August 20, 2008
Yesterday started out as a sort of bummer.
I got home, took out my running shoes, laced them up and met some friends for a jog. We ended up on the track below my house. And I think my insides jumped a little.
Ten years and thirty pounds ago I was really fast. That’s not so much the case anymore, but it felt nice to run some 800s again and then some 400s and finally some 200s and just open up my stride. My breathing was heavy, but rhythmic and when the workout was finished we were all spent.
I pulled out some change and bought us a bag of water from the lady that has the road side stand. We sipped and walked up the hill talking about pace, speed workouts, and how lactic acid affects the aged. And I liked it.
I’d shrugged the biggest part of the funk. In fact, I’d left it out on the track. I deserved a reward. Seriously.
Good thing that the grocery store had real, live Kraft macaroni and cheese, spirals no less, on sale for 13.000 pesos (about 6 dollars). So, I bought that little blue box without a shred of guilt and then proceeded to eat it. All. By myself. Thank you. Thankyouverymuch. And then I had dessert.
I talked to my favorite camper of all time on the phone. I talked to an old friend and we laughed a lot. I took a shower in which the hot water stopped running only four times. I shaved my legs. I didn’t brush my hair. I climbed in a bed with clean sheets with smooth legs in an apartment on the main street of one of the coolest towns in Colombia. I read one hundred pages in my book. I turned on my fan, tucked myself in, and slept without dreaming.
I woke up to sunshine and had fresh blackberry juice with my breakfast. The bus was on time. I didn’t feel like hurling on the ride to school. My students had smiles on their faces. I had a note on my board. “Good morning, Miss!” And there was a Tootsie Roll in my mailbox. A TOOTSIE ROLL!
Life’s dadgum good today. And yesterday? I hardly remember the funkiness of it at all.
Now, tell me why today is good for you. I want to hear it.
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August 20, 2008
Somedays it’s hard to find a rhythm. I catch myself hurrying about, not taking the time to settle into a comfortable pattern. I let memories of yesterdays flood me and forget that there’s a brand new today right in front of me. I get lost in daydreams and wanting and I picture myself in anywhere but here. Children shuffle by my ankles and I don’t ruffle there hair or return their hugs. I loathe the rain and the fact that my feet are forever cold in this country and I let those things affect my temperament.
I avoid people and conversation and wait on the afternoon and a more semi permanent hiding that lies behind my apartment walls. I long for my books and my blanket and some time that is my own. Time to read and to write and to shake this funk from my shoulders. Time to pray and plead and resurrect the most important part of me. Time to spend on my knees letting Jesus peace my heart a bit while He’s piecing it a little more.
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August 17, 2008
Dear Boomama,
I didn’t know who else might sympathize the way that you would. We are kindred spirits, you know. How could we not be? Southern girls, Mississippi born and raised. Bulldogs by choice. MA-ROOON! WHITE! See the spirit? Do you FEEL the spirit? I have it. You have it. WE have it, Boomama!
So, the thing is, kindred spirit of mine, I live in a third world country. There’s no Target. No Wal-Mart. No Kroger. Can you imagine?! But I came home to good ole Mississippi for awhile and brought back with me the bread of our shared land. Cheeze-Its.
Yes, Cheeze-Its, Boomama. I rationed them well. I, for once, had some semblance of self-control. But now, they are gone. The last crumb eaten. The box empty on the kitchen counter. And my heart is sad. (okay, it’s more like my stomach, but you get the picture. And seriously, “my heart is sad” invokes so much more feeling, don’t ya think?)
So, Boomama, connoisseur of Cheeze-Its, show mercy on my afflicted, starving (okay, not so much starving) belly. Send Cheeze-Its. Soon. Or peanut butter. I KNOW you, Boomama. You love peanut butter, and diet cokes on ice! You love anything cheese. You feel my pain. Only you could.
I’m checking the mail already. I am. Because I have faith in bloggy friends. I do. I have faith in YOU, Boomama.
