The Teacher's Pen

I've moved!

2010-07-13T12:42:00.000-07:00

Please come see me at my new site: allyspotts.com

Compassion, part 2

2010-05-10T12:01:00.000-07:00

I recently read a book by Ariel Gore and, in it, I stumbled across a stunning observation about compassion. Compassion comes from experience, Gore notes. Compassion is hard-earned.

I am enamored with this depiction. Weeks later, it still resonates.

Maybe this is why compassion is so difficult, because it forces us to recollect, to return, to revive. It requires us to drag into the present moment those places and things we thought we had long left behind. Watch a woman who has lost her husband to cancer council another whose is quickly losing hers.... I know how you feel, she'll say.

It's a sacrifice. A gift.

Compassion with middle school students is a little bit like this, I think. Less devastating, perhaps, but consequential just the same. Who wants to revisit middle school... anyone? I've yet to meet a single person who cares to relive this miserable middle phase.

Yesterday I took a student into the hallway who was having one of her frequent 'bad' days. I could have lectured her for cursing at me, yelling, disrupting my class. Instead I looked at her and said, I know how you feel. She cried, I wrote her a pass to the office, and later when she walked down my hallway she looked at me and smiled.

Compassion is requisite for relationship.

Sadly, compassion doesn't fix anything. It doesn't cure cancer. It doesn't negate consequences or the inevitable pain of middle school life. But perhaps it does provide some resolution for someone. I would like to think so, at least.

I would like to think that there is purpose--restoration even--in the going back, the bringing forward, the identifying with someone outside of ourselves.

Compassion, part 1

2010-03-23T17:21:00.000-07:00

A teacher and friend observed in my classroom this week and afterward we ate lunch. I ate my sandwich, warily. She had her clipboard in hand. And before she even slid it across the table to show me, I already knew. She had listed: Positive comments=0. Negative comments=22.

"Ah! I am so not cut out for this!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in the air. This wasn't the first time I had been called out on my negativity in the classroom. I knew it was true, but I was having a really hard time changing my behavior.

"Think about it this way." she said. "What do you want the kids to do?

I thought to myself for a minute.

"I want them to learn English," I said, "but you saw what just happened in my classroom. There is no learning happening in there right now. It's chaos!"

"So in order for learning to happen, what do you need the students to do?" she asked again.

"Well, to start, it'd be great if they would sit still" I said, snorting a little.

"Okay, good," she said. "I was hoping you would say that. Here are the students I saw sitting still during the class period." She turned her clipboard around so I could see it, five names she had listed under 'sitting quietly'. "Did you know," my friend asked, "that I never heard you speak these students' names during the period?"

"What would happen," she said, "if you stood at the front of the classroom and--instead of calling out the students who were acting poorly (Dante, get back in your seat. Sarah, keep your hands to yourself. Sasha, where's your pencil?)--you only spoke the names of students who were doing what you asked...?

"So, like..." I probed.

She demonstrated--calmly, assuredly, in a pleasant speaking voice. "Alondra, thank you for sitting quietly. Luis, I appreciate your attention. David, thank you for keeping your desk on the floor."

I laughed, knowingly.

And for the rest of the day I couldn't stop thinking about it. It made so much sense. Why hadn't I thought of it before? Don't we all like to be recognized for what we're doing right? Don't most of us respond to positive affirmation? And, at the very least, wasn't I likely to be a happier teacher if I wasn't spewing negative reinforcement all the time...?

Worth a try, at the very least.

Youz lonely madam

2010-03-05T19:01:00.000-08:00

"Ms. Spotts! Ms. Spotts!" It's Ahmed, one of my favorite English Language Learners. I am in the middle of a very inspiring lesson on quotation marks and he has just interrupted. I'm irritated.

"Yes, Ahmed," I say begrudgingly. He tips his head, looks at me. "How come you so lonely always, madam?"

"What, Ahmed!?" And just like that I've engaged the distraction, taken the proverbial bait.

"Look et you. You'z lonely." He says again.

"Lonely? Ahmed, I'm not lonely," I say. "Maybe it looks like I am lonely because I am always thinking about things, you know? I always have so much going on in my head."

Ahmed thinks about that for a minute. "No," he finally says. "I think youz lonely."

I am stunned. Almost laughably so. Even as I turn back to the whiteboard and continue my thrilling lecture on punctuation I can't help but think to myself, can't help but wonder: how did he know?

I am finding that teaching is a lonely job, more than I could have ever predicted, imagined, planned. Its lonely in the way that sometimes love is lonely. Sometimes it doesn't meet us halfway.

I don't know about you, but I am not afraid of hard work. In fact, its something I actually crave. But when hard work doesn't promise reciprocation, when the degree of our effort doesn't always match the degree of return, that's when hard work becomes even harder, that's when the loneliness begins.

Teaching is an awful lot like love.

Perhaps it is because relationships are prerequisites for instruction; because love dictates students' capacity to learn. Loving (middle school students) is never easy. It requires patience, resilience, grace. It requires introspection in the best and worst kind of ways, the kind that asks us to change.

For more: http://laureleestreet.blogspot.com

Stretch

2010-02-18T10:19:00.000-08:00

Stretch.
I am under the pile, under that teacher pile. You know, the one that comes between January and Spring Break. The one that makes you suddenly start pondering, wondering... what would happen if I just didn't show up today?

This is such a long stretch.

Meanwhile, I took one of those dreaded surveys last week, one of those horrible, dreaded professional development surveys. Professional Development, hmph. what's the antonym of professional Development? Whatever it is, that' s what those things should be called.

After the survey I spent my long drive home thinking about Best Practices and all the things that I should be implementing in my classroom, but that I'm not, because I am too tired and too busy and too defeated to think about any of them by the end of the day. And when all my critical self-talk started to become so disconcerting that I couldn't bear to think about it any longer, I decided I had to do something about it. So I went to yoga.

Stretch.
Even after patterned breathing and peaceful stretching, even after a hot meal and a hot shower, I still couldn't get one of those stupid questions off of my mind. Number seven, I think it was. Positivity. What is the ratio of positive to negative comments in your classroom?

Yikes. I hadn't ever counted or measured or considered or frankly even cared about comparing until that stupid survey made me do it, but the next day I charted myself. And, sure enough, my tally marks gave me away. Even at my most diligent my numbers looked something like this: 13 negative, 2 positive.

So, here's my question. How do I stay positive and honest too?

I am a critic, a cynic at heart. Further, I participate in a system that venerates critical gaze. I've invested a great deal of time and money to programs, universities, professors, classes that have coached my disparaging temperment, refined my judicious eye. Pessimism comes easy for me.

Perhaps now is the time to practice optimism, compassion.

Stretch.
This morning I made the students stretch to start the class period. We were about to start our big language assessment for the state and the kids were acting all nervous and squirrelly so I made them stand up right there at their seats and stretch their arms to the sky, down to the ground, up to the sky again. I made them hug their knees. I smiled.

We all took a deep breath...

Planlessness and painfulness

2010-01-26T08:13:00.000-08:00

Its never a good idea to start the day without a plan. Still, some days (like today) I find myself inadvertently riding this sinking ship. And perhaps the most frustrating part of my current predicament is that my plan-less-ness, today at least, has little to do with my own lack of diligence. In fact, I'm looking at the clock realizing that it's 8:30am and I've already been at school for 2 hours. No, today my lack-of-plan is just reality, just an embedded little gem in the nature of what I do.

I liken lesson-planning to vacation planning; and sometimes as a first year teacher I feel a bit like a first-time travel agent, cluelessly planning trips to locations she has never visited, on airlines she's not even sure exist. I can just hear myself giving advice about what to bring when I have no idea what the weather will be like in Bangladesh this time of year. What is there to do there? I hear my client ask, and I just smile, wondering where exactly Bangladesh is located on a map. You're really going to enjoy your layover in Dusseldorf, I'll say. But the truth is, I have no idea if its on the way.

That is the heaviest part of this job, the part I carry with me when I go home at night, the part that sometimes interrupts my sleep, my leisure. That is the part that drives me out of bed in the morning, that renders me sometimes speechless, that feels like it lacks an answer. The truth is that not all problems have solutions, and for a girl who likes to fix and to solve, that conclusion is more than a little frustrating, disconcerting...

Sometimes I wish that life were more like math; that every dilemma had a formula, that my task was to determine the correct one. But the truth is that in language (and in life) equations don't always promise a correct answer. Sometimes trial and error is all that we have. Sometimes our plans, our itineraries, are just best guesses until we've navigated the terrain ourselves. Sometimes (maybe) it is the pain of planlessness that teaches us the most of all...

Lessons that linger

2010-01-11T10:25:00.000-08:00

I don't think I am alone in saying that I want to teach lessons that last. I want to teach something beyond the momentary, beyond the sedintary, something that leaks into my students' lunch conversation. I want my students, five years from now... or heck, even five minutes from now... to think to themselves "remember that one day in English class when we... [fill-in-the-blanks].

But blanks. That's what I keep drawing.

Sometimes I have no ideas. Sometimes my ideas just fall flat. And, to be truthful, sometimes I am just so tired that all I can do is just make it through the day without totally losing my mind. And today I am feeling sad that my classroom lacks that sweet fragrance of "ah ha!"

Unfortunately the ah-ha moments have been more mine than my students these days.

I asked one of our behavior management coaches to come observe me during fifth period the other day, a class in which I have several students who display wildly disruptive behavior on a daily basis. He gladly obliged and offered me some seriously helpful feedback. It would be complicated to explain the specifics here, but the overarching message was this: If you want your students to be responsive, you have to be consistent. Ah-ha.

Consistency. Repetition. I feel like an actor rehearsing for a play, learning what to say and how to say it and then saying the same words in the same way about a thousand times each day.

And speaking of lingering lessons, I was in line waiting to order a coffee the other morning and the woman behind me was chatting away on her cell phone. I stepped away from the counter, clearing space for the woman to place her order. She continued her conversation, fumbling with her wallet, barely pausing to acknowledge her barista. The gentleman behind her had already expressed his subtle displeasure with her behavior, but at her oblivion, he grew suddenly furious. He yelled profanities, she retaliated, and the two entered into a remarkably familiar "he-started-it-no-she-started-it" kind of an argument. I was back in my middle school classroom all over again.

Perhaps some lessons really do just get away from us. And perhaps some linger more than we expect...

Yesterday morning, before first period, one student ran up to me in exhuberation. "Ms. Spotts! Ms. Spotts!" This students said. "Here's a question for you! Are you on cloud nine today!?!?" I smiled, remembering how I had, on a whim, explained this strage idiom to my students the day before. "Yes, Alex" I told him, laughing a little.

"I am on cloud nine! Thanks for asking."

I am from Spaghetti

2010-01-04T08:44:00.000-08:00

This week the students are working on a writing assignment based on the George Ella Lyons poem, "Where I am from." The students brainstorm lists of things: things they might find in their house, things they always eat for holidays, things their mom always tells them, etc. Then the students use their lists to write a poem that looks something like this...

I am from Spaghetti and meatballs
from dirt roads and barbie dolls.
I am from
the old couch that smells like socks,
from wash your hands! to
Say your prayers...

Many students have written beautiful poems that reflect their heritage and home life. Several of them have disclosed fascinating elements of their personal story. In the process I have been struck by the resilience and valor and true diversity that is represented in my classroom. I have also been reminded of the power of artifacts, the way that they hold memory, the way that they tell a story...

Not every student has settled into this writing assignment with ease. Most are resistant to sharing, many are parylized by fear, others feign incapability. Still some students experience legitimate difficulty with the abstract thinking that this assignment asks them to adopt. One student for whom I have a particular affinity, has had the most difficult time executing this assignment.

After much confusion I finally just made a template for him (I am from _______, from ________ and __________), asking him simply to fill in the blank spaces with the objects from his list. I set him up to work with his template and shortly later walked away. Suddenly I hear this student exclaim "I am from Spaghetti!? Ms. Spotts, this doesn't even make any sense!"

Have your own "I am from" poem you'd like to share? I would love to read it! Post it in the comments section below.

No rest for the weary

2009-12-22T18:57:00.001-08:00

Turns out I am not very good at vacationing. In fact, my vacations generally end up leaving me longing for a vacation from the vacation. And this vacation has offered no exception.

On Monday I headed out to my classroom to get some work done--organizing, filing, lesson planning, decorating, the usual. My mom graciously offered to help, and since she is the crowned queen of bulletin boards, and I also enjoy her company, I accepted.

Then, at the last minute my dad had several cancellations in his afternoon, so he offered to join us. Not ten minutes later, I received a text message from my sister's fiance offering to participate. Then my brother (who is in town from LA and rarely at a loss for cooler things to do than hang out in an empty middle school classroom on a Monday afternoon) said he figured he might tag along as well.

And, with that, I had an entourage! It took us a mere two hours to get all of the bulletin boards covered, beautiful lettering traced and cut, the desk arranged in a new way, pictures carefully placed, and (my job) a bigger mess of the file drawers than I started with. Yikes (sometimes with organization it has to get worse before it can get better). Before we knew it we had made significant progress on the room and were enjoying good food and conversation at Laughing Planet on 21st, where I treated the team to delicious burritos for their help.

So, I guess that perhaps there is rest for the weary...? Well, at least when the weary has good help.

The power of Christian Bale

2009-12-18T13:06:00.000-08:00

I have to admit that I was expecting the worst from my students today, especially given the progressively deteriorating behavior of the week. I anticipated pretty much everything short of a riot. Then, this morning around 8am, I opened my classroom door to the sound of a sixth grade boy and an eighth grade girl walking down the hall together, engaged in a deep and philosophical conversation.

