On each Friday during Lent we attend a prayer service in front of the White House in the spirit of repentance for the sins we as a nation commit. This past week was Haitian solidarity week. After reading off the names of people (Americans and Iraqis) killed in Iraq, we bore witness to the part the US played in undermining democracy in Haiti by overthrowing the democratically elected President Aristide before his term was over. I helped to hold a sign saying "War Is Not the Answer," and watched as people walked by nonplussed on their cell phones or in their tour groups. I probably would have walked right by as well. But despite the fact that not many people understand nor care about what we do each Friday, I still get the feeling that what is being done is important. Somebody has to do it. Somebody has to be sorry.
Also this week we attended a Mass in commemoration of Sister Dorothy Stang. She had lived and worked for over 20 years as a missionary in the Amazon of Brazil, defending the forest and standing alongside the people as they fight to protect their land and simple way of life. A couple of weeks ago she was shot in the face three times, murdered by businessmen greedy for the land. She is now a martyr, a light in the darkness, a true example for us all in this self-absorbed society. I have no doubt she's chillin at the Eternal Banquet!
p.s. I'm not sure who's all reading this but thanks to all of you who posted or emailed me. It meant a lot to hear from you.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Is It Really Real, Son?
Saturday night. I'm just getting over a little "bug" which made me ill for the past few days, so while the girls are out dancing I'm home alone. It's just you and me tonight Blog.
It's been a few days now that images of my little adventures in Honduras have been popping up and I think it might be worthwhile to write about them. So here I go.
After visiting with my dear friend Meg who's in the PeaceCorps in Nicaragua, I made my way up to the north coast of Honduras. My goal was to spend about a week on the Bay Islands, a supposed backpacker's paradise with great SCUBA diving and the cheapest prices in the world. I was travel weary and I had great expectations of sitting my ass down on beach and sopping up the tropical sun.
Anyways, I get there and rainy season has set just set in. I'm usually pretty good with rolling with it, but for some reason I just could not help being a "poor-pussy." I moped about the dreary, drizzly little town. The towns people with their Creole banter about whose "mondongo" (cow innards) was cleaner than whose, made me sad. The attractive and cool looking white people who seem to be everywhere made me sad. The roaches in my room made me sad. I wished I had chosen to go to Roatan instead of Utila. I should have picked a different dive shop to stay at. Why couldn't I make friends with any of these cool looking white people? It was the first time in a great while that I have felt so sorry for myself, so full of regret. Realizing how weird I was being, I said enough is enough and I took the next boat off the island.
I think it's enough to say that after I arrived on the mainland, I was led into the rain forest. A cast of characters (unforseeable a priori) presented themselves, and a series of events lined up and next thing I knew, I was hiking deep into the Pico Bonito national reinforced for four days. It was an incredible experience which I won't bother to bore you with, except for a quick snapshot. One morning I woke up in the densest and wettest part of the jungle. We needed water so I grabbed the bottles and the machete and hacked my way down the gully to the small creek running near our camp. Squatting down on a rock in the middle of the creek to draw water, I looked around only to find myself completely taken by the sight, sound, and smell of the forest engulfing me. Everything around me was sopping with wetness, with green and wild goodness! How else could one's soul respond but with a mixture of gratitude and awe and terror? "This is Real," was all I could whisper to myself. "This is Real, and it is Good."
It's been a few days now that images of my little adventures in Honduras have been popping up and I think it might be worthwhile to write about them. So here I go.
After visiting with my dear friend Meg who's in the PeaceCorps in Nicaragua, I made my way up to the north coast of Honduras. My goal was to spend about a week on the Bay Islands, a supposed backpacker's paradise with great SCUBA diving and the cheapest prices in the world. I was travel weary and I had great expectations of sitting my ass down on beach and sopping up the tropical sun.
Anyways, I get there and rainy season has set just set in. I'm usually pretty good with rolling with it, but for some reason I just could not help being a "poor-pussy." I moped about the dreary, drizzly little town. The towns people with their Creole banter about whose "mondongo" (cow innards) was cleaner than whose, made me sad. The attractive and cool looking white people who seem to be everywhere made me sad. The roaches in my room made me sad. I wished I had chosen to go to Roatan instead of Utila. I should have picked a different dive shop to stay at. Why couldn't I make friends with any of these cool looking white people? It was the first time in a great while that I have felt so sorry for myself, so full of regret. Realizing how weird I was being, I said enough is enough and I took the next boat off the island.
I think it's enough to say that after I arrived on the mainland, I was led into the rain forest. A cast of characters (unforseeable a priori) presented themselves, and a series of events lined up and next thing I knew, I was hiking deep into the Pico Bonito national reinforced for four days. It was an incredible experience which I won't bother to bore you with, except for a quick snapshot. One morning I woke up in the densest and wettest part of the jungle. We needed water so I grabbed the bottles and the machete and hacked my way down the gully to the small creek running near our camp. Squatting down on a rock in the middle of the creek to draw water, I looked around only to find myself completely taken by the sight, sound, and smell of the forest engulfing me. Everything around me was sopping with wetness, with green and wild goodness! How else could one's soul respond but with a mixture of gratitude and awe and terror? "This is Real," was all I could whisper to myself. "This is Real, and it is Good."
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Rewind
For all y'all I've been out of touch with for some reason or other, my deepest apologies. Anyway here's a quick summation of my life after college:
A couple of months on the road across the USA right after graduation; a few months in Galway, Ireland working as a kitchen porter; several months digging up my roots in mein fadderland of the Philippines; back to the US, living in Seattle where I worked as a house painter and as an Americorps volunteer at a community health center.
