hear of a shooting that happened last night in front of the city's only post office or when someone at work knows the brother of the nephew of the cousin of the guy who was killed in some random bike drive-by. For now, this is a part of my life here as it is affecting me and my surroundings, but as for growing up afraid to walk the streets of my neighborhood or trying to resist the lure of joining a gang, I just can't relate. And because of this and so many other invisible barriers, I can't imagine myself as a part of any solutions in this problematic world. And so, I beg the question: What the heck am I doing here?

At sunrise last Saturday morning, I had my monthly "one-on-one" check-in with my roommate Maria (what an American thing to do, by the way - who else in the world makes a rotating schedule of reflection times with your roommates?). As she spoke with the wisdom of a more experienced second year, I gobbled up every last one of Maria's words explaining things about her experiences thus far that I never could have imagined, in ways I never could have considered. Like me, she is frustrated by the limits on each of us in acting for change here, but geez, she had a refreshing attitude, professing something along the lines of: "I truly believe in the greatness of humanity." Now, that seems far-fetched when crime is rampant, and a city of under 200,000 people is recording six plus murders in two weeks; but yikes, what an outlook. By the end of our conversation, the two of us baking in the mid-morning sun, Maria said something I never would have agreed with until, of course, she said it: "Life here just makes sense."

I suppose I'm still working on understanding that, what with the poverty, the violence, and the Ace Hardware store down the street (same orange lettering on the sign and everything!), but I have adopted it as, if nothing else, a hopeful mantra. Sure, there's a lizard that lives in my shower and a Japanese photocopier at work that doesn't print double-sided and jams if there are more than two pieces of paper in the MP Tray, whatever that is (ya, and try running off 200 copies of the Church's weekly bulletin! You will want to kick something, I guarantee it. Or you may start crying...Don't judge me.) And then there's the fact that Belize celebrates two independence days in September - one for the day they were almost liberated and one for the day they were actually liberated; same difference. And here I am, a sense-less volunteer, counting how many plain bananas she has already eaten today. But somehow, things are starting to add up.

When It Rains, It Pours: a few thoughts on natural disasters

2007-08-30T13:18:00.000-04:00

The fact that it's raining doesn't bother me. Actually, I have found the rainstorms here to be quite peaceful, a break from the sounding car alarms, the honking street vendors, the gunshots, and the oppressive heat. When it starts to rain, people retreat to the covered caves of the city: tarps are drawn over street-side shops, neighbors welcome in strangers, and at the corner of Ebony and Santa Barbara streets, the JVs are drinking hot tea (it's much cheaper than beer) and playing cards. There are no dogs barking, no babies crying - just the soothing sound of pelting rain on calm with a side of splash.

It also hasn't bothered me that the roads are flooded and that we are stranded in our house, without power. In fact, it has made this whole "battling the elements" adventure that much more exciting. I haven't even been frightened by the sharp cracks of thunder, chasing the perpetual flashes of lightning - even when I was sure the Earth had split in two below my very feet.

At one point this afternoon, when the downpour took a brief hiatus and the thunder had softened to a growling lull of background elevator music, Trey and I set out to investigate firsthand the damage of the storm. Since we had all been sent home from work early, we had watched curiously out our front window as our corner of Belize City transformed into a Venetian landscape with canals carrying driftwood, Styrofoam, and plastic bottles ebbing and flowing in clumpy currents. We noticed immediately that the lake our front yard had become was missing something vital: the wooden footbridge we use to cross what we call during dry times our "moat" - basically, the two-foot deep ditch that separates our lawn from the street for runoff drainage. This quagmire, always filled with stagnant water, garbage, and God knows what else, was now uncrossable - what were we to do? Trey and I rigged the front gate so that we could ride - a loose term, really - the hinged chain-link fence until we could feel solid ground beneath us. Think rope swing, but sideways on a swinging fence.

Once we were both standing knee-deep in water in the middle of our street, I looked at Trey through raindrops (it had started raining again) and watched him peel a plastic bag full of garbage off of his leg. We laughed.