The two were recounting a very complicated relationship issue that had materialized since the latest Z100 dance. The young girl was worried that if she agreed to date the boy she liked from the dance, her friends would make fun of her for dating a guy who wasn't very popular. Her compatriot offered her some very astute advice. Dont' forget, He said, You cant judge a book by its cover... Ah, the beautiful and hilarious sounds of maturation!

And truthfully it doesn't much matter if it was at all relevant, I still would have made my students watch Newsies today, both because I needed to take a deep breath and show a movie, and also because Christian Bale is just plain dreamy. Thankfully, it fit perfectly with our curriculum, which asks kids to think about characters, setting, dramatic irony and morals of stories. As an added bonus, the kids totally loved it. I'm attributing the success to the dancing and the singing. And, oh yeah, the dreaminess of Christian Bale...

Pinky fingers and pumpkin pies

2009-12-17T10:11:00.000-08:00

Trying to teach anything of consequence during the last few days before winter break is like trying to stop a moving car with your pinky finger. Remarkably unproductive, and also kind of painful.

Yesterday was George Middle School's first annual Multi-cultural Fair, which was a beautiful opportunity for students to explore the 42 lanugages (and infitite cultures) that are represented here at George. Students wore traditional native garb, crafted their own stackable dolls and milagros, listened to jazz and blues music, learned to use chopsticks to pick up Cheerios... and so much more.

The most wonderful part of the day when one of my most challenging students was selected during the morning assembly to sing with the blues band. Her beautiful voice reverberated in that room--if only for a few seconds, perhaps some of the most important seconds of her life. Later in the hallway when I told her she had a beautiful singing voice, she beamed. What a wonderful, thrilling, educational, exhausting day in middle school.

Is it Friday yet?

As I anxiously anticipate a beautiful, relaxing Christmas break, I try to remember that not all of my students are anxiously awaiting roasted turkeys and pumpin pie, cinnamon and eggnog and the smell of fresh-cut christmas tree. Not all of my students will be spending this season with full families, full houses, full stockings, full stomachs...

Day in the mind of a middle schooler...

2009-12-14T08:26:00.000-08:00

We were talking about what the students wanted to be when they grew up and so the kids ask, "Ms. Spotts, where do you work?" I, of course, stare at them blankly, trying to ascertain if they are serious, so they ask again. Ms. Spotts, what do you do?

After National Fruit and Vegetable day awarded our kids free kiwis, tangerines and carrots, one student remarks, "When are we going to have National Hot Cheetoe Day?"

During the Great Cold Blast of 2009 one student complains that the weather guys are just plain cruel for making it this cold. I laugh a little and try to explain that the weather guys don't get to choose the weather, but this student looks at me suspiciously and says, "Um, helloooo! Then how do they know what its going to be?"

The good, the bad and the ugly

2009-12-08T14:21:00.000-08:00

The good: I am trying a new technique called "stop time" that is working really well in my chaotic classroom. Stop Time happens everyday at the same time, four minutes before class ends and includes four easy steps. First, (1) we stop what we are doing and focus on the teacher. Second, (2) we check our objectives. This means we read, as a class, our language objective (ex: "I can use the vocabulary I learned to explain why seasons are different in the Northern and Southern hemispheres") and determine if the objective was met, or if it needs to be revisited again tomorrow. Third, we (3) return all materials to where they belong. Finally, we sit quietly in our seats, ready for (4) Question of the Day. Question of the day is a simple, fun activity where ESL students are afforded the opportunity to practice aural communication skills like annuciation, sentence formation, and out-loud processing. As an added benefit, it keeps the kids in their seats until the bell rings!!!

The bad: I try to cram way to many things into one class period, making my objectives constantly muddled. Oh, and also I forgot three students' names yesterday in the hallway, and was totally reamed for it. Fastest loss of credibility ever.

The ugly: It doesn't take long as a teacher to learn that every student has a story... and that some of the stories aren't pretty. One of my students, I learned the other day, has been suffering physical and sexual abuse for most of her life and while she was recently emancipated from her abuser, this 12-year-old girl is battling severe depression and attempts at suicide. A beautiful, resilient girl, this student still shows up to school every day and even smiles when I say good morning.

The ugly makes this job painfully difficult. It burns all of my emotional reserves. But as with most difficult things in life, it also makes the job undeniably worthwhile.

Objectives, Essential Questions, and the quietest classroom ever...

2009-12-03T09:58:00.000-08:00

I spent the morning writing lesson objectives for the week's lesson plans, a task I would most certainly abhor if it didn't prove so useful. Objective-writing, albeit tedious, helps to focus my instruction, often redirecting activities that don't serve learning targets or answer essential questions. As an added benefit, the process of defending my classroom procedures gives me a chance to exercise my inner lawyer (as if she needed a work-out).

By the time first period started I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had my essential questions and objectives posted on the white board. I had a warm-up on the screen for the students to begin as they walked in the door. I had my coffee in hand. I was ready. Then the bell rang.

I'm fairly certain that most middle-school teachers would kill for a class as quiet as my first period this morning. But trust me, no one (well, maybe someone, but not this someone) wants their class to be that quiet. Its creepy. And besides, evidence of learning is noisy. Anyone who has worked in a classroom for longer than, say, 10-minutes, knows that.

What a painful, agonizing 45 minutes I spent trying to teach a lesson that wasn't working. No parachute, no emergency evacuation plan, not even the slightest indication that we were progressing toward our objective.

I guess I am learning that good teaching is more than just good planning. It is also flexibility, quickness, patience, resilience. Its the willingness to admit that we were wrong, the humility to ask for help. It is the self-control to stop, to take a breath, and to try again tomorrow.

Not just fun and games

2009-12-01T06:11:00.000-08:00

Parker Palmer. Rachel Kessler. Classroom Community. Heart and Mind. I know these theorists and their learning theories inside and out. In fact, I have a binder full of research and a Masters degree to prove it. So why am I second guessing myself?

Today was my first full day with the students at George, and as such, my lesson plans consisted of several of those "get-to-know-you" games. You know, the ones that reduce most adults to groans and eye-rolls and oh-man-do-we-have-to?'s. Middle School students, on the other hand, are another story.

What a true blessing to see my classroom full of such life. Or at least that's the nice way to say it. I imagine it would also be a fair description to say it was terribly chaotic. But I guess I think sometimes chaos is a good thing.

So why was I so worried that someone would walk into my classroom and question my purpose? Why, when the teacher next door came to borrow a pair of scissors, did I feel the inclination to apologize for the student's laughter? Why did I secretly hope the principal wouldn't come to visit, see the kids out of their desks, slapping high-fives, and silently question my objectives? What am I so afraid of?

Sometimes I think we get in our own way as teachers. Or we let our adult egos get in the way. We become so focused on NCLB and AYP and IEP and referrals and test scores and objectives and state standards that we forget about the students themselves.

May I always be the kind of teacher who remembers my students, asks myself what is best for them, and advocates for their needs above my own reputation.

Week 1, Day 1

2009-11-29T15:20:00.000-08:00

ID Badge. Check. Lesson Plans. Check. Week's worth of groceries. Check. Grading pen. Check. Clipboard. Check. Teacher clothes. Check. Flashing Santa lapel...

Okay, so I have almost everything I need to start my first full week as a full-time contracted teacher.

In light of this transition in my professional world, I thought I would take the opportunity to make a long overdue change in my virtual world as well.

I want this space to be an appropriate venue for recording my experiences as a teacher, one where I can post (in some logical and chronological fashion) about what happens in my classroom, and about how those experiences are growing my skills as a professional educator.

So my plan is to continue updating this blog on very regular basis (more regular than before) documenting the way that teaching and learning are unfolding in my classroom.

For those who are inclined to follow I will also be posting (on a less-than-regular basis) more personal musings about life, relationships, health and nutrition, etc at: laureleestreet.blogspot.com. Just give me a few days to get the new one up and running!

Substitute Teaching: the pows and wows

2009-11-20T19:11:00.001-08:00

All you have to do is swear you'll never do something, and before long you'll find yourself doing it. Six months ago I swore I would never commute more than 5 miles for a job, and just accepted full-time employment for a school on the far North side of Portland...

Just like that.

So when I swore during graduate school that I would never be a substitute teacher, I suppose I should have known that I would eventually find myself doing exactly that. And in the spirit of life's hilarity, I imagine I should have also expected that I wouldn't totally hate it.

There were days when every substitute-teacher nightmare I had ever imagined came true. Days, for example, like the one when I was asked to teach a kindergarten music class. Picture me trying to corral 15 kindergartners into a learning circle: My hands are clasped in front of me, eyes wide, big smile plastered on my face. I am expecting the undivided attention of 15 precious little angels, all criss-cross applesauced, eager, looking up expectantly...

Instead I have Edgar, who won't stop stomping on Esmerelda's new shoes. Zachary and Cade, who keep trying to blow into the recorders they've picked up off of the back table. Danny and Chloe, who are banging profusely on the bongos in the back of the room. And Destiny, who is crying because Madeline just untied the bow in her hair. "Okay kids," I am shouting, feigning my best sugary-sweet tone, "sit on your butts!" But the kids are running rampant, and as the chaos in the room unfolds so does my desperation. There is that unmistakable twinge of anguish in the back of my voice as I shout,"Sit on your butts, kids! Sit on your butts!"

Apparently you aren't supposed to say "butts" to five-year-olds.

And actually, as much as that day lives in my mind as the world's worst disaster, teaching outside of my comfort zone instructs me to be an educator in a hundred ways that graduate school never could. I learn that classroom management is always contingent upon context, and that patience goes an awfully long way.

Then, of course, there are days when I wonder why I was ever so afraid of this substitute teaching in the first place. Like when Kira, a junior in high school, asks if she can stay in my classroom for lunch.

In 26 minutes Kira and I discuss AP homework, David Bekham, high-school relationships, Homecoming Court, her homecoming date, try-outs for the basketball team, Heroes (the TV show) and college applications. Nothing life-changing. Just life. Just regular, every-day, run-of-the-mill high school life. But as Kira walks out the door, backpack slung over her shoulder, marching off to fifth period, she smiles. And, sure enough, I find myself smiling too.

Here's to the life of a substitute: to the goods pilfered (curriculum, articles, quotes), the organizational techniques heisted (replicated), the management strategies gleaned. Here's to the buildings loved (and hated) the classrooms inhabited, the lunchtimes (and students) truly enjoyed.

Metacognition: Just another Friday night thinking about thinking.

2009-11-20T19:05:00.001-08:00

Okay, so I know that on a Friday night a girl my age is supposed to be doing something exciting like... what... cutting a rug at the local night club or something? Who knows. But this Friday night, this 20-something is curled up on the couch, reading an amazing book.

As I devour Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited I am also thinking about why I love to read as much as I do. How do I gain such satisfaction from reading? What is it that satisfies me exactly? How do I check for my own comprehension? What do I do when I encounter something I don't understand? How does reading accelerate my language acquisition? And, most importantly, I suppose... how can I teach students to love reading as much as I do???

I have my notebook in front of me as I am reading, writing down words that are new for me. I don't (can't) stop for long enough to look up the words in the dictionary. I am too engrossed and besides, reading and seeing the word in context is far more valuable to me than reading or seeing its definition. I write the word, guess its meaning by context, and move on.

I am also recording quotes that I want to remember (sometimes I underline, but as this book belongs to a friend, I am respectfully sticky-noting or copying into my journal). As I write down what I call "meaningful" quotes I ask myself how I determine what is "meaningful..."? I guess (I answer myself) I just record "what strikes me." What a frustrating, vague answer. How on earth am I supposed to teach that?

Finally, it is the ability to attach words to ideas that makes the text accessible for me. When I encounter a passage that includes several references (to art, culture, etc) I don't recognize, I find myself reading the page over again several times before I understand. Perhaps before I understand that I still don't understand. Reading in this instance loses a great deal of its gratification for me. In fact, it is at these points in the text that I find myself most likely to set down the novel, to get up and warm my tea...

Okay, so far more questions than answers as far as meta-cognition goes. But what the heck. There's always next Friday night.

Chapter: Next One

2009-11-17T13:09:00.000-08:00

I love books. I love them. I love browsing them, buying them, reading them, smelling them, feeling them and pretending like maybe (someday) I might have the talent to write one. Perhaps that is why the image of God as author is so arresting for me.

I've been thinking about it so much lately--God as author--but it was yesterday that it really struck me. I was interviewing for a teaching position at a Portland area school and amid a line-up of fairly difficult interview questions I was asked one that I found rather easy to answer: Tell us your story.

I took a deep breath, and began. I started with Whitworth and with Literature, with Leonard Oakland and Laurie Lamon. I told them about the way these professors made Walt Whitman and Virginia Woolf and Billy Collins leap off the page. I told them about my job at Herman Miller, how it left me craving something bigger. I talked about Oregon Council for Hispanic Advancement, and about the relationships I built with students like Edgar. Then George Fox and Michelle, Eileen, Ben. Then Conestoga, Lincoln, Aloha, Rich Patterson, Christine Jenkins, Becky Wangenheim. Then strangely, back to the beginning: Century High School, Heather Zehr, Julie Kasper, The Leadership Room...

I detailed my characters, my setting, my twists and turns.

The whole time I was thinking it, while the members of the panel were knowingly nodding their heads, smiling. But especially when the principal turned to me and said, "that might be the best answer to that question I have ever heard," I felt it... that heavy feeling of Grace, like the Lion of Contentment setting its over-sized paw on my chest.

He has written every word. And, the best news? His faithfulness is not exhausted.

