And when we had invented death

had severed every soul from life

we made of these

our bodies, sepulchers

And as we wandered

dying, dim

among the dying multitudes

he acquiesced to be interred in us

And when had descended thus

into our persons and the grave

he broke the limits

opening the grip

He shaped of every sepulcher

a womb

{"The Christ Hymn," Alana Levandoski}

Celebrating the Easter season in South America has got me thinking even more about death and resurrection and how it's something we experience on a weekly, daily, hourly basis. I've felt this intensely since being here. Last week, I arrived in Cochabamba after several days in Cusco, feeling out-of-place, lonely, and ephemeral. The night of my arrival, I had dinner with a group of people from the organization through which I'm volunteering. Among other volunteers, missioners, and Spanish students, I suddenly and immediately had community. I had life again.

Throughout the past week, I've gone through this death and rebirth so many times, feeling at various moments frustrated, angry, without energy, anxious. All those times, though, have been followed by experiences of community, laughter, sunny walks near the lake in our neighborhood, ice cream, life-giving human connection. 

The other day, I was pickpocketed while riding the bus. It was probably the worst thing to happen on this trip so far (or tied with nearly being stranded at the Bolivian border). It was invasive, and while I wasn't aware what had happened until it was over, I felt violated and unsafe. I was anxious the rest of the day, trying to get my debit card canceled and worrying about all the bus rides in my future. Even so, I was surprised by how quickly I was able to smile afterwards--when some of the missioners and I were trying and failing to do the bridge pose, when I had a really good conversation (in Spanish!) with a few Bolivian women. Or the following interaction that went down in a Trufi on our way home from the school: Teresa, Ming, Annie, and I hopped in a van, and immediately, the driver asks where we're from. Ming says, "United States," and the driver goes, "Why are you bombing Syria?" Conversation doesn't usually happen in public transport here, but the whole van was laughing during this exchange. While sobering, it also felt cathartic to laugh about this.

I went to the Easter vigil last night at Our Lady of La Salette in our barrio. It was a really special candle-lit service, bookended by a meal and dessert with the Maryknoll community and friends. Three hours of singing, reading, and prayers led by a very charismatic priest was the perfect reminder for why I'm here and what it means to be on mission. The joy of resurrection was so, so evident in that sanctuary.

I love this hymn because it describes so well the point of Jesus' resurrection--not in the event, something contained and singular in the past, 2000 years ago, but in its persistence, its continued, perpetual occurring. The only thing more marvelous and mysterious to me than Christ really, truly rising from a physical grave is the idea that when our spirits die (as they do all the time) and our bodies become like tombs, Christ descends, is interred within us. And then he rises from this grave we have made of our bodies, and in so doing, resurrects us, day after day after day.

Rob Bell does this great track for The Liturgists' Easter album, and I'm including part of it here because I think it does a really good job at getting at that oscillating feeling between death and rebirth. Because of Jesus' sacrifice, we can fully live in the knowledge that resurrection is what God meant for us all along.

And so what happens is those good, beautiful, true, moving, inspiring moments the lump in the throat the tear in the eye that sense when you embrace somebody and it feels like you're holding the Universe in your hands Those moments start to feel like they're just little detours and escapes from how it really is Which is cold, dark, lonely, and pointless Resurrection is the opposite Resurrection says oh, no, no, no, no, no. Those glimpses, those are actually the real thing They're the thing that undergird the whole thing Just that moment when that person said that kind word and it ignited a whole new world in your heart That wasn't just an aberration from how things are That was a sign, a symbol, a glimpse, a glance of how it actually is

{"Sunday," The Liturgists}

Week One: Quito and Banos

[Written Saturday, February 18]

I am writing from the rooftop patio of La Posada del Arte, where I am staying for two days while I explore Banos. From here, I have a perfect view of a waterfall, and the sound of rushing water combined with the warmth of the sun is putting me to sleep. This morning, I woke up early to have breakfast at the hostel and get to the thermal baths before the crowds. Later, I'll bike the Ruta de las Cascadas and to where the Amazon begins.* Banos is small and lovely and I feel very safe here, which, at this point in my trip is comforting.

I arrived in Quito a week ago yesterday at midnight, and after working out where my backpack was stranded (Atlanta), I didn't manage to get to my neighborhood via taxi until 1:30 AM. Then there was the trouble of not knowing exactly which apartment was mine, so at this absurd hour in a not-so-safe area of Quito, I went around pouding on strangers' doors and getting groggy (though, I think, amused by my loca gringa-ness) responses in Spanish. Finally, I was directed to the right place and immediately fell asleep.