People were coping with the elements in different ways. The first group we came across was a bunch of guys playing American football in a vacant lot turned kiddie pool. They were running, throwing, tackling, and sliding through the muddy water, laughing and slamming the ball down in screams of, "Touchdown! Boo-Yah!" They looked like they were having a blast - I was tempted to see if they needed to even out the teams, but then remembered that I had maybe seen shards of glass on that very ground, not to mention grasses that probably bred snakes and vermin of every type. As if they would have let a "white gal" play with them anyways.

The next group we encountered had the right idea: they were chartering a yellow blow-up raft through the streets, asking people if they needed rides places for just $2.00. Though it looked like fun, I preferred to get my aquatic workout on for free, thank you very much.

Besides these hooligans, I was surprised to see how many relentless folks were out biking in this mess! Talk about a work out. The best part: most of them were carrying umbrellas. I felt like snapping a picture of these people - pant legs pegged, pedaling up current on half-submerged bicycles into the slanted rain - to make one of those spoof posters (that usually involve college students and inappropriate activities) titled "STRUGGLE." Truly inspiring.

At that point, it was full-fledged, take your clothes off pouring again. Trey and I looked at each other as our t-shirts (his v-neck, of course) began to darken. We were about halfway between our house and the church, which is to say that we were about 50 yards from each. We drudged onward, nobly, towards the church and laughed. At least it wasn't snow, right?

When we got to the flooded church - my office building - we found Mrs. B, the secretary, parked in the parish hall snacking on some chicken wings with one inch of water creeping up under her chair. Nonchalantly, she asked us if it was still raining, without looking up from her Styrofoam plate. No help was needed here, she told us - the gracious Lord would be protecting her. But what about our computers? I was pretty sure a tsunami was boiling under the surface of St. Martin's Sea outside the church, and I'd be pissed if my "Cavalier King Charles Spaniel" calendar was ruined in its path (the calendar was a donation, by the way).

We walked through to the back of the parish where Mr. B (not related to the aforementioned Mrs.), the janitor, was frantically setting up sandbags in the door-less doorway - the seeming source of the indoor flood waters. His assistant, fearless Esidoro, was trouncing around in his goulashes, swinging a plastic bag like a little kid trying to catch raindrops. "What are you doing?" Trey and I asked in unison. "The 'roaches..." Esidoro trailed off leaping with the bag again. "They're drowning!"

Well, that was good news. Anything to get those God-forsaken pests out of my office and better yet, off the planet! But as we watched Esidoro try to collect the floating insects in amusement, we noticed how many dying cockroaches there were. One, two, three, four, six, eight, and another, and another... Where were they coming from? Trey and I followed the trail of half-dead, squirming insects to a corner of the storage room where, near the ceiling, I saw one of the more disgusting sights of my life. As the roof was leaking from the onslaught of rain from above and the water level continued to rise from below, a family of somewhere between 50 and 1,000 roaches (I couldn't really tell) gathered on a small ledge, resisting the slide down to a dismal - and wet - fate.

Upon closer inspection though, it appeared as though some of these roaches were jumping - even the ones with wings - into the water below. No little buddies, I caught myself saying in my head. Somehow knowing that Mother Nature's roar was pushing the roaches to take their own lives changed both my perspective on these creatures (they are still disgusting, but they do have a right to life) as well as my understanding of the storm.

I thought then of all the animals I have seen around the city since I have been here: the crabs that dug their homes all over our front yard, the rats that lived in our "moat," the homeless dogs whose food supply of garbage was now sufficiently soggy, the birds - where in the heck did they go? - and most importantly, the humans; their businesses that rely on good weather, their precarious living arrangements - wooden homes with no foundation, tarp roofs, and drowned vehicles. Now, I realized, I am bothered by this storm.

Because Hurrican Dean seemed to overlook our neck of the woods (luckily), I suppose I never really had the chance to consider things like this. Even in my visit to New Orleans and Gulfport, Mississippi post-Katrina, the immediate effects of the storm were not, and should not have been, so visible to me. Perhaps the impact of a natural disaster isn't the number of homes ruined or the cubic volume of water that, well, sinks everything. Maybe the true impact of a natural disaster is in the expressions of the people who are living it, while they are living it: Mrs. B relying on the "Good Lord, my Saviour," or the disappointment in the face of our neighbor when she saw that the clothes she accidentally left on the line were strewn and blown around the muddy yard, or the car engine that gurgles and smokes but just won't turn over in two feet of water, or the kids in the raft, the suicidal cockroaches, and the umbrella-carrying cyclist. Or maybe, it's just Trey and I - the token Americans - sludging back from the church through fecal canals (we were informed later that a sewer pipe a block away from us had exploded) and swinging over our "moat" into our garbage filled lagoon of a front yard.