I am ready. Don't get me wrong, there are litany of reasons to be afraid of what's to come. I have climbed my share of mountains before. I know what it feels like to want for oxygen, for respite, for rest. But I am ready for all the brokenness and hilarity that come along with challenges, for the edification and understanding that come along with brokenness, and for the restoration and regeneration that discipline can bring.

Chapter: Next One, here I come.

Keep your head up, kid

2009-10-26T09:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I did it. 13.2 miles from SW 6th and Taylor, down into the Pearl District, around by Portland's Waterfront, up and over the Terwilliger Curves, down the giant OHSU hill, and back to Pioneer Square.

It took me two hours to run the course, which in short, looked a little something like this:

Mile 1: Brr. Its cold and dark. Did I really pay money for this?

Mile 2: Wahoo! This is fun.

Mile 3: Smile for the camera, give dad my jacket.

Mile 4: Talking to myself quietly, rehearsing the advise given to me by friends: Breathe, pace yourself, breathe, pace yourself, breathe...

Mile 5: Running up the Terwilliger curves, trying to figure out how they are so much steeper than I remember. I hate this, I hate this I hate (take every thought captive)... I can do this, I can do this, I can do this...

Mile 6: Two giant swigs of water. Almost halfway.

Mile 7: Keane's "Can't stop now" plays on my iPod and I feel simultaneously invigorated and resentful. Don't try to tell me what I can or cant do, Keane.

Mile 8: Oh Lord, you search me and know me, you know when I sit down and when I rise up, you understand my thoughts from afar. You scrutinize my path and my laying down, you are intimately acquainted with all of my ways.

Mile 9: A perfect stranger on the street looks me in the eye and, smiling, screams 'you can do it!' Strangely it is his enthusiasm that gives me the boost I need to make it up the last steep incline by Lewis and Clark.

Mile 10: I think seriously about walking. I am staring intently at the ground when a man my father's age passes me on the left. "Keep your head up, kid" he says. I hate him for passing me, and for saying something so cliche. But for the next two miles I can't stop thinking about that his advice. Perhaps by 'keep your head up,' he doesn't mean, smile, even when you don't feel like it. Perhaps he means, more literally, that if I am staring at the ground I might miss something amazing.

Mile 11: The sun is rising over Portland, and I have a front row seat... er... view.

Mile 12: My fan club arrives to run with me for the last mile. Sharaya tells me between deep, deliberate breaths that the only reason she is running with me is because my sister told her I included her on my "Top Ten" list of favorite people. My ensuing laughter is enough to carry me across the finish line.

Finish Line: There are pictures and medals and people and wings and beer (um... who wants wings and beer after running 13 miles?) and I can't feel my limbs. Awesome.

I accept my participation medal with gratitude, and (in my head) am issuing the following speech...

A big thanks to...

Mom and Dad. You are the most amazingly supportive parents on the face of the planet.
Sisterpants. I love that you always have crazy ideas, and that you consistently challenge me to come along. My life would not be nearly as exciting without you. Thanks for (this time) playing along with a crazy notion of mine.
Ryan, Rachael and Sharaya. You guys are the most most hilarious and exuberant fan club a girl could ever ask for. My day would not have been nearly as fun without you.
My dear friend Nate. Although our taste in music couldn't be more different, I would have been hard pressed to run 13 miles with Jason Mraz as my companion. Thanks for sharing the kind of tunes that could carry a girl over the finish line.
Kelly Clarkson. I know people really don't talk about you anymore, and I really am sorry for that. I just have to say: Miss Independent provided me a much-needed adrenaline boost around mile 8.
Random guy on the street. I don't know if you were cheering for me, or for someone else, or for everyone, but I don't care. Your green coat made your eyes look really green. And I just wanted you to know that when you said, "you can do it!" you were right. I did.
Terra Leonetti. You were so nice to give me your last friends and family pass to the Nike employee store. In the pictures I look like a giant Nike billboard. But, hey, at least I was warm.
Kristen and Tony. You both humored me every time I called you with questions about food or shoes or gear or shin splints or pacing or training... Thanks for never acting like it was less important than it was to me.
Gravy (the Restaurant on SE Mississippi) You make the world's best coffee, scrambles, and Biscuits and Gravy. Thanks for a perfect end to a long, long journey.

Walls

2009-09-11T17:13:00.001-07:00

I spent a whole day scraping paper
from old walls,
four floral layers
stripped away to green paint.

I spent today standing
where I used to stand
everyday and heard for the first time
that thing they always say

about walls
talking walls
resilient walls.

Its like a re-peat
a re-play
a conversation
with myself, or

with you, who
arrived unexpected
out of

the blue layer curls
around my two-edged tool.
I am covered in ash,
in glue.

Your message arrives at 2:15
and I am smiling. I am listening,
laughing,
priming for paint.

I am thinking about what is old
and what is new.

Running the Race

2009-09-02T16:07:00.001-07:00

Okay. I am officially registered for Portland's Run Like Hell half marathon. Race Day: October 25, 2009.

That said, I can almost hear your collective gasps. I am the last person in the world you would have expected to run a half-marathon, right? Especially considering six months ago I couldn’t have even run a full mile without stopping. To be perfectly honest, I don’t really love running (at least not the way a true runner loves running. I do, however, love what running is teaching me about life.

Some lessons that rise to the top…

Plan your route.
I can’t expect to execute a plan unless I actually have a plan. I am most likely to meet my goals if I plot my course before I set out, if I set reasonable but challenging goals for myself. On the contrary, if I begin running without a vision, without a destination, without a mission, I am certain to return home without an accomplishment.

Invite the world to watch.
I talk about my marathon all the time, not because I am trying to promote myself, but because I realize that I am desperate need of accountability. The more people I tell about the race, the less likely I am to bail out at the last minute. Martin Luther once said that, when left to our own devices, all humans are capable of great evil. And while entering into community requires painful honesty, it also provides powerful accountability and asks us to summon the strength we need to meet our potential.

Alone I am nothing.
I am running this race alone, but I am not running this race alone. Each day as I set out I thank God for an able body, for motivation and determination that only He provides, for amazing friends and family members who are on my figurative 'team,' and for the strength He gives me for each new step.

Life is full of surprises.
One day recently I was running through a park near my house and caught my toe on a tree stump, falling face-first into the dirt, smacking my forehead on the ground below. I laid there for a few seconds before I stood up slowly, like a stunned animal, shaking and blinking and covered in leaves and mud. Then I wiped my face of sweat and tears and finished my run. Later, as I told the story I laughed and laughed at how ridiculous I must have looked and thought about what a great skill it is (in life) to be able to take hard falls, stand up, brush off dirt, wipe away tears, and make it to the finish.

We are capable of so much more.
I think sometimes we are ignorant of our potential. I am picturing the look of shock on my student’s face when I hand his essay back to him and say, ‘I won’t even grade this until you’ve given it your best shot.’ Three days later he is standing at my desk again, smiling ear-to-ear, because he didn’t even know he was capable of such success. We feel a great sense of accomplishment when we attack difficult tasks. But in order to do so we must not underestimate ourselves. We must be willing to take risks. We must be willing to fail. We must be willing to stand up again, to wipe away the mud, to finish the race.

It gets easier, but never easy.
I am slowly meeting goals. And certainly, running distance now feels easier than it ever has in the past. But although my joints and muscles and lungs are all in better shape than they have ever been before, there are still days that running feels very difficult. There are days when I don’t want to start, let alone finish, my scheduled run. On those days I am 'digging deep' (as my mom would say), I am coaching myself to the starting line, talking myself through to the finish. Like running, life is hard. Some days we are going through the motions, just talking ourselves through to the finish. Some days its an accomplishment to just show up.

I am never finished.
Yesterday I ran 8 miles in 60 min. My fastest time for 10 miles is 91. Tomorrow I will attempt 12 miles for the first time. Today I am simultaneously pondering the great accomplishments I have realized in the past three months and also the fear I feel about the daunting task ahead. I think about how difficult four miles felt six weeks ago, and about the great sense of pride I felt after running eight. I think about the first time I ran ten miles, and about how great it felt to improve my pace over the past three weeks. I am nervous to try 12 miles, because I am nervous to fail. But I am also exhilarated at the possibility of success. And somehow the delicate balance of fear and excitement keeps me going, keeps me living, keeps me running.

Culture shock and coming home

2009-08-20T17:07:00.000-07:00

People always warn you about 'culture shock' when you travel to other countries, but no one ever warns you about the shock of coming home.

It only took me three days to start making lists again. I was in the shower when it happened, minding my own business, and all of a sudden my brain just starting doing this: Groceries (soymilk, almonds, avacados, crackers...). Laundry (whites, colors, darks...). Bank (deposit, checks, atm, cash). E-mail (gmail, mobile-me, facebook). Shortly after my shower I ate breakfast standing up. Again.

My North-American blood runs deep.

After breakfast I climbed into my car to run errands and as I drove along the road to Trader Joe's I passed GAP and Macy's, and I couldn't help it. I started thinking about the job that I was beginning in two weeks and about how I would need some professional clothing to work there, especially since I look (and sometimes act) basically like a high school student, and so clothing might be the one thing that separates me from the delinquent teenagers... and before I knew it I was adding those two stops to the checklist I had already created on my iPhone, which was inevitably growing to look something like this:

Trader Joes

GAP

Macy's

Nordstrom Rack

REI

Yuck. And as if that wasn't enough, later that same day I found myself in a fancy dressing room at a fancy department store, my new best friend Jessica (the commissioned woman who works there) throwing items over the top of my door, raving about how good I looked in the color pink. At one point I looked down at the price tag on the pair of jeans I was wearing and suddenly started to feel very sick, like I was on the precipice of something horrible. I felt like the recovering alcoholic, standing guilty in the middle of a night club; like the dude with a porn addiction sitting in his hotel room, tenderly holding the remote control...

There is a phrase in English that doesn't exist in Spanish. I taught it to Daniella while I was living in San Jose because she was trying to describe the way a person can feel two distinctly opposite feelings both at the same time. I told her that in English we say, I'm torn. She loved those words, and brooded over their imagery. She talked about the ripping of a piece of fabric, about the noise it makes as it tears in half.

Arrancar. Ripping. Chocar. Crash. Collision. That's what it feels like to come home. Like two parts of yourself colliding together, or like one part ripping in half.

I am struck with the notion that as a foreigner people expect you to be foreign. Its beautiful. Yes, people might whisper behind your back or wonder why on earth you would wear a tank top to church, or ask themselves silently if you washed your hair that morning before you stepped on that sticky bus... but for the most part no one really cares. Including you.

And as I ponder that beautifully whimsical feeling of foreignness I think about how Paul calls us all (as Believers) to be foreigners in this world, and about how I had never really understood what that meant before now.

All the things I thought I had learned about holding loosely to 'things,' about minimalism, about generosity and simplicity collided with me that day in the dressing room as I stood surrounded by fancy fabrics and big mirrors and price tags that represent whole months worth of food in Ecuador and Peru.

And now I can't help but recognize that being a foreigner in a foreign country is somehow easier than being a foreigner in your own. At home, expectations are strong. The cost of ignorance is high (ask me later and I'll tell you about the traffic ticket I received my first day driving again in this country). People get nervous when you act differently than they expect (if you don't believe me, try kissing the cheek of the next person you meet, rather than shaking their hand, and see how they react...). And, besides, simply acting contrary to your home culture doesn't really solve the problem. In fact, it sort of misses the point.

As I sit here typing I am trying to think of how to conclude this whole thing to make it make sense. I am trying to think about what the point is, rather than just what it isn't. But I have nothing. And for a girl who likes nicely trimmed edges and happy endings, ending without an ending feels just a little bit difficult. It feels like a stretch (deep breath)...

Apparently people die from this...?

2009-08-02T08:03:00.000-07:00

Rosey, turbo-traveling, and my Timbuktu bag

2009-07-28T12:58:00.001-07:00

Rosey and I met on the bus because of my Timbuktu bag. The encounter went something like this...

Hey!!!! (that´s Rosey... yelling at me from across the bus.)

Hey!!! (that´s me, enamored with Rosey´s enthusiam on this hot, sticky bus)

Where are you from? (asks Rosey)

Portland... (I answer) you?

I KNEW it!!! (that´s Rosey, not answering my question, moving on to the next subject before anyone has any idea what happened. So she says...) Where are you going? Can I come with?

Her tone is packed with enthusiasm, the way five-year-old kid´s voice sort of overflows with squeakiness when he asks a new friend to come out and play.

And that was how Rosey, in her own beautiful transparency, became my friend. It is also how I came to recognize transparency about loneliness as not such an ugly thing after all. Her accidental honesty is positively ravishing.

I told Rosey that I was going to Mal Pais, planning to stay in the Tranquillo Backpackers Hostel (because some Australian guys I met in Montezuma had recommended it to me... they said there were hundreds of hammocks and free pancakes and a well-equipped kitchen where poor, starving travelers make elaborate dinners each night) and before I had even sat in the seat next to her, I knew that Rosey was from Minnesota, went to school in Boulder, CO and was now living in San Francisco.

This girl moves fast, possibly even faster than me.

We arrived in Mal Pais to find that Australians aren´t messing around when they say hammocks and pancakes. Hung from every level of the hostel, from every roof, in every room there were hammocks. Hundreds! Sufers everywhere. Argentinians everywhere (I have a not-so-secret obsession with the accents Argentinians have when they speak Spanish. I can´t understand a lick of it, but I just like to listen). Free pancakes every morning. Board games everywhere. Hundreds of other people our age. The most incredible beaches you have EVER seen. This place is heaven.

And Rosey and I are bored in two days. We gotta get out of here.