Sincerely,
Your bloggy friend Emily
P.S. Annie, you’ve actually met Boomama. YOU know me. We’re real never-seen-each-other friends. I’m calling Jeff for you. Because I love you that much. So, you call Boomama, would ya? And either persuade her to SEND IN THE CHEEZE-ITS or to tell her, you know, um. Well, to tell her that I’m not so much crazy as tired of rice. Thanks.
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Posted in Colombia, Friends 3 Comments »
August 15, 2008
It’s no secret that I love cafeteria ladies. I love the heart that they have for serving and I appreciate how hard they work, not to mention that I heard all sorts of tales from the lunch room as a child. My grandmother, after all, worked in the cafeteria for umpteen dozen years.
So, each year I make an effort to befriend those ladies in the lunchroom. I say thank you and please and compliment the dish of the day while few others seem to notice the people behind the meal at all. Admittedly, getting to know those fine women in Colombia was harder. They often mumble and seem to approach new people timidly. And then there’s the language thing. I speak English. They don’t.
Still, by the end of last year I’d had a standing ovation from them and they’d each learned not to offer me the after lunch chocolate or give me a full helping of meat. They still laugh at my feeble efforts with Spanish. They wave to me in the mornings and call me Señora rather than Miss. They’ve warmed up to me, I think.
Yesterday on the bus one of them sat by me. The one with flecks of gray in her hair and wrinkles by her eyes. The one that I’ve never heard say a word. And I was surprised.
We sat in silence for awhile- her with her bag in her lap, me listening to some sort of music from home. Then, somewhere between the bosque and the city, she tapped me and in the softest whisper said, “Tan bella.” I politely mumbled a thank you though I wasn’t exactly sure about her words.
A few moments later I shuffled off of the bus and stopped my Spanish tutor. “What does she mean?” I asked. Paula smiled at me knowingly and said, “You are more than beautiful.” Not the blue-eyed, blonde-haired American girl sort of beautiful she explained. The your heart is beautiful kind of beautiful.
I love the cafeteria ladies.
I think that they might love me, too.
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August 13, 2008
I like beginning of the year activities. They’re a chance to get to know one another and to be silly and to build community. One of my favorites is Me Bags. I ask kids to put three objects that best represent themselves in a bag and to share the contents with the class. Today there were teddy bears and books and pictures of families. There were cleats and golf balls and art kits. Oh, and one handsome young fellow who pulled out a mirror “cause I like to look good,” he said.
I pondered my own Me Bag for awhile. What three objects represent me? How can you tell a crowd who you are using just three things? I worried myself senseless choosing those objects, but I finally did it.
A running shoe. I am, after all, a runner. In more ways than one.
An index card I use as a bookmark that reads, “Love with action and in truth.” I should do more of that.
A picture of Sisser and me standing by the water. Because if I could be with anyone, anywhere that’d be it.
Now you tell me. What would you put in your Me Bag?
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Posted in Colombia, home, teaching 9 Comments »
August 12, 2008
I had the perfect outfit. Black shirt, business cut. Gray pants. Flat front.
I had the perfect hair. Half up. No fly aways. A little oomph.
Very teacher on her first day.
Even Big Mama would have been proud.
Oh, and the shoes. A Target special, but still dee-vine in every way. A divine that lasted until oh, about 8:30.
And then there was pain.
Thank you, dear first day shoes of mine. Thank you for reminding me that teachers need not fashion.
Yes, that is my foot. My poor, sad, used-to-run-without-hurting-too-badly foot.
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August 11, 2008
It always happens. Summer flies by. Lazy days end. Bedtimes come earlier. Soap replaces chlorine. Stores stock more pencils, paper, and crayons. And another school year starts.
There’s an unspoken nervousness that parents, teachers and children share. Parents watching their babies grow a year older. Children wondering if they’ll like the teacher, whose desk will be next to theirs, and who they’ll play with at recess. Teachers nervous about parents, new kids and whether it will be possible to love this class as much as they did the last.
It always happens like that. At least for me.