On a road trip visiting Sims from Portland to Seattle I felt the call to go East. I deaded the med school thing, found FMS, and here I am.
I would love to hear from you guys who I've been crappy about being in touch with, so I hope my "blog" spurs further dialogue.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch. love, dave
A couple of months on the road across the USA right after graduation; a few months in Galway, Ireland working as a kitchen porter; several months digging up my roots in mein fadderland of the Philippines; back to the US, living in Seattle where I worked as a house painter and as an Americorps volunteer at a community health center.
On a road trip visiting Sims from Portland to Seattle I felt the call to go East. I deaded the med school thing, found FMS, and here I am.
I would love to hear from you guys who I've been crappy about being in touch with, so I hope my "blog" spurs further dialogue.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch. love, dave
Monday, February 14, 2005
The Psalm Remains the Same
"By the rivers of Babylon we sat and weptThis wizened old man who was a missionary in Kenya for decades told us, among other things, about how Africans are much more about community than the hardy individualism so prevalent here. When a Christian African imagines God breathing Life into Adam, he/she sees this breath reaching us through countless generations of people, our own ancestors.
when we remembered Zion." (Psalm 137)
I wonder about the cultural lens through which I perceive my own identity. Am I an American simply because I, an individual, had been born and raised in this country? Or in some way do I belong to the people of my ancestry, since in every way my breath and my blood came to me through them? It seems to me now that both are reasonable. If the latter is true, then I whether I like it or not, am part of the story and struggle of the people of the Philippines.
Moses was raised in the house of pharaoh. Not that I see myself as a great liberator or anything, but rather it's about identity. Do I stand on the side of the rich and mighty or the poor and oppressed? I know where Christ stood.
As hundreds of thousands of Filipinos leave their country to earn money and find a better life for themselves and their families, I find myself wondering weather the place I've called home all my life is the Promised Land or is in fact Babylon.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Hello...am I speaking in tongues?
This blog is a weird thing. My thoughts and words tend to naturally adapt themselves to fit into the context of individual friendships that this blogging thing has become little lesson for me in finding a different kind of general voice within me. Or maybe it's just a voice that doesn't really care what it sounds like, how it is received. Communication simply for the purpose of self-clarification and expression. I like that.
Still it's a little difficult. It's the same reason I'm not a fan of the mass email or the "reply all" button. I tend to show different parts of myself to different people in my life because I know what's safe to show to who (whom?). It's easy that way. And in some ways I think it's good to vibe with people on different wavelengths. But the concept of vulnerability as a way of connection and growth seems to be popping up quite a bit. I guess it's time to get vulnerable. (btw, there's a great story about St. Francis getting bare-ass necked in front of the bishop in a definitive step of conversion).
So allow me to get on my soap-box and speak across this digital divide! Look at it not so much as an unsolicited mass email, but as a chance to peek into my head and heart and see through my eyes while I'm overseas, if/whenever you may choose.
Still it's a little difficult. It's the same reason I'm not a fan of the mass email or the "reply all" button. I tend to show different parts of myself to different people in my life because I know what's safe to show to who (whom?). It's easy that way. And in some ways I think it's good to vibe with people on different wavelengths. But the concept of vulnerability as a way of connection and growth seems to be popping up quite a bit. I guess it's time to get vulnerable. (btw, there's a great story about St. Francis getting bare-ass necked in front of the bishop in a definitive step of conversion).
So allow me to get on my soap-box and speak across this digital divide! Look at it not so much as an unsolicited mass email, but as a chance to peek into my head and heart and see through my eyes while I'm overseas, if/whenever you may choose.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
One Good Thing About Music
Flaget has started to notice that during sessions and intense discussion I occasionally space out. She wants to know what I'm thinking. Sometimes there are deep ruminations going on upstairs about the nature of reality, interpersonal relationships, love. But I think that more often than not I'm not really thinking of anything-- just humming to myself a little tune: duh duh duh...
A few weeks ago I was cruising the streets of Queens vibing to Bob Marley and Steve and the Most High. It hit me that much of our relationships with other people and with life in general has to do with listening to the ever present melodies in everything and everyone, and allowing our souls to resonate with that song. Sometimes it causes us to sing along, to move our bodies, to change our individual melody to mix in harmony with the other. it's just an idea (highdea?).
We've been learning about Franciscan spirituality and at the core of it is this idea that the basis of reality is relationship. The Divine Him/Herself is the perfect coexistence of three Persons--Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. As reflections of the Creator we are connected to everything and everyone. Kind of cliche and new agey I know, but it's quite deep. Still have much, much more to learn about what this means...
A few weeks ago I was cruising the streets of Queens vibing to Bob Marley and Steve and the Most High. It hit me that much of our relationships with other people and with life in general has to do with listening to the ever present melodies in everything and everyone, and allowing our souls to resonate with that song. Sometimes it causes us to sing along, to move our bodies, to change our individual melody to mix in harmony with the other. it's just an idea (highdea?).
We've been learning about Franciscan spirituality and at the core of it is this idea that the basis of reality is relationship. The Divine Him/Herself is the perfect coexistence of three Persons--Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. As reflections of the Creator we are connected to everything and everyone. Kind of cliche and new agey I know, but it's quite deep. Still have much, much more to learn about what this means...
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