So. We get on a bus. We have no idea where we are going, or for how long, so we spend most of our time arguing about who gets to decide which details. It goes a bit like this:

Okay, you get to choose the location if I get to choose the hostel. Fine but if you get to choose the hostel we aren´t taking the slow bus. But Rosey the slow bus is cheaper. But Ally the slow bus leaves at five in the morning. Five in the morning is not that early! Fine, we can take the fast bus but then we aren´t going out to a fancy dinner.

At one point I look at Rosey and just laugh.

What (That´s Rosey, wondering why I suddenly spiraled into a fit of giggling)

HehehehehehhehehHahahahahhahahah (thats me, laughing almost uncontrollably) I say... I have known you for, like, twenty minutes and already we are fighting like sisters!

Enter: Jon. (says Rosey: Ally... I saw the lipgloss come out, and I knew we were in trouble... I hadn´t seen you put on a lick of makeup the whole time I had known you and then...) Okay, admittedly, I fall rather intstantly in love. Jon is a lawyer from London with an impossibly attractive English accent. Jon is on our bus. Jon and I proceed to discuss (over the top of Rosey, who is sitting between us) everything from English politics to Postmodernism to that crazy Lat¡n American superstar who thinks he´s Jesus. Finally Rosey says (to Jon), would you like to trade me places? Yes, he would.

Somehow, Rosey and I finally settle on a decision to head to La Fortuna... where can hike to a Crater Lake, go rafting, see a v0lcano explode, relax in the hotsprings, and swim in a waterfall, all in the course of 24 hours. Jon, on the other hand is headed to the Pacific Coast. Exit: momentary-love-of-my-life.

In La Fortuna, Rosey and I complete a weeks worth of activities just in time for nightfall. We hike to the Crater Lake in 3.5 hours (apparently it is supposed to take 6...), swim in the waterfall, take a taxi to the viewpoint, watch the lava roll down the side of the volcano in the dark, make a pit-stop at the hotsprings, and then head back to the hostel where me make dinner and enjoy a really interesting and confusing conversation in Spanish with a french guy and two Israeli guys from Korea (no joke). We head to bed around midnight and wake up the next morning at 4am (for the fast bus) to Cahuita.

Caribbean coast, here we come!

We rent an ATV which we use to explore the coast, taking turns driving, plowing through pot holes and jungle and dirt roads and sand. When we return the ATV at sunset, faces dirty, Jen (the kind Californian who rented us the ATV) asks us where we went. We tell her we went South to Manzanilla and then North to Cahuita. She seems surprised. TODAY??? She asks. Yes, we say. In one day???? She asks. Yes, we say... looking at her, and then at each other, and then back at her. Que rapido, she says, shaking her head and smiling a bit.

Hmm... I have heard that before.

Rosey and I eat ice cream and watch the sunset. As we lick our ice cream cones peacefully, we decide that if it were up to us, we would just eat another ice cream cone instead of dinner. I laugh a bit. Then we both look at each other and pause for a moment.

And as we sat on the beach eating our second ice cream cone, Rosey looks at me and says... being an adult is fun.

And we both errupt into a fit of laughter.

Teaching and Learning

2009-07-28T07:55:00.000-07:00

I titled this blog the way I did because I wanted it to be a place where I could discuss the process of becoming a teacher. Specifically, I wanted to track the way that learning a language would prepare me for the specific task of language teaching. With this in mind, I suppose I anticipated that this would be a place where I would write quite a bit about about teaching.

How ironic (and appropriate) that what I have to say is far more about learning that it is about teaching. What a grand example of how teaching is mostly about learning, of how learning is a process, of how teaching always involves occupying the space of instructor and learner, sometimes in the same breath.

Some lessons I am learning...

People, places and things. Of the three, I am learning that people are the most important. I sometimes like to think otherwise. But even the most incredible places in the world... the most amazing things you have ever seen... seem dull when you experience them alone.

One more thing about things. I am learning to hold to them loosely. They will probably get stolen, or broken, or lost or dirty or maybe someone else needs them more than I do so I give them away, or maybe I don´t have room in my backpack so I have leave them behind... and in the end I am no less for my loss. In the past three months I have often gone without, but I have never suffered from the defecit. Without fail, my God provides.

Advice and learning the hard way. I am the last person in the world to discunt the power of learning the hard way. I have learned most of my life lessons (and suffered most of my injuries) by this cant-slow-down, I-am-an-expert-at-this, you-dont-have-any-idea-what-your-are-talking-about kind of approach. True. I have always been better at giving advice than taking it. But I guess I am learning that sometimes its best to keep my mouth shut and listen. There is no shame in taking advice from someone who knows. It doesn´t make me weak, it makes me smart. And it sometimes it even saves me something... my person, my luggage, or perhaps an unnecssary trip up the side of a mountain.

The glass. I have always been a glass-is-half-empty kind of a gal. A realist, I like to say, but perhaps a bit of a cynic, too. I was sitting at dinner a few nights ago (nothing special, just rice and beans) and I started musing over the phrase that Tyson always recites before he eats a meal. We live like Kings and Queens, he always says. I love that. And I guess I just started wondering if this trip might be working to cure me of my cynicism. I have certainly encountered enough kindness in this world to balance out the ugliness. And while I am hesitant to admit that the glass is half full, my cup? Runneth over.

Language Learning is nothing like I thought it would be. It is far more complex and organic than I ever imagined. Far more exciting and difficult and frusterating and wonderful than I could have ever predicted. I stupidly hoped I would walk away from this trip knowing exactly how to help my language learners acquire English as a second language. Of course, language learning is too unpredictable for that. But the good news is that I am walking away with something better. Empathy.

Un Espejo. Sometimes we can see ourselves best in other people, like a mirror. I met a girl on the bus about a week who reminded me so much of myself it almost scared me. Her name is Rosey and she´s the only person I have ever met in my life who moves more quickly than I do. Suddenly, I so vividly understood the words that have been spoken to me my whole life... Ally, slow down! Even more, I was saying them to her!

Perfectionism, Organization, and the Type A curse. Just try to live out of a backpack for three months and maintain your Type A tendencies... I dare you. Thank goodness I am learning to let my guard down, to accept less than perfection, to live with being a little dirty, a little disorganized, and to remember that I can´t possibly plan for everything. Life is more exciting this way.

Love. I have always hoped that love would just show up on my doorstep. And, if it didn´t, I had already decided that I would go out and find it. But leaving? What a strange way to learn that I was already surrounded by more love than I could have ever imagined, and to realize that sometimes love is as difficult as it is wonderful.

No place like home. I have been a Porland spokeswoman on this trip, so much so that people often look at me like I am crazy... like I must be lying. But the truth is that, in my mind, there is no exaggeration... Portland is the best! I have been some incredible places, but the truth is, I am ready to come home. I am ready for my bed and my family a cup of french-press coffee. I am ready for Trader Joes and Laughing Planet and Scrabble and microbrews and gardenburgers. I am ready for sister-time and Gilmore Girls (dont mock) and clean clothes and bike rides. I am ready for Solid Rock and Stumptown and that cute little breakfast place with the good pancakes, the one that I can´t even remember the name of because its been that long!

Yes, it is time. See you all very soon. Saturday, in fact.

open eyes, open heart, open mind

2009-07-07T18:33:00.000-07:00

Last night I couldn´t sleep on account of the fact that the crickets outside of my window were chirping too loud. It sounds crazy, I know, especially coming from a girl who spent the last three years of her life living on the corner of NW 21st and flanders... a location often plagued by late night (and early morning) noises: Late night bar-hoppers trying to jump off fire escapes. Downstairs neighbors bumping bad rap music. Fire trucks and police cars and garbage trucks... screaming sirens, slamming dumpsters against concrete.

Last night those crickets just seemed so loud.

I had been waiting nearly two weeks for the phone call about the job, the call that would fill in the blank spaces occupying the next year of my life. And although I perceived myself as fairly patient throught the process, last night, in my state of sleeplessness, my patience was running thin.

I pictured myself getting up, putting on my running shoes, and bursting out the back door to squash every last crickets until it was silent again. I lay awake in bed, trying to ease my frusteration, trying to fill in those blank spaces myself... trying to make a plan. And actually, by the time I fell asleep, I felt I had sufficiently arranged all of the necessary details in my head. Satisfied, I rolled over and slept right throught those chirping crickets. Then today... the call came. Today I got my answer.

No.

No is never an easy answer to hear, even when you were´t sure what you wanted the answer to be. Even when the idea of yes scared you half to death. Even when you are sure that there are other options ahead. I thought it was going to take all of my courage to agree to stay here in Costa Rica for the next chapter of my life... to agree to spend six more months without my family, my friends, my things... but, strangely enough, today it is taking more strength, more courage, to relinquish the picture I drew for myself, to come to terms with....

well, with what?

If I had another picture with which to replace the one I had drawn, perhaps this wouldn´t be so hard. If I could rearrange my proverbial playing cards, until I liked the way that they looked, until I was certain that everything was going to be okay, then maybe no wouldnt have felt so horrible after all.

Today, as I sent e-mails to all of the people who had been coaching me through this difficult process, I ran into my friend Jonah on g-chat and we had a digital heart-to-heart. Jonah is our acquired, honorary member of Team Adventure from Peru. He spent the last year of his life in Argentina, then traveled through South and Central America on his way home (Boston), and is now preparing for his next trip... Japan. I admire his quiet strenght, his patience, his spontanaety.

Jonah said to me... you´ll be fine. All you need is open eyes, an open heart, and an open mind.

I have been musing over that advice all day, and I know he is right. But it doesn´t make it any easier. Openness has never been something that comes easy for me. I am the girl with a list, with a plan. I am the girl with a vision and a mission and a 10-step process designed to help me achieve my goals. I am the girl who knows what she wants, knows what she has to do to get it, who puts her head down like a linebacker and just pushes through until she arrives. I am the girl who lives 10 min, 2 hours, a week, two months, 5 years ahead of herself... not the girl who appreciates the present moment.

So... mountains. They never look like we expect them to look... from the crest, from the trail, from the summit. Today I am reminding myself of that mountain I climbed in Ollaytantambo... the one that I swore I could never summit, the one that took every ounce of energy I could muster... the one with the spectacular view from the top.

On life and climbing mountains

2009-07-01T16:00:00.000-07:00

It seems like just yesterday that I was celebrating the summit of my most recent figurative mountain.
And ever since the completion of Graduate School, life has been a bit of a blur. The descent from my metaphorical mountain has been as steep as the climb itself. Exhuberating. Exhausting. Fast. And, at times, a bit conducive to the loss of footing.

And now I am here in Costa Rica, where at times I feel like I am wandering aimlessly in my own figurative valley, wondering what a person is supposed to do when she doesn´t have a mountain to climb. As strange as it is, I think I actually grew to love my fast-paced grad school life. I grew to love my lists. I would take them with me everywhere, like they were my friends, and with some sort of odd satisfaction I would cross-off tasks when they were complete. I would stay up late and wake up early and push myself beyond my comfortable limits. I would rope myself to my computer and my cell phone and my e-mail and respond rapidly and 'responsibly' to every message. I would brush my teeth and talk on the phone and make breakfast and put on mascara and finish my reading for class all at the same time.

In the midst of it all I became quite good with fast and busy and noise and deadlines... which is, perhaps, why my current location sometimes perplexes me so. I am no good at sitting still.

Costa Rica is Pura Vida (pure life), they say, and they are right. It is a land of good meals and family and reading in hammocks and ipods for morning runs. It is the kind of life Americans only dream of... a life without the persistent ringing of cell phones and beeping of e-mail and relentless drone of the television. But strangely enough the quiet can sometimes be as noisy as the noise itself. Sometimes the quiet sort of pushes into you. And as much as I hate to admit it, some days I long for the noise of the television to drown out the noise of my thoughts. Some days I am ready for the quiet to end.

Yesterday, I went for an interview with a PanAmerica school here in Costa Rica, one of the most prestigious bilingual schools in the country. Yesterday was my second interview, which I assume means the first one went okay, so of course my head is spinning with ideas about how my life would change if this opportunity were realized.

So now, in the silence, I am waiting. And as I wait for an answer about what to do next, I have so many silent thoughts making noise inside of my head.

Home.
Spanish.
Trust.
Family.
Plan.
Lonely.
Scared.
Strength.
Spanish.
Opportunity...
Cost.
Lost.
Missed.
Seized.

In the midst of doing next to nothing, I am learning quite a bit, actually. And on the horizon, I think I see my next mountain. Most days it appears too big for me to summit alone. But all I can do is just put one foot in front of the other, take one step at a time.

Poco a poco, they say here in Costa Rica. Poco a Poco.

As promised... machu pichu continued

2009-06-28T15:33:00.000-07:00

Machu Pichu is a 3-day trek from Santa Maria by foot, a trek which comes to an end in a beautiful (grotesquely touristy, but beautiful) city called Aguas Calientes. The final morning of the trek... the day that hundreds of weary travelers finally arrive at the ruins... hoards of people rise before dawn to conquer the trail to the top of the mountain.

Stairs line the trail the whole way up, meaning that climbers don´t get to choose the size of their steps. Crowds of people race to the top... hoping to be one of the 200 people (the daily limit) allowed to climb to the top of Wayna Pichu. The energy is high. The adrenaline is pumping. Tired (exhausted, burning) legs are no excuse to take a rest.

Its 4am. I have a backpack full of food and water, a stomach full of peanut butter and wonderbread (a typical trekking breakfast), a $45 ticket in my pocket (enough money to feed a person for a month in Peru), a burning desire to be one of the 200 allowed to climb the spectacular mountain towering above my head, and several (almost irritatingly competitive) male companions determined to be the first 10 to the gates...

and for some reason every step feels like torture.