Now, as the rain subsides again, I hear voices crawling out from the darkness of the unlit homes on our block. Gaping at our Venetian landscape, people point and gasp, laugh and cry. The lone radio station of the city closed down some hours ago, and so, without a TV or power, we don't know if this is the end of it. Technically speaking, Belize City is under sea level - it may take a while for the streets, lawns, and moats (especially) to drain. But that's okay - it doesn't really bother me.

While it looks and feels like God and all of Her angels, saints, and fellow parishoners of Heaven have been bawling their eyes out all day and night, I'd like to believe that amidst this chaos, they were, in fact, crying in a fit of hysterical laughter as their game of strobe light 10 pin bowling got out of hand on the rowdy scale. If, as we were told, Trey and I were really traipsing through the "mud" of an exploded sewer pipe, I have to believe that God has a sense of humor.

update numero uno

2007-08-19T18:52:00.000-04:00

Greetings from the birthplace of the mosquito,

I hope this tiding finds you well! I am here, in Belize City, Belize where it is hot, hot, hot...City life is not unlike my experience in Boston, however: bad drivers, strange accents, and of course, a dirty ocean. As I have attempted to navigate my way over the course of the past ten days here, I have made some keen observations, which I would like to share:

1.) In Kriol (the kriol spelling of creole), "right now" means "hold on" - for example, if you are on the phone and you need to grab a pen to write down a number, you say to the person, "right now." does this make sense? apparently, yes, it does. If you're ever in a Belizean doctor's office with a sick roommate and the nurse says "right now, right now," as if it's an emergency, you may have to wait two hours. Hmmm...I guess that's not that different than the States...

2.) People love to guess where I'm from. I'll be riding my bike down the street and people will just be shouting out states and random cities that I haven't heard of since fourth grade geography - how does someone in Belize know of Whitefish, Montana?

3.) There is one traffic light in the whole city. Enough said.

4.) Especially when they are trying to guess where I am from, the people here are very friendly. There are certainly some dicey neighborhoods around these parts (I'm sorry, mom - we live in one of them...people even steal our trees out of yard! i mean, come on! and apparently, underwear is a hot item off the laundry line), but even so, people are friendly...For example, there is a guy who lives next door to us who wakes us up every morning banging on his car - now, this man owns an old Chrysler with no wheels, with a smashed windshield, and with two and a half doors...but he still bangs away at it with an old hammer. In a passing conversation, I asked him about said car, and his smiling response: "da caa di fi mi fren, but he's shiit outta luk" ("the car was my friend's but he's S.O.L.). See, he was a friendly thief...

5.) I have had the chance to visit the homeless shelter "out of town" (which actually means "downtown" - another one that will throw you for a loop), and while it is essentially just a big park where people can come to get free food, it is a fun place to hang out. I am pleased to say that I won my first game of dominoes ever, albeit against Emilio, who is blind, and Sr. Puerco, who is 80 years old...either way, I won.

6.) Lastly, I had an interesting interaction with some Mormon volunteers yesterday...I was on a four day homestay with a family nearby and upon passing the Latter Day Saint's church, we noticed a free eye-checking clinic. The daughter of the family I was staying with thought it would be best if we went and got our eyes checked - and so we did. The over-enthusiastic volunteers there took our forms (as we tried to stuff our laughter) and after we were both diagnosed with 20/20 vision - which is weird, because I don't have 20/20 vision - they gave us a balloon (seriously) and we left. As we were leaving, I thanked the volunteer who gave me the orange poodle balloon and asked her where they were from - her response: "the United States!" with a huge grin. I was like, "duh," but didn't pursue the conversation...I guess I already fit in here?

Okay, I suppose that's all for now. After just ten days into this experience, two years seems like a long time. But as a little girl at church yelled at the end of the homily the other night, "We are too blessed to be stressed!" and I agree wholeheartedly. I am far too blessed to be stressed.

Much love and peace,
Molly