The the first day that I taught my first class changed my life and after that year was over I was sure I’d never have another class like them. And I haven’t. Thank the precious Lord for that. Still, they taught me how to be a better teacher and how to make it work when all odds are stacked against you.
And I have.
I’ve taught in trailers and offered to teach in broom closets just to be next to kids. I’ve taught orphans and twins and wanna be thugs. I’ve taught in a room with no air or heat and I’ve killed cock roaches galore. I’ve run into halls that were too full with kids that are too wild when winds were too high for our trailer to stand. I’ve had not-so-polite offers to send me heavenward early. And I’ve taught in a foreign country where the best affirmation I can give parents is nods, hugs, and notes that end with smiley faces.
And tomorrow it all starts again. It’s another first day. Parents are nervous. Colombian children are nervous. I am nervous, but I am meant for this.
So, First Day, here I come.
A special thank you to Dr. Clif Mims, one of my former professors and an educational genius. Dr. Mims continues to encourage me to grow professionally, gives me opportunities to write for his blog, and offers invaluable answers to all of my teacher questions. Watch his blog for my next contribution to his 1 Thing series.
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August 8, 2008
I know. I know. I’ve neglected you all, but it takes me a while to adjust.
I’ve been back in Manizales for a week now and at last there is hot water and internet and curtains that cover my wall of windows. The windows that look onto The Avenida. The windows that I can’t open. The windows that let in traffic lights and motorcycle lights and night sorts of lights.
I am here but Mississippi is never far from my thoughts. It was home and all that I’d hoped it would be.
It was Southern drawls and buttermilk biscuits. Sunday lunches and hours of laughs. It was newborn babies and vine ripe tomatoes. It was Momma waking me up and singing to the radio with Daddy. It was soaking up sunshine and snow cones and Sisser and sleepovers. And it was Thursdays at The Sizzler, disc golf, flip flops, road trips and running.
It was home again and I think it was a little harder to say goodbye this time.
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July 26, 2008
I live on the busiest street in Manizales, Colombia. There’s a theatre within walking distance, a large grocery store, and a Juan Valdez coffee shop who’s wifi I can pick up occassionally. There are people wearing clothes imported from the States and fancy cars that fly by obnoxiously blowing their horns throughout the night. There are restaurants with fruity drinks and those forks that are too heavy to use for eating and there are children without shoes standing on corners begging for change, a meal, any hint of compassion. They are hungry.
Nutrir is non-profit foundation that feeds children in the two lowest social stratas of the city. They provide breakfasts and lunches for nearly 4,000 children in 21 locations throughout the Manizales. My class and I spent a day at one Nutrir location downtown. We saw the stores of food and heard about the lack of funding and the number of children for whom they are still unable to provide. And we heard about the hope that they have for increased donations, more plates, more potatoes, more full bellies. We asked questions and wandered around until we heard a clamor in the cafeteria at the front of the building.
The street children rushed in and stopped politely when they saw us. They murmured greetings and giggled in hushed whispers about the blonde teacher in their presence. Then they took their seats and waited patiently on the meal that Nutrir was providing them. They ate hungrily and we watched and I couldn’t help but wonder what life must have been like before Nutrir fed the children.
This post is part of the 40 Day Fast. Erin is writing today as well. Visit Inspired to Action to learn more about the 40 Day Fast and to read other bloggers’ posts on a needs of the world and organizations that are helping to meet those needs.
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July 10, 2008
Yesterday morning I got up early to meet a friend. He’s a bit of a wanderer, too, and I like that.
Somehow it always works out that we’re together in Mississippi at some point in the year. With crazy schedules and whirlwind lives, it seems impossible for old friends to visit. And then there’s the hiccup that is home and we see each other.
We meet on the black top of this small town’s streets in running shoes. The morning is bright before us. We start at an easy jog, laughing at how the rhythm comes back to us so easily. We chat about new adventures, new jobs, new languages. We breathe in and out, our feet forming a familiar cadence in a familiar place.
Life is good.
We are together and moving forward. A series of steps that forever lead back to a hidden town, a morning run.
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