All I can think about is how frustrating it feels to be the slowest, the weakest link. As the only girl in the group I have become accustomed to the feeling, but I have also become accustomed to steep hills, heavy packs, long days. I have become accustomed to pushing my limits, to digging deep. And in all seriousness, most days I keep up with the guys fairly well. Today, for some reason, its different. Today something is wrong. Today I am fighting a losing battle against my body.

I keep thinking to myself... it shouldn't be this hard. I keep chanting to myself, another step, another step, another step.

Suddenly I cant feel my arms. Then my cheeks. I know this feeling. Blood sugar. Or perhaps... altitude??? I don´t really have time to wonder. I am on my knees. Then my face. I am wiping the moisture from my forehead and my cheekbones with my dirt-stained hands. I cant see. I can't hear anything except a small, echoing voice saying my name, over and over...

Then, I taste chocolate. Ah, chocolate. Good for so many reasons. Namely, in this case, because it is chalk-full of fast-burning sugars, and seems to bring my quickly failing body back to life. When I open my eyes again Mikey and Jonah are kneeling in front of me, peering back with looks I recognize. Concern, fear, perhaps a bit of hope that the chocolate did the trick. My face is dirt-stained, my body feels weak, but I climb to my feet.

Slowly, surely, I am making it. And within a few minutes, I feel like myself again. I can feel all my limbs. My head is clear. My steps are certain. And as I gain confidence with each ascending step, I also regain clarity of thought. And, as I climb, I cant help but picture the thousands of feet that have trekked this path before me.

Some of those people, certainly, were just like me... foreigners, tourists, historians... desperate to witness just a glimpse of this thing... this mysterious thing that occupies such unique space in time... far enough away to seem magical, but close enough to seem so very real. I think about those who built these steps, who layed these stones, who carried the heavy boulders on their backs to the top of this unbelievable mountain, so that I can be here now.

I cant help but feel little.

Despite the delay, I still manage to be one of the first 200 to the top... not as fast as the guys, pero no me importa. I am allowed to hike the extra 1200 feet to Wayna Pichu, decend to the Grand Caves on the other side of the mountain, and summit the ruins once again. Almost 5 hours of hiking... all by 9am.

At the top of the ruins I am mesmerized. My plan to evesdrop on guided tours (since we are too cheap to pay for our own) is overshadowed by my burning desire to touch everything. I feel like Thomas. Skeptical. I feel like saying... no way, show me the scars... and I picture myself reaching out slowly, ever so gently, to run my fingers over the flesh.

And although Machu Pichu is perhaps one of the coolest places I have ever been, its a shame that these ancient ruins hoard all the tourist attention. The truth is, there are ruins everywhere in Peru... some equally as cool as Machu Pichu, and some of them totally free.

One of those places is Ollaytantambo. From Aguas Calientes we (fairly randomly) hopped a train to this quaint little indiginous town not too far away and, upon arrival, were delighted to find that the town was hosting a festival. We had no idea why, or what for, but the entire town was involved. Parades. Food. Music. Costume. Dance.

In my mind I pretended like (don´t laugh) they were celebrating us. Like we were the actors in some surreal film, and that once we arrived on set the director yelled action! and the show began. We drank beer. We ate several questionable (but cheap, delicious) items from street vendors. We enjoyed front row seats at a bull fight (and when I say front row I mean front row... closer to the bulls than I ever desired to be). We snuck into the Inca ruins and set up our campsite.

Then we climbed another mountain. This time 6000 feet, straight up, without a trail. We hacked through thick brush, traversed through sharp, sticky plants that bit at my legs through my hiking pants, ducked under low-hanging tree branches that threated to rip off my 40lb pack. At one point, I looked up the mountain at the guys who were far ahead, and felt a bit defeated. I felt angry at my body´s resistance to accomplish what my will was so eager to achieve.

For quite some time I thought... I wont make it. But then again... lately... I´ve been doing a lot of things of which I didn´t think I was capable.

That night, we camped at 14,200 feet. We cooked something for dinner that, under normal circumstances would have struck me as disgusting, but in this instance seemed to me perfectly gourmet. We took pictures of the sun setting underneath of us. We looked below our feet at the passing clouds.

As I sat on the highest rock above our campsite, I couldn´t help but be impressed that I had made it to top. Even now, as I think back to that moment, I recognize it as monumental.

Looking down is perhaps the greatest part about climbing mountains, after all. The reason we climb is for the view from the top. Its always hard. But its also always deeply satisfying. From the top we look down at the obstacles below... the ones that seemed so difficult before but now look like building blocks, like legos in retrospect... and we get to say:

I did it.

Ah, to be clean again...

2009-06-18T08:18:00.001-07:00

After three and a half weeks of camping, burping, sweating, not showering, eating garlictunastufferole (our new camping specialty... recipe to be shared at a later date), experiencing the subsequent gastrointestinal side-effects, and traveling with men whose side effects were far worse than mine... it sure feels good to feel like a woman again. I have clean, dry hair, new clothes and a brand new lease on life.

Dani's mom took me yesterday to a store in Costa Rica called Pequeño Mundo, a Costco-looking location filled to the brim with cardboard boxes, each box containing hoards of brand new, brand name clothes from The States, most items for under $5. As far as I could ascertain, the clothing comes from American department stores post-clearance clear-outs and (although many of the styles are from 1999) the clothing is sold in bulk at super super super discount prices. Brilliant.

Perhaps I should mention that Dani, her sister Laura, and her mom all looked shocked (and perhaps a little disgusted) when I unloaded my dirty laundry from my backpack. Laura couldn't believe I didn't have more clothes. Tres semanas! she kept saying, solo este! And as Dani's mother wandered off with my small wad of clothing to put them in the washing machine, I desperately told Dani to ask her mother not to smell them.

Regardless, Pequeno Mundo turned out to be a huge success. I bought 5 new shirts, two pairs of pants, a pair of shorts, two pairs of shoes, a purse and several unmentionables for about 60 USD.

But the most remarkable part of all was the jeans.

Not surprisingly, Pequeño Mundo was not equipped with a dressing room, so I deliberated over this certain pair of jeans for 20 minutes I least. I loved them, but every woman knows (especially a woman with an inseam longer than 34 inches) that it isn't smart to buy jeans without trying them on. Finally, I decided... what the heck. What did I have to lose, right? They didn't need to be perfect, and they were only $3.

Then, the most amazing thing happened. I came home, I tried them on, and they FIT. Not only did they fit, but they were perhaps the most comfortable, most flattering pair of jeans I had ever owned. A regular modern-day miracle.

Okay, so maybe not a miracle but... in all seriousness, the pair of jeans, the hairdryer, having a seat on a toilet (don't ask) all seem like incredible luxuries to me right now. What a remarkable change. What an incredible lesson.

As I was chatting on the phone last night with my parents (luxury!!!), I realized that in the midst of some terribly uncomfortable situations, I have learned a great deal about flexibility and attitude from one of my travel companions... my friend Mikey. I have heard it said that you don't really know a person until you see how they respond to a rainy day, lost keyes, or missing a flight. I have never seen Mike respond to these things. But I have seen him respond to worse. And, ultimately, one of the things that made our trip so remarkably wonderful, fun, exciting and memorable was the positively contagious attitude Mike maintains... in all circumstances. I don't think I know a single person in the world who is as encouraging, flexible and purely easy to be around as this man. I know he'll never read this (he doesn't even check his e-mail) but I will make sure he knows how much I admire him, learn from him, respect him...

Anyway, enough sentimentality... back to the important stuff!!

I trashed my ugly purse from Ecuador, an item I only bought because it was so perfectly ugly that I couldn't resist (I wanted to carry my valuables in a bag that said to the world... I am so ugly that I could not possibly have anything valuable inside of me). And as I threw the purse in the garbage I explained to Dani what I was doing. I swear I saw her sigh with relief that I hadn't actually thought the bag was attractive. She says she didn't, but I swear she did!

Speaking of being all womanly and clean and domestic-like, I have been cooking so much since I arrived in Costa Rica. After the cooking classes in Cusco, and the cookbook I bought in Ecuador, and all the new food I tried in Peru, I am full of ideas and full of energy in the kitchen. I hope you're all ready for some serious dinner parties when I come home (Sharaya).

Last night, I helped Dani's mom prepare a dish I didn't recognize involving rice and beans (siempre siempre siempre, cada dia, in Central America) and eggs and cheese and tortillas. Ricisimo. And today we are going to try our hand at humitas, my new favorite Ecuadorian food. I'll let you know how they turn out.

And to help us burn the calories from all this delicious food... this morning, with Dani, I went to Spinning. Yeah, I know! Spinning in Costa Rica! And while I sweated and gasped for breath and felt my legs burst into flames I learned a new Spanish word. Duro=hard. Tan duro=too hard for me! How pathetic that a spinning class is the most difficult thing I have done since the 6000 ft climb in Ollayntantambo. Oh, right... I haven't written about that yet!

I better get to work. I have some serious story-telling to do...

Costa Rica

2009-06-16T07:06:00.000-07:00

For the curious... yes. I have arrived.

And for the even more curious... I am sitting in a comfy bedroom in a beautiful house in San Isidro (AKA San Josito... little San Jose) Costa Rica, soaking in the sunshine through the skylight and the nearby window, enjoying a morning cup of coffee, fresh-baked bread, and the 14 hours of sleep that just caught me up to normal-ish. I am feeling stressed about only one thing... How on earth am I going to catch up on my blog???

Hope you're ready for some reading, because tengo los historias para contar. I am going to start with the most recent, and work my way back.

We left Cusco Thursday night, around 5:30pm, by bus. We asked the ticket salesman... repeatedly... if the bus was limpia y seguridad and received his overwhelming assurance that it was.

The man asked us where we would like to sit on the bus, and we looked at each other, and at the map, and back at each other. Donde estan los baños? Mikey asked and then pointed to the seats furthest from that point. We both laughed, which seemed to render the ticket man a bit displeased, but we assured him... Esta bien... no hay problema... es una chiste con nosotros.

We ate one last time at our favorite restaurant in Cusco (below), stocked up on snacks at una tienda cerca de la parada (including delicious chocolate that we couldn't seem to find anywhere else) and boarded the bus back to Lima, a ride which lasts about 20 hours.

We watched several thrilling, academy award winning pictures on the bus... including but not limited to The Devil Wears Prada, Mama Mia and The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, all of which were dubbed with remarkably convincing Spanish voices. I watched all the feature films offered because I wanted to get my money's worth... and also because I found it difficult to relax with my view out the bus window... the bus towering over deadly cliffs, no guard rails in sight. By the time we arrived in Lima, I was delusionally tired, dirty and hungry.

Thanks to our Rough Guide, we found an amazing hostal with a kitchen and living room... a great way to relax and save cash our last few days in Peru, not to mention the best way to meet people from other countries. Irony of ironies, from the window of our new amazing hostal we could see the window of our old, dumpy hostal, from our first stay in Lima... where the theives had broken in during the first days of our trip. While this incident now seemed a distant memory, we shared a laugh about the way we had slowly determined, during the three weeks of the trip, the items which the thief had taken and those he had chosen to leave behind. In Nasca we realized that the theif had taken an entire bag of camping food, which was strange because right next to the bag of food was a huge duffle full of mountaineering equiptment... worth several thousand dollars. I hope he enjoyed our trail mix!

At our hostal we met a dear Sweedish couple, Jo and Danny, traveling while on a break from Pharmeceutical school. They too had been trekking for several weeks and were looking for a few days to relax in Lima. They wandered with us, shared cheap food with us, made delightful conversation with us, and watched with us more badly dubbed (and pirated!) movies. Suerte a la pajarita en sus viajes.

Still, my actual last night in Lima was spent in the airport, since the boys' flight left at around midnight on Monday, and mine didn't leave until 10am the following morning. I truly believe I would have slept beautifully on the hard, tile floor... with my backpack roped to my ankle... if it hadn't been for the rather irritating dude I met around midnight... from Portland, of all places. How ironic that the one irritating person I meet on this whole trip is from my hometown. Not sure what that says.

At about 4am I decided to give up on sleep, and saving money, and bought a Starbucks... for a price that could have purchased a whole day's meals in Peru... and of course once the caffeine hit my stomach I was fast asleep. It made no sense to me either, but perhaps it was the comfy Starbucks chair... or the scintillating conversation my new friend was generating about his job as a mechanical engineer. I think I fell asleep mid-sentence. Esta bien. He was still there when I woke up.

At which point he offered to buy me breakfast, and I was out of money, so I let him. Shortly after, he boarded a plane, I read 6 or 7 chapters in my book, battled my way through customs (where I fought for 25 minutes to keep my lip gloss... don't ask), boarded my own plane, watched Twilight (in Spanish), slept a bit, shared conversation with a delightful Argentinian man, and then... I was in Costa Rica!

So... I am running on one good night of sleep in a week, but I am here. I am comfortable, well-fed, in love with Dani's family, and ready to explore this beautiful country. En español, Mañana, necessito conocer San Isidro.

Machu Pichu, or whatever

2009-06-10T14:08:00.000-07:00

My favorite stories of my travel adventures are, without a doubt, the people I meet... Team adventure is gaining members.

Exactly one week ago today we attended a Peruvian cooking class in Cusco, a delightful treasure we stumbled upon by happenstance. Mikey is a member of of the South American Explorers club, an organization that helps travelers plan treks in different parts of SA, so last Wednesday when we needed a place to store our bags between the time we checked out of our hostal and the time that our bus left Cusco for Santa Maria, we decided to drop them at the SAE clubhouse. The kind student volunteer working the desk at SAE explained that their storage was full, but that if we wandered down to the Spanish school a few blocks away, the receptionist there would likely be happy to guard our luggage while we visited the ruins.