I spent my first weekend in Ecuador questioning all my decisions (regarding this trip and honestly, life in general) and feeling very much tempted to book a flight back home ASAP. Why did I think I was capable of traveling alone to a country such as Ecuador, knowing just about no Spanish whatsoever? I was already dreading the next four months--months I had spent the last year dreaming about in the U.S. My first weekend, I thought a lot about my initial experience of college--how homesick I was and how scared I was to leave my dorm. Back then, I managed to isolate myself (and keep myself way too busy with classes and work) enough to remain miserable for the following two years. I didn't want that to be my experience of South America, too, so on Sunday afternoon, I walked to a park in my neighborhood and just sat and observed.

Much of the past week has been spent like this. I walk to my Spanish lessons every morning, and afterwards, I find a spot to sit at a nearby park, watching people, reading or reviewing my notes, and napping. I walk about five miles every day, so I'm usually exhausted enough to nap and get a full nine hours of sleep. Probably the intense language immersion helps with that, too. If it weren't for the fact that I have been maintaining a diet of bread and tres leches cake (from this amazing cafe in Old Town), I would likely already be severely emaciated. I am trying to summon the courage to try real Ecuadorian food, but the closest I've come is eating Llapingachos (potato and cheese patties, served with chorizo and fried eggs) at my American-run hostel this weekend. I'm also trying to resist eating a burger and fries everyday at Burger Clan, which is only one block away from my school. If I can at least manage to avoid that, I'll feel accomplished.

I think a lot of this--food adjustments, homesickness--has to do with my need for familiarity. I'm still very much at the point where things I recognize make me feel safe. Last weekend as I walked the streets of Quito, I searched desperately for familiar things: Barilla pasta and Betty Crocker cake mix at the supermarket, someone else dressed in North Face cargo pants and Keens (the official uniform of the Northamerican tourist), even things I recognized from Spain. Each familiarity was a small victory: See? This is not so strange or scary! It's a silly pattern of thinking, definitely one that I want to break. After all, that was one of the main reasons for taking this trip--so that I could learn about other cultures, and specifically learn the language, so that they would no longer be unfamiliar or "other." But I wonder if this is really the best way to approach the problem. Should we have to learn, to become familiar with (I am thinking of the Spanish verb "conocer" here) something we are not used to in order to no longer view it as "other"? Or should we change our perspectives from the bottom-up so that nothing and no one is "other," so that all is inherently and immediately familiar and part of us. Perhaps this is the dissonance I feel between awareness that our differences are beautiful and necessary and the recognition that all people and all creation are one.

Perhaps, too, this is all too much to be worrying about one week into my travels.

I'll end with this: when I was sitting in a park a few days ago, a man passed by and said, "Tardes." It caught me off guard; I was so concentrated on searching for the familiar--an English word, someone with whom I could be fairly certain shared my language--I missed an opportunity to experience and share kindness. The man passed before I could even smile. I don't want to be suspicious and scared. I want to be open, listening, and present to the new and strange (to me).

*Since getting here, the thing I've longed to do the most is go for a bicycle ride. Odd, because the last time I biked was almost a year ago. I think it's because the weather here is perfect for biking (55-70 degrees every day). That said, I don't recommend biking 10 miles through pouring rain if 1) you have no sense of direction or 2) you can't remember the last time you exercised. I only made it halfway to my intended destination (Pailon del Diablo, a really cool waterfall) before I had to turn back because I was completely drenched and had therefore achieved the same effect as jumping down a waterfall. I later realized that had I continued, I would never have reached my destination because I was going in the opposite direction.  💁🏻

Intentions for S. America 2017

I've been dreaming about this trip I'm taking to South America for almost a year now. I finally summoned the courage to buy the flight to Quito (one-way!) at the end of July, but the reality has only just set in. I'm going to South America! Alone! With very little knowledge of Spanish! I've encountered a variety of responses from friends and strangers when they hear this news. Disbelief, envy, fear, and excitment are most common. I've gotten lots of advice, too, and I don't know if I'd be going at all if it hadn't been for all the people who shared their wisdom and experiences with me along the way.