She was right, the young receptionist at the Spanish school gladly accepted our giant backpacks, and somewhere in the process of herconversation with us also mentioned that the school was hosting a cooking class that evening. Less that 2 USD to attend, help cook, and (the best part) eat the delicious Peruvian dishes!

So we spent the day exploring the ruins...some by foot, some by horse, and then headed to cooking class where we were promptly put to work chopping and peeling and mashing. And as we chopped and peeled and mashed we talked with our chopping companions... one of which was a new friend named Jonah. We spoke to Jonah for quite some time in Spanish before learning that he was from Boston, a fact which one wouldn´t guess upon meeting him. He is far too gentle and kind and intellectual for that place (sorry, Boston). When told Jonah that we were leaving that evening for Machu Pichu, his face turned very serious. He wanted to come.

Two hours later, on the bus... after Jonah had scrambled to pack his things, retrieve a last-minute bus ticket, and rent the camping equiptment needed to make the 3-day trek with us to Machu Pichu, we gave Jonah the Team Adventure name, rapido... for obvious reasons. He was officially a member, and a welcome addition to our team.

After a clean, but equally scary bus ride to the last one mentioned, we arrived in Santa Maria, a tiny little Pueblo ouside of Cusco at about 3am. Nothing was open. Very few people were around. But when the bus pulled into the station, one of the shop owners emerged from his tienda and offered to let us pitch our tents on his loading dock. Comfy.

2 hours of no sleep later the sun had come up in Santa Maria, and we reluctantly emerged from our cement campsite. Breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall cafe. ´´Showers´´ in the bathroom there. Change of clothes where our backpacks were leaning against a cement wall outside. And we were on the road. 6 hours of intense, hot, dusty hiking from Santa Maria to Santa Teresa later, we began to hear music in the distance. First the bass, then a bit of a melody... then we saw it. Not a hologram, but an actual oasis in the middle of the desert with cold water and cold beer and food and hammocks. Perfect resting spot.

Faulty directions from the locals (who were visibly irriatated that we weren´t using a guide) sent us, unnecessarily, halfway up a very steep mountian, across a rickety bridge, and (of course) back to where we began. Undeterred, we found our way at last, arriving a mere 4 hours later to our desired destination, a tiny little cable car that would zip us across a raging river to Santa Theresa, where we had been told there were decent hot springs, a perfect place to rest our tired bodies. The cable car could handle two people... so, one bag (the size of a small person) and one person at a time, we crossed the river. And ten minutes later, we were in paradise. Literally.

No one told us that the hot springs outside of Santa Theresa were the next best place to heaven. I wish I could describe to you the beauty of this place but believe me when I say... my words couldn´t touch it. I started counting the amount of times that I heard us say words like, unbelievable or unreal that night... and I lost count after 100...

Hotsprings. Dinner. Campsite. Showers. Breakfast. More trekking...

This time along an abandoned railroad. Or, we thought it was abandoned, until we heard the screeching horn from behind us, and were forced to press ourselves and our giant backpacks against the cold stone wall to avoid being creamed in the narrow passage. Apparently this is part of the allure of the trek for foreign travlers. We were sufficiently allured.

The railroad led us directly to Aguas Calientes, or Machu Pichu Pueblo, a quaint and happening little tourist town where travlers generally sleep for a few hours before makng the intense trek to the top of the famous Inca ruins. The competition between hostals in this town is so intense, that we scored two rooms in a hostal for less than a campsite would have cost. And, ultimately, we were glad we took the offer, because the hostal is where we met our new friends Jacqueline and Stephen (two more solo travlers). We invited them to dinner... and team adventure kept growing!

Jacqueline has been trekking South America alone for several weeks now... half brave, half scary (in the words of Mikey). She is from Canada, and is delightful to be around. She has a pleasant, contagious laughter and always a smile on her face. She is easy-going and tough at the same time.

Stephen has a thick Australian accent and reminds me a bit of the Crocodile hunter. He has been traveling alone in South and Central America for several months now and has literally been everywhere. He has a story for everything, is loud and funny, and every word that comes out of his mouth sounds awesome. He wears a hat like you would expect from an Australian travler, and is always, always moving. He´s like the Energizer Bunny.

At 4am the following day we began our trek to Machu Pichu, with headlamps, plenty of water, food, (crazy expensive) tickets and enough excitement to fuel us at that ungodly hour. In less than four hours we had hiked to the entrance, hiked to the top of Wyna Pichu, hiked down the other side, back up to the ruins, and explored each peak of this unbelieveable site. Pictures are a must... and are coming soon... although the photos won´t indicate how sore our legs were at the end of the day.

There are about a million more details to share, but this post is already long, and I am being summoned to dinner. Promise to continue very soon....

Lima, my birthday, and the worst bus ride ever...

2009-06-10T11:10:00.001-07:00

So... here I am, playing catch-up once again, because I haven´t written in weeks. What a delightful whirlwind this trip has been! I am going to try to hit the highlights... (and maybe some lowlights too. You know, for comedy´s sake ...)

I arrived safely and easily in Lima, found Mikey in the airport, and the two of us caught a Combie (a combination taxi-bus) to our hostal in Miraflores. The combies in Lima are equally as terrifying as the buses in Quito... and the terror of this particular trip was amplified by the fact that I was sitting backwards behind the drivers seat with all my luggage in my lap. Vale la pena, however, since we saved ourselves about 40 USD in cab fare, and sicne Mikey got a sweet video of our several hundred near-car-accidents on the way.

Lima is a huge city, filled with people from all over the world. What an incredible cultural experience! My favorite cultural happenstance was at the hostel, when seven people from seven different parts of the world, with severn different first languages, all attempted to communicate in one mutual language... Spanish. This was especially interesting since none of us spoke Spanish with tremendous ease. Confusing, yes. Totally amusing, yes and yes.

On that note, I have been speaking a ton of Spanish since I arrived. Mikey´s Spanish is pretty good, although we´ve been told by the locals that mine is better (haha!). Still, Mike has me beat in that he is much better about trying. He is teaching me to take a chance with what I know.

Along with its amazing diversity, Lima is incredibly humid and rainy and polluted. And similar to other cities in South America, there is a great deal of crime there... a reality which we experienced first hand twice in our first two days of the trip. Day one, we were robbed by a taxi driver (long, unbelievable story), and day two, someone broken into the room of our hostel and stole several things, icnluding a very expensive camera. I don´t even know what more to say about this... as theft and crime are becoming somewhat of the norm for me.

So... on that note, my birthday was sort of lame. We didn´t feel much like celebrating. We spend the day moping a bit, trying to find the fastest way out of the city without ever leaving the room in our hostal unoccupied. And by 4am, we were on a bus to Nasca.

Nasca! What an amazing change from Lima!!! We found a beautiful hostal right in the town square, called Hotel Alegria. Alegria=happiness in Spanish... how appropriate! This little Spanish Hacienda had a swimming pool and an eating area surrouded by a beautiful garden. Comfortable chairs, comfortable beds, and an amazing contiental breakfast in the morning. The best part was the price. We paid 8 USD per night.

Nasca is a fairly small town, without much touristy stuff to do, which was fine with us. We spent our two days there wandering the quaint street corners, meeting locals, talking about art, eating amazing food and enjoying the ambiance. We met a family in the town square that spoke with us in Spanish for several hours one evening. Mikey started playing soccer with the boys, and attracted quite the crowd. Then he started a competition to see who could walk on their hands the longest. He acquired a regular fan club. I can´t wait to show pictures.

The family from the square invited us to their home the next day for a celebration. I have no idea what they were celebrating, but they certainly went all out! There was enough food and beer and wine and dancing for days! Unreal! We were totally specatactles in that place... the only Gringos in sight... but we didn´t care. We danced the day away. La Comida=ricisimo. Bailando=muy divertido.

We said goodbye to Nasca with a bit of reluctance, but a great deal of excitement because of our next destination... Cusco. Not to mention, we scored a killer deal on our bus ticket. 20 USD for a 14 hour bus ride on a bus line the local family had recommended to us. Far cheaper than Cruz Del Sur, the tourist line we had used to bus from Lima. The bus left at 9:40pm, from an abandoned lot just up the highway (where one of our newfound friends agreed to drive us...) which perhaps should have been our first clue that this wasn´t going to be the most luxury bus ride we had ever taken.

I am not sure if there are words to descibe how dirty or disgusting this bus really was. Or how scared I felt, in the middle of the night, as the driver flew (maybe 60mph) around corners with no guard rails... 2000 feet drops on either side. I don´t think that there are words that adequately express how terrible the bathroom smelled from our seats right outside its door, or how uncomfortable I felt with my backpack on my lap the entire ride, since I refused to allow the driver to put it under the bus...

I can, however, tell you that when the ride got really bumpy, about halfway there... sometime between 3 and 4 am... the man right in front of me became carsick and threw up all over my feet. And I was wearing sandals. Yes, yes. So many lessons learned.

1. You get what you pay for.
2. It can always get worse.
3. Sometimes life is funny, and its best just to laugh.

Worth the 40 bucks we saved? Maybe not. Worth the 14 hours of nervous, painful laughing... the subsequent stories, and the lessons well-learned. Perhaps.

More to come. For now, Cusco is waiting...

On Fear and Life in Cumbaya

2009-05-27T17:21:00.001-07:00

Today, as I am preparing to leave for Peru, I am thinking about the details of the past few days.

Life in Cumbaya has been wonderful. I have been living with Fernanda´s mother (Carmen) and sister (Isabel) in their beautiful, peaceful home. Isabel graciously gave up her bedroom for me and, no matter how much I insisted, wouldn´t let me sleep on the couch instead. Ecuadorians are so remarkably kind. They have taught me a great deal about humility and hospitality.

Each morning Carmen makes coffee... real coffee... and we share stories over the breakfast table, in broken Spanish and English. Yesterday Carmen made granola, which we ate with fresh yogurt. Delicious.

I have also been meeting with a Spanish tutor, who offered to give me private lessons for a remarkable price. Each session is two hours, and he like to teach as much in those two hours as possible! He gives lots of homework for practice, and my brain hurts, but I think my Spanish is improving... at least I hope!

Yesterday morning I woke up to the sound of Carmen, Fernanda´s mom, speaking to Isabel in Spanish. I emerged from my room, squinty-eyed and mussled, and when Carmen saw me she looked excited. ¨Its a message for you too!¨ she exclaimed.

I must have looked sooooo confused, because I was.

In Spanish, slowly, she explained that she had been praying all morning, and that she had received a message for Isabel and I. She read to us from 1 John , chapter 2, verses 14 and 15.

The passage addresses ´jovenes,´or ´young ones´and repeats the same message three times. Do not be fearful, for you are strong. Do not be fearful, for you have overcome... Do not be fearful, young ones, for God abides in you.

A little later I left the house, took a short bus ride into town, enjoyed a cup of coffee at a small café in La Esquina (pictured below) and then ventured to a hiking trail that runs from Cumbaya to to Puembo, about 23 Kilometers away. What a beautiful day it was for a hike.

The magestic, peaceful trail took about 4 or 5 hours to hike, and the whole time I was thinking about what a remarkable gift it is to feel safe. I have never thought about my own safety much before, but now, having (in such a small way) tasted fear in Quito, I wonder if a constant perception of danger isn´t one of the most emotionally exhausting hardships a person can endure.

I have read books by Holocaust survivors. I am captivated by the poetry of refugees like Li-Young Lee. But not until Quito have I ever felt... for myself... the persistent, relentless fear for personal safety. Certainly I am not comparing my own experience to theirs. My own experience barely touches the fear that these authors have tasted. But now, in light of my experience here, I can´t help but revisit those texts in my mind. I can´t help but re-read those stories with a brand new lense.

Even more, I love Carmen´s message about fear. I wonder if, sometimes, my fear is misdirected. I wonder if I am afraid of that which cannot cause me harm.

My Spanish tutor offered to give me a ride to the airpot, an offer that is unbelieveably generous. I reminded him that the airport was a 45 min drive away. I told him I could pay for a cab. I insisted that it wasnt his responsibility. And when he still persisted, I asked him why he was being so nice. He said, ´The most important thing is that you are safe.´

Pues...

2009-05-26T21:02:00.000-07:00

Last night I made dinner for Fernanda´s family in Cumbaya, which we devoured over some rather confusing but interesting bilingual conversation about the PH diet, postmodernism and a Latin American pastor who claims to be the next Jesus Christ.

I made Chicken Enchiladas and chocolate chip cookies, both dishes which frequent the Spotts´ home in the States. Surprisingly enough, the seemingly South American ingredients for Enchiladas were really difficult to find. Ecuador doesn´t carry tortillas or tortilla chips... go figure. And Ecuadorians don´t bake cookies, so chocolate chips were totally out of the question. The good news is that REAL vanilla extract was only 68 cents and I bought 6 giant fresh avacados for less than a dollar.

My favorite moment of the night was when I expressed my excitement about the vanilla extract to the family and Fernanda said, ¨I didn´t even know there was such a thing as fake vanilla extract...¨ Jamieson and I laughed. Leave it to Americans, Jamieson and I said. Fake honey. Fake vanilla extract. Fake maple syrup. Most of us don´t even know what the real stuff tastes like.

Oh, in case your were dying to know... I used a broken candy bar in the cookies, pita bread instead of tortillas, and potato chips instead of tortilla chips. It did the trick.