Several friends, after I've told them about my adventure, have mentioned Cheryl Strayed's Wild as well as Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love journey. I'd read Gilbert's a few years ago, and a coworker gave me Wild, which I finished just this week. How strange to be compared to these women! I'm flattered, of course, but reading their memoirs and thinking about my own trip has me reflecting on my reasons for going. It is not out of desperation. I haven't hit rock-bottom: gotten a divorce, dealt with unfaithfulness and a drug problem. At worst, it is because I am tired and bored and want to feel renewed and amazed again.

Of course, on a very practical level, I am taking this trip to learn Spanish. I also think it's important that I take care of my wanderlust (for the time being) before going back to school and commit to three to four years in the U.S. While I want these reasons to remain on my mind as I travel, I also want to think about broader "intentions" like Gilbert's to eat, pray, and love.

Every once in awhile, I have to remind myself of this feeling of awe I had last spring in a cave in Arkansas (I tried to write about it here). Those 10 minutes in the cave are how I want to experience all of life. It's completely unrealistic to expect that, and I can't imagine I'd get anything done if that dream came true. Still, awe, to me, is one of the most precious emotions. Awe (and it's friend delight) is how I feel closeness with the Divine, Mystery.

In the past several months, however, I have felt more and more distant from Mystery. I have rarely been in awe of anything at all. A lot of this has to do with living in this big city and not taking the time or not having the opportunity to escape it--to find some place in the woods or to sit still on a cliff above a lake (like I used to do in Iowa City). This has always been how I "pray," but if I don't choose to be with God and experience God, how can I claim a faith and a relationship with God at all?

All that to say, I think I want my intention for this trip to be "awe." And that means being open to experiencing delight not just at Machu Picchu, but with the ordinariness of city life in Quito, with the people I meet along the way, with the work I'll do at school and on the farm. I want to learn, through this trip, to be open to wonder at everything I encounter, no matter what continent I'm on.

Women's March on Washington

I traveled to Washington, D.C. for the Women's March with 13 other women. Most of us were white women--privileged but committed to exercising our privilege to demand equal rights for all women at our nation's capital. We were two sets of mother-daughter pairs. We were an African American woman, a Sioux woman. We were a lesbian couple. We were sisters. We were students and activists and hopeful.

We all had different reasons for marching. I marched for reasons of faith. The march itself may not result in change, but it is symbolic: it represents a commitment to action and allyship. I marched because I am faithful to God and to the people God loves. For most of the mothers among us, it was for their kids. They marched to make a better world for their sons and daughters, to tell their children why it is so important to engage. I was surprised and even a little upset when Nana told us she doesn't vote. "I don't vote, and my kids know that," she said. "But I want them to know I'm fighting for them through my actions."

(Part of me wanted to take her to task. You have to vote! You have to! But when she explained why--she's never seen how it's made a difference on the streets, people's lives aren't getting any better--it made sense. Voting does make a difference, but for many people it is only an act of solidarity, an act of trusting that for someone the vote will matter. The trouble is stepping out of your own experience enough to see how a vote will impact another person's life. The same problem pervades the attitudes of the comfortable, white women, who claim movements like the Women's March to be irrelevant--"I don't need feminism! I have always felt equal!" These women have never experienced the hardships that result from certain policies. Women like Nana have experienced these hardships but have not seen the vote change them.)

There were a lot of white women at the march, so it was good that so many of the speakers were women of color--Asian American, African American, Latina. The diversity of perspectives represented by the speakers blew me away and was a reminder to the white women in the crowd that when it comes to adversity, people of color, LGTB people, and religious minorities in the U.S. are disproportionately affected. The issues brought to the march are felt by them the most. One speaker said something that really stood out to me: "When you do not know what causes on which to focus your efforts, when you aren't sure what the problems are, follow a woman of color."

I'm still processing some things. Like how much the march focused on women's reproductive health issues, especially when it came to the crowd's priorities (so, so many signs with uteruses, vaginas, and boobs!). Like how the longest chunk of speaking time was given to the only white male speaker. Like how quickly the march was commodified: "Buy this t-shirt! Let's turn this movement into something we can market and sell, using resources that damage the planet and exploitative labor!" I'm still confused about how one can got to a protest, shouting, "No DAPL!" and carrying a case of Nestle bottled water. Maybe it's too much to expect that activism be an even progression on all fronts.

Thank you to Global Sisters Report for publishing this reflection.

"When I first joined the Xavier Community, I could not sit still. A recent college graduate, new to Kansas City and to my job at a local non-profit, I was eager to get involved in as many things as I could. Instead, I moved in with three Sisters of Charity and a few other young women and encountered stillness for the first time."