During the dinner-making process I decided that Ecuador must have missed the American memo about efficiency. No one here seems to be too concerned with the fastest way to do things. Pre-grated cheese, electric can-openers, and express lanes at the supermarket are non-existant. And don´t even get me started on the buses...

The good news about anti-efficiency is that Ecuadorians really enjoy their meals. I mean really sit and enjoy their meals. We sat around the dinner table for four hours last night, enjoying seconds, sipping coffee, nibbling on dessert, talking and laughing. Fernanda even taught us a Spanish song about a sick frog who farts four times and feels better the next day. Haha. Don´t ask.

The Ecuadorians I have met are totally committed to sharing meals together, so much so in fact, that the idea of a person eating a meal standing up is practically blasphemous to them. When I mentioned that I usually eat my breakfast standing at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in the morning, my host mom nearly hit the floor.

Carol commented once along the way that when we travel to foreign locations we often leave a piece of ourselves behind... and we always bring a piece of our destinations home. I think that If I could bring anything home with me, it would be this... Family. Food. Songs about sick frogs farting.

Laughter.

More photos... finally!

2009-05-25T14:52:00.000-07:00

One of the most amazing views in Quito is from the top of the Basilica. Its quite the climb... both steep and scary... but worth every step.

!Vale la pena!

Lindsey and Denise (my hiking buddies) and I on our first hike in Ecuador... around the crater of a phenomenal volcano.

One of Ecuador´s many unbelieveable mountains...

Trying to do a pushup at the Ecuator. Its harder than you think!

Juntos

2009-05-24T18:16:00.001-07:00

I found these thoughts in my journal this morning... thoughts I meant to transfer to the blog long ago but never found the opportunity. Although a bit out of context chronologically speaking, they seem remarkably interesting in light of my most recent post on loneliness. Exactly as it appears in my journal...

A true introvert at heart, this trip is teaching about what it takes to be together, to be part of a group.

I woke up early this morning, as is my tendency. The rest of my host family was still sleeping so I let myself into the kitchen to prepare a cup of coffee. I sat at the kitchen table, journaling peacefully, sipping my warm beverage, feasting on a delicious home-made columbian pastry... when my host mother walked in the room. She looked horrified. You´re eating alone!? She exclaimed. We never eat alone! Next time, she said, wake me up and I´ll eat with you!

This is perhaps the most profound cultural difference I have encountered since I have been in Ecuador.

The experience is asking me to think about togetherness, about the way that sometimes I resist. On this trip, and in life in general, I constantly find myself resistant to the idea of group stuff. As early as the Portland Airport (in terms of this trip) I noticed the way I purposefully lagged behind the group, preferring to grab my own cup of coffee, at a separate Starbucks... the way I felt inclined to find a quiet corner and read my book.

If there is one piece of Ecuador that I want to take home with me, it is the pervasive sense of togetherness. I am learning so much about togetherness here.

Togetherness requires comprimise. In Quito, we don´t travel anywhere alone, and as a result, I am required to exercise flexibility (yes, at times it feels like exercise... like running a marathon). This involves going places I would not have otherwise gone. It requires begging others to accompany me places I may have rather gone alone. I went with Denise yesterday to the Museo de Cultura de Ecuatoriana. I dragged Kathy and Tracy with me on a hike early (early!) the other morning in Banos.

Interestingly enough, the Cultural Museum was perhaps one of my greatest memories of the trip. Similarly, I think Kathy and Tracy would admit they are glad I dragged them out of bed at 6am to scale that mountain to Luna Runtun.

Togetherness requires coordination, and coordiantion without the use of cell phones seems practically blasphemous to me. My generation is dumbstruck by this dilemma. Suddenly the phrase, I´ll meet you at the restaurant at three o`clock means I´ll be at the restaurant at three and I`m not going anywhere until I see your face. How strange.

Togetherness requires forgiveness, grace, compassion, understanding and humilty. Togetherness requires me to persist. I have now spent two (sometimes wonderful, sometimes frusterating) weeks with the same group of people and I think, most of all, I am learning about persistence, about pursual.

I can´t help but think about my cultural tendency to disconnect. I am bombarded with messages of independance, of separation, disconnection, protection... I have bought these messages wholeheartedly. As Michelle would say, I have the Great Wall of China built around my heart.

This morning, over my coffee, I am deconstructing my own Great Wall... and also the ones I know my companions have built too. I am hoping for the strength to persist in relationship, for the gumption to pursue. I hope not to be dissuaded by the tall stone structures of resistance. I hope for gentleness, for care...

I hope for friendship.

And then there was one...

2009-05-20T08:20:00.000-07:00

There is so much to say, I hardly even know where to start.

Last night I went to the airport in Quito to say goodbye to my George Fox travel companions. I watched them, one by one, disappear behind the security gate in that stupidly overdramatic movie scene kind of a way. And then suddenly, I was alone in Ecuador... a realization that proved to be more emotional for me than I anticipated. The entire ride home in the taxi I cried.

The strangest part of all is that I generally perceive myself to be quite good at being alone. I am not sure that I can adequately express how or why this alone is different than every other alone I have ever experienced. I can only say that there is loneliness that accompanies language learning that is far more isolating than any other loneliness I have ever navigated. I felt glimpses of that emptiness even when my friends were still here, but now it feels unbelievably persistent and unforgiving.

My mom gave me this verse before I left home. Philemon 4.19, ¨God shall supply all your needs according to the richness of His mercy...¨ I am feeling the weight of his provision as I sit in front of this computer screen.

Two American travelers joined my host home this week, by ¨accident.¨ Host families are not supposed to accept more than one student at a time, but the family I was staying with accidentally overlapped my visit with these other students´visit by four days. The boys that arrived last Wednesday are from Elmgrove, Wisconsin, and are attending Martin Luther College to become Pastors. Their friendship, conversation and Spanish help has been the most amazing blessing.

I attended church with Jamison and Fernanda this morning. The pastor spoke on Genesis 12, in which God calls Abraham to leave his home behind, take his family and ´go out´to a new land. The pastor emphasized that God doesn´t tell Abraham where he is going, he just asks him to trust, and to follow. He also emphasized that God promises blessings to Abraham beyond what Abraham dreams for himself. Fernanda translated it for me like this... ¨We hand our dreams to God, but they are so small... He grows them into what He dreams for us.¨ I love that.

Tonight I am thinking about how, in order to receive the blessing God promised Abraham, he had to leave all that was comfortable for him, all that he loved. What a poignant message for me to hear this morning.

After church I made a long awaited phone call home. The voices of my family members were like oxygen for me today... I needed that.

After talking to my family, Jameson and Fernanda took me by bus to the home where I will be staying for the next four days until I leave for Peru. The house is located in Cumbaya, a small town outside of Quito. This place is nothing like Quito. The house is quaint and beautiful, phenomenally but modestly decorated with glasswork and artwork crafted by Fernanda, her mother, and her two sisters. There are lime trees growing in the front yard, beautiful flowers everywhere, and a small tienda up the hill where the owner called Fernanda by name. This place is provision.

As I think about provision, and about my friends who are now back on American soil, I have a few more things I need to say...

Amanda. The almonds you left for me are provision in a big way. I am enjoying them as we speak.

Denise. I can´t stop thinking about our conversation before airport, and that amazing breakfast Fernando and Ximena bought for us... I can´t think of anything I love more than good food and good conversation. I can´t wait to be friends when I come home.

Gustavo, I passed your host house today and wished I could stop by and chat for awhile with you your host mom in Spanish. Thanks for always answering my crazy Spanish grammer questions.

Kathy, thanks for sharing your wisdom, and your persistent joy.

Carol, Tatiana and Becky... thanks for your hard work to arrange this trip, for the beautiful words you wrote in my card. I will enjoy a good meal this week, and think of you.

For tonight, that´s all. Rest is in order. Rest in the beautiful way a person can rest in a place like Cumbaya.

The city, not the bathroom...

2009-05-19T05:45:00.000-07:00

For those of you who thought, based on my last facebook status update, that I was excited to climb a mountain in the bathroom, I apologize. I forgot to capitalize! The truth is that I spent the weekend in Baños, a beautiful and quaint little mountain town nestled in the Ecuadorian Andes. There are not words to describe the splendor of this place.

The good news is... there are pictures!

Our trip to Baños was far too short, but we crammed about as many adventures into 48 hours as possible. Immediately when we arrived we visited several of the area´s spectacular waterfalls, one of which we observed from a tarabita... the shaky-looking cart thingy pictured here. I didn´t dare take a picture of myself while I was in the cart (I needed both hands to hang on!) so instead I took a photo of the adorable little elementary school children who rode the cart after us. I think they were less scared than we were! Nevertheless, we bravely rode the tarabita across the canyon, over the waterfall, and then hiked down into the canyon to see the view from below. Unreal.

We also hiked El Sendero los Dioses, another waterfall in the area that allows you, at the end of the hike, to climb through a narrow rock tunnel alongside and behind the waterfall. Only a few of us braved the clausterphobia and mud, and those of us who did emerged on the other side soaking wet and dirty! Wish I would have brought an extra pair of pants to Baños!

On Saturday morning I woke up early... to the sound of a rooster crowing, literally. At 6am I set out for a hike to Luna Runtun, an exorbinant spa and resort in the tips of the mountains, about a 2000ft climb from our hotel. I say 'exorbinant,' because that is what the Ecuadorians say about this resort... and of course the spa is phenomenal and luxurious. But luxury in this country comes at a far different cost than luxury in the US. One of the guests who I spoke with than morning told me that rooms at Luna run about $60 USD per night.

On the hike I saw a tarantula. No, I didn´t take a picture. I ran like a little girl.

I also ate Cui, or Guinea Pig, a delicacy prepared for special occasions among the indigenous people of Ecuador. It tasted like chicken.

I held a baby boa.

There is so much more to tell, I can hardly bear to end here! But for now I have to go teach an English class. Internet is slow and uploaing pictures takes forever!!!

Promise much more to come very soon.

Breaking the silence...

2009-05-13T15:13:00.000-07:00

I have been quiet for a few days now, both in cyberspace and elsewhere, partially at least because this week´s events have proven a bit difficult for me to process. The girl I met at the Basilica has been on my mind constantly. A tangible fear rests among the members of my group. Several of us are sick with food poisoning. There is a certain quiet that exists among us now, a disquieting quiet.

But now I think I have some things I need to say.

The robbery my friends endured the other night is upsetting for several reasons, obviously. But I suppose I find it most frusterating to know that the students who were robbed were doing all the ´right´things--keeping cash in various places, not carrying backpacks, walking with purpose, traveling in groups. It didn´t matter. In seconds, the assaulters approached, reached into their pockets, took all their cash, ripped a necklace from my friend´s neck and quickly left. The fact of the matter is this: My friends were targeted because they were foriegners, not because they were being unsafe.

How frusterating it feels to be targeted... just because I am white, because I don´t speak Spanish, because I am an American. It isn´t fair. And that untouchable feeling of injustice has been stewing inside of me for days now. Today I think I feel ready to put it to words.

As I was walking to spanish class this afternoon I passed a graffiti wall that read, "muerte a Israel," or "death to Israel" and for some reason it just hit me... to be targeted for one´s race, one´s nationality, one´s religion... is not an isolated experience, but a shared one. It is unjust. That doesn´t change. But injustices are committed everyday. Not just in Quito, everywhere. And not just against me, but even (if I am honest) by me. I wonder about all the times I have been a bystander.

And in these thoughts I am reminded of just how unjust these incidents truly are. Perhaps its easy to forget how painful it is to be the other... the target... when we are never forced to reside on that side of the fence. To be the receiver reminds me of the inhumanity of it all. It opens my eyes, in the most beautiful way, to those who have endured such injustices every day of their lives, who have even endured it for centuries.

I stand humbled, awed... prepared for action.

At the same time, it reminds me of what is important. My dad sent a beautiful e-mail titled, "I´d rather have been wrong" in response to my last post. He concluded the message with a reminder that everything can be replaced except for you. I thought... yes. Take my camera. Take my money. Take all the clothes from my back. Take my jewelry and anything expensive that I own. Because you can´t take my joy.

That said, I am tired of thinking all about sad things... of talking about robberies and sickness and fear. These things are real, yes. They exist. But in their midst, I want to talk about Joy.

Evidences of shalom--of grace, peace, calm--are everywhere.

Shalom. Last night I met up with two friends from Solid Rock who live in Quito, Jameson and Fernanda. My time with them was so wonderful. They took me for dinner at a beautiful restaurant in El Centro called Vista Hermosa, and I marveled at the jaw-dropping view of the city. Shalom. We shared stories, laughs, dreams. Shalom. We ate humitas (my new favorite food) like corn bread, except better. Shalom.

My sister´s instant message today. Shalom.
Coffee brewed in whole milk. Shalom.
My cooperating teacher at Tomas Moro. Shalom.
The wonderful spirit of the children. Shalom.
A phone conversation with Daniella and her mother. Shalom.
Locro (the tastiest soup I have ever eaten). Shalom
My host mother´s persistant help with Spanish. Shalom.
The podcasts I loaded on my iPod before I left. Shalom.
E-mails from people I love. Shalom

Joy. That seems like a good place to end for now.

On safety and being wrong

2009-05-11T12:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday at the Basilica I met a Canadian girl who was traveling alone in Quito. I overheard her talking on a phone, telling her parents that she has been robbed twice in the past four days, so I approached her to ask if I could help. I wondered if she wanted to share a taxi with me, or if she needed to borrow some cash. Even her passport was taken.