Find the rest of the article here:
http://globalsistersreport.org/column/spirituality/gift-perspective-44176

Cavetime Reflections

"The fullness of joy is to behold God in everything." [Julian of Norwich]

We did not have a flashlight, but the three of us decided to go into the cave anyway. As is always the case with these kinds of things, I hid my trepidation and spoke my chutzpah into being. "Yes, of course, let's go." Guided only by the light of Andrea's phone, we ventured forth, crouching almost immediately as the roof of the cave fell and the ground rose as if to kiss it.

Soon we were on all fours. Because my distrust of the ceiling was greater than that of the floor (probably something to do with the laws of gravity--the floor was not going to fall on top of me), I crawled like a crab, awkwardly scooching my way over slippery rocks, extending my feet out to test the next one.

How far in would we go? How far could we go? Here we were, moving blindly both literally and figuratively forward into this cave. I was no longer afraid, not really. It seemed I had left my fear at the entrance because now, my only thoughts were of what I was doing in that exact moment--my movements from stone to stone, over the slow trickle of icy water heading in the opposite direction.

About fifty feet into our crawl, we ran into two hikers on their way out. "Do you want to use our flashlight? Really, it's no problem. We'll wait for you at the entrance, but take as long as you need." Of course, we took it, thrilled by this unexpected kindness. We thought we had been alone in the cave. "Keep going," the hikers told us. "You're almost there, and it's so worth it."

We forged ahead with our new lamp, bumping our way, despite improved visibility, towards an unknown but apparently worthy destination. After a bit, however, we started to hear it. It was gentle, rumbling and satisfying: a bass line vibrating so that we could feel it through the cold rock.

And then we pushed through, and suddenly, the smallness we had felt for so long opened into a room, a secret space tucked away from everything else, beneath boulders and trees and all that was on the outside. Here we were! This room, so completely hidden and yet made known to us as if it had been made for us.

I looked up, and from the ceiling fifty feet above us, poured forth a steady and heavy waterfall. Its rushing filled the room, and the coolness of its mist blew past us like a whirlwind. I felt my chest lift towards the source of the water, like a heart opener drawing me up to something that seemed so alive and strong. Something like nothing I had ever experienced before.

Behold, the Mystery of Life!

Be Still

Right now, more than ever, I can almost feel the hands of God gripping my shoulders, shaking me back and forth--not gently, but forcefully. Be still, Virginia. Be still, be still, be still. BE STILL.*

Part of this is because I'm currently surrounded by many holy women; I live with three Catholic sisters and work with a fourth. And on top of that, I have countless mentors, reminding me, always: be present, be at peace, be. I hear this at my job, in my home, during prayer, during church. The only problem with being still is that my entire being is against it.

I like action. I want to serve; I want to do. I want to tutor kids, volunteer with hospice, bake bread for my community, bike to work, go camping, mentor a teenage refugee, grow a garden, build things, keep bees (what a ridiculous thing, but yes, I want to do it!), make art, play music, advocate for ALL the causes I care about, become a lawyer, learn Spanish, travel the world.

Some of this (in a generous view of what generally motivates Virginia), is a desperate need to be one with those around me. To love, to serve, and to become one with all of God's children (even all of God's creation). Jesus says, "Love your neighbor as yourself." I want to live this so much. But often, in the midst of [relentlessly, tirelessly] doing this, I find myself with these hands on my shoulders, demanding that I be still, and instead of listening, I shout back, "Leave me alone, God! Can't you see I'm trying to love your people?!"

Be still is God's mercy manifest. It is God's You have done enough to my own "I can never do enough." It is also the preface to Know that I am God, the reminder that I, Virginia, am not.

Jesus says, "Love your neighbor as yourself," but right before that he says, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind." And sometimes that means being still and centering my heart, soul, strength, and mind in God, knowing that God is always enough for when my enough is not.

When I've done all I can possibly do to end the world's suffering and injustice, I can rest in God's mercy. And when I've burned out and felt depressed (because, of course, I can never possibly end the world's suffering and injustice), and I spend an entire weekend watching Netflix and eating unholy amounts of chocolate, then too, I can rest in God's mercy. Because even as the world continues to be a place of disunity and pain: He is God, and in that I am still.

~~~

*I imagine God speaks in italics, not in quotes because I think italics are felt more than they are heard... and I have always felt God more than I have heard God.

**And before anyone misunderstands, let me clarify: service is not something I feel like I HAVE to do in order to be "all right" with God. It is not by works that I am saved, but my faith without works would be dead.