Then, as Denise and I were walking in downtown Quito, a man approached us and demanded Denise´s camera. She said no (probably not smart, but an impulse reaction... and broad daylight!) and he finally left us alone. We hailed a taxi and used rehearsed this phrase in Spanish, ¨Can I keep my memory card?¨

This morning I learned that two of my friends were also robbed last night. They were approached by three men who demanded all of their things, reached into their pockets, took their money, jewelry, and cell phones.

Before arriving here I was so confident that I would be safe at all times, but I am now admitting I was wrong. That said, I am not scared. I am cautious, but not scared. I pray constantly, and I know that many of you are praying too. The Lord´s hand of protection is on me. This I know for certain.

Also, I am so glad that I booked a plane flight to Lima. Busing was a terrible, terrible plan. Mom and dad, if you are reading this, don´t be afraid for me, but know that I am grateful (more than grateful) for your wisdom... even when I am too prideful to accept it. I don´t say this often, but I am saying it now: I was wrong.

And I say this all the time, but it is no less true: I love you.

Fin de semana pasada

2009-05-11T08:12:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I traveled to Otovalo, a quaint little mountain town just a few hours north of Quito. We spent the whole day traveling through the mountainous region of Ecuador. Spectacular! We stopped for a lunch break in tiny little town (I can´t remember the name) with a huge waterfall, where we explored the grounds and hiked to the top of the falls. It was remniscent of Multnomah falls, in a way, except without all the people. Amazing.

Before arriving in Otovalo we also stopped at a beautiful Hacienda, a farm house built in the sixteenth century that has been carefully and magnificently restored. So picturesque! We each took about a thousand pictures of the tropical plants, the precious architecture, and the sun setting behind towering mountains. The staff served us empenadas and coffee, a typical Ecuadorian early ¨dinner¨ treat. And while the coffee here is nothing to holler about, the empenadas were soooo good!

A word about the coffee. At first I laughed when Jameson asked me to bring Stumptown (or even Starbucks!) with me to Ecuador. I suppose that I have also presumed Ecuador to be one of the coffee capitals of the world, but as Ana explained, its just not part of the culture here. Generally the coffee served is powerdered, mixed with milk or water. Nothing like stumptown. Nothing. But Enrique, Ana´s Columbian boyfriend says that if I am a coffee fan, Juan Valdez is the place to go. They serve Columbian coffee, and he also made sure to note that many Columbian men go there, ¨the best men in the world,¨ according to him. I just laugh.

Enrique and I have a funny relationship because he understands English but doesn´t speak it very well, and I understand Spanish but don´t speak it very well... so we have entire conversations where we both speak our native language. He speaks in Spanish, I respond in English, etc. It drives Ana crazy!

In Otovalo there is a huge market on Saturday mornings... like the Portland Saturday market but multiplied by 500... quite literally. It takes up the entire town! The Native people sell their handicrafts... like statues, artwork, scarves, jewelry, etc. If the economy here was in jeopardy before, I doubt it will be after last weekend. I think that the George Fox tour group may have single-handedly reversed any recession. As for me, I tried to keep in mind that anything I purchased would be on my back for the rest of the summer, so my purchases were very conservative. Earrings for Emily. A ring for my sister (although I love it so much I want to keep it), and a few other little trinkets for my classroom someday.

One of the most amazing things about Otovalo were the Panaderias... pastry shops were you could purchase unbelieveably fresh, hot pastries for 17 cents each. They were so good I couldnt stop. I ate more bread in one sitting than I have eaten in the last year of my life.

Thankfully, I also had the opportunity to burn off all the carbs. On the way home we stopped at one of the active volcanos in Ecuador to relax and eat lunch. My friends Denise and Lindsey and I hiked around the crater to take pictures. The water in the crater bubbles because of the lava beneath. Kind of freaky... but really cool.

We also stopped in Cotocachi, a town known for its leather goods. Even after all of our purchases at the market, we were tempted by unbelieveably cheap purses, belts, wallets and boots. I wanted a new pair of boots so bad! But I didn´t want to carry them to Peru, so I passed. Two words: Will. Power.

By the time we arrived back home I was exhausted! My host mom prepared Oregano tea for me, which is supposed to help you sleep well. I felt right at home, just like I was sitting on the couch at my parent´s house drinking sleepytime tea and chatting about the day.

El Dia de la Madre

2009-05-11T05:30:00.000-07:00

Today is mother´s day. Okay, that´s a lie. Yesterday was mother´s day but I couldn´t get to a computer yesterday, so I am posting today!

Today we visited the Franciscan Museum of Religious Art in the heart of Quito´s historical downtown. The museum resides in an old monastary, built in the seventeenth century under the influence of Spanish architecture. In Spanish tradition, yards were built on the inside of the homes for the sake of protection, so this monastery includes a phonomenally kept interior garden, fountains and tropical flowers right in the middle of the house. Amazing.

The piece I liked the best was the sculpture of the Dancing Virgin, the same dancing virgin that so enchanted me from the hilltops of Quito just days ago. On our first day in Quito a friend explained that the Ecuadorian Virgin Mary, under the influence of the indiginous people, is not pictured as pious as she is in most Catholic traditions. The Quitenians presumed that Mary must have had a gumptious, even slightly rebelious, spirit... so they pictured her with one knee cocked as if she were dancing. Big sigh. I LOVE that!

The sign underneath the Dancing Virgin read... and this is my best translation, ¨The Franciscans established the Virgin Mary as an advocate of the people, that she would reside under them for their nurture and protection, even until the finish.¨

How appropriate, I thought, that I should stumble upon these words on the day that I am thinking endlessly about my mother, the woman who embodies words like nurture and protection more fully than any other woman I know.

I found it most interersting that the Franciscans used the word under, to describe Mary´s relation to the people, rather than over. What an unconventional and beautiful picture of humilty and service. And how perfect that the one appointed by Christ to assume the position of under... to serve, protect, nurture... would be a mother.

I of course couldn´t stop thinking about my own mom today, and how despite my distance from her she never ceases to be the kind of woman who resides under her children, in the most beautiful and selfless way, to nurture and protect and pray and advocate for them... hasta de fin... even until the end. She exemplifies words like humility and grace more than anyone else I know. I can feel her protection and love, even from Quito Ecuador.

I love you mom, and I hope that today you felt as special and important as you are.

Que voy apprendido sobre apprendido espanol...

2009-05-07T19:44:00.001-07:00

A few things I am learning about learning Spanish...

Possibly the most important thing I am learning about language acquisition is that it is impossible to be right all the time. Perfection is fantasy that I must relinquish as a language learner. I must abandon my type A tendencies, my obsessive compulsiveness, even my pride, and be willing to TRY. Hence, while the title of this posting is my best attempt at Spanish, it is likely incorrect. It makes every muscle in my body cringe to suppose its true, but there it is. My best attempt. And, hey, I am learning...

Second, I am learning how difficult it is to multi–task in a new language. Language learners cannot read and write at the same time, or at least not with the ease that native speakers can. I cannot read Spanish and write Spanish at the same time, I cannot write Spanish and speak Spanish at the same time, I cannot speak Spanish and listen to Spanish at the same time. Everything takes time to process. Time... time... time. And for a person who moves as fast as I do in life... how frusterating!

Further, I can now officially confirm what I have already been told about language learning and repeition. Here it is. Repeitition...It helps! Even when I understand what is being said, my comprehesion improves when I am able to see and hear the words multiple times, when I am able to hear and see them more than once.

Also, it takes all of my emotional and cognitive energy to practice a new language. I need breaks often, and I need to be allowed to collaborate periodically with my classmates in my native tongue–to check for my own comprehension, to collaborate, to console...

It is difficult to persist with ANY task, but especially language learning, when I experience defeat, or when I don´t experience consistent success. It is not just a little difficult, but profoundly so. I have to egnage all of my metacognitive skills to persuade myself to keep trying when my message is misunderstood, or when I can´t express my intended meaning.

Finally, its embarrassing to speak a language poorly! Even as an adult, in the midst of wonderfully understanding peers and colleagues, I find it difficult to practice speaking my new language. And in this I have acquired a whole new empathy for my ELLs back home, students who are navigating BOTH the identity crisis of a typical high school student and ALSO the crisis of language acquisition. No wonder they lament speaking English in front of their peers! My newfound empathy does not mean that I won´t still make my students share their new language with one another... it is as beneficially for them as it has been for me... but it does mean that I will approach them with pointed understanding, and that after they rise to the challenge I will applaud them for their courage.

Holy cow, its a cow!

2009-05-07T18:39:00.000-07:00

A few interesting things about Quito~

This morning I was riding in the school bus to Tomas Moro, the school in Quito where I have been assisting with the 8th and 9th year students, and suddenly I heared one of my team mates yell, ¨Holy cow! Its a cow! So of course I looked where she was poining and, sure enough, in the middle of Quito, there was a cow casually grazing on the neighbor´s lawn. Later, as I was walking to Spanish class, I stumbled upon a young girl who was walking her two goats. Leashes and everything. Not to mention that we were literally feet from the highway. Nothing like livestock smack dab in the middle of an urban center.

Unlike in the States, especially Portland, there is no law in Ecuador that requires drivers to yield to pedestrians. Instead we play a little game I like to call, Who Can Run Faster than the Cars, in which the object is to not die. I think drivers here get a kick out of scaring the gringitos by speeding up just as we begin to cross the street. We think its hilarious too.

The food here is phenomenal. I can´t stress that enough. Everything is made from scratch! My host mother is a cooking teacher at the University and at home she makes soups, breads, pastas, rice, chicken and sweets all by hand using fresh ingredients. For a girl who finds herself reading lists of ingredients 100 items long in The States–to look for preservatives and allergens–this is heaven.

The people here are unbelieveably kind and gentle and generous. They are willing to help anyone at anytime. They are remarkably hospitable. There are not really even words to describe how welcoming they have been. One of the professors at ACLAS said it best the other day... Quitenans are something that Americans are not...Open. I hope that I can learn from this rather than defend against it. I hope that I can work to be open... to open my heart and my life to the wonderful people who many meander in...

En el medio del mundo

2009-05-05T16:53:00.000-07:00

Today I stood in the middle of the world... on the Ecuator in Ecuador. Actually, I not only stood in the middle of the world, I did a few push ups while I was at it...one hand on each side. I emphasize the word few in that sentence, as the altitude is still making me feel a little winded. Not to mention, our tour guide told us that it is difficult to do pushups on the equator because the forces change your gravitational pull... I don´t know if its true, but I am taking him at his word, since those push ups were so hard!

We also visited Casco Colonial, the historical town of Quito. This is where the president lives and where several monuments to political figures are built. I felt right at home watching the protestors march up and down and all around the square... remniscent of Pioneer Courthouse, in a way. I also felt right at home on Poet´s Ave, a quaint little street where several Ecuadorian and poets have lived. I wish I could upload the pictures! The street looks like just the kind of street where poets would live, and I wanted to move in on the spot.

From the historical part of Quito there is also a breathtaking view of the Virgin de El Panecillo (this is the Ecuadorian verson of the virgin Mary... pictured very much like a dancing angel) a statue on the hillside, about 1000 ft above the city. I mean it when I say that this statue took my breath away. She is spectacular. Okay... maybe the altitude helpd a little.

To top it off, we also rode in a bus to the top of the mountain where we were able to climb to the top of the Virgin... although seeing it written that way looks a little strange. Our guide likened the statue to the Statue of Liberty for Quitenians... and from the top we could see the entire city!!! This city is so beautiful, in its own urban way. The city is long and narrow, with houses concentrated in the center of the valley, slowly spreading up into the mountains. Something about the way that the sun comes out in the middle of the afternoon and shines through the low clouds and wooded hills... Wow.

I´ll upload pictures and video as soon as I am able.

The good stuff

2009-05-04T19:06:00.000-07:00

Okay, so first things first. The keyboards here are not the same as the ones I am used to, and I am working under a time crunch... so bear with the bad spelling, punctuation and grammar.

That said, after all this time of listing to me ramble on about boring old life in Portland, here it is... the good stuff. I am in Quito! After so much planning and hard work and anxiety... and after a remarkably long day of travel... it felt like such an accomplishment to set my feet on solid ground in this city last night, meet my host family, drop my things on the floor of my new bedroom.

I slept eight hours last night, perhaps for the first time in 20 months.

My host mother´s name is Pilar, and she is one of the sweetest and kindest women I have ever met. She doesn´t speak a single word in English but I perceive that she would do just about anything to make me comfortable and happy. Her daughter Ana lives at home, and Ana does speak English. Ana is my age and has spent some time living in the United States. She and I hit it off from the minute I met her. She is committed to helping me get settled in Quito, and to helping me with my Spanish. Que Bueno!

The weather is different than I expected, but not really much different than Portland this time of year. This morning it was warm and I could see the sun coming up over the hills... this evening there were thuderstorms and now it is rainy and cold.

My first day is coming to a close, and as is typical when I am traveling in a foreign country I find this time of day the most difficult to be at peace. This is the time of day that I crave to call a friend... I crave someone with whom to reflect, connect. I think about how cell phones have altered my entire concept of existence. To live without a cell phone, I am embarrassed to say, feels very difficult. It feels lonely, in the ´standing in a crowded room´sense of the word.

For now, I am headed to bed. More to come...

Oh, to have landed...

2009-05-04T13:50:00.000-07:00

I have arrived safely in Quito, Ecuador and thought you all should know! I don´t have time to record all of the details right now, but I promise that I am faithfully putting pen to paper (thanks again to Jeremy and Meg for the journal) and I will soon translate them to cyberspace.

For now know that all is well. I´m not even sick (yet).

Some things I'll miss...

2009-05-01T08:04:00.000-07:00

I've been keeping this list in my head for quite some time and I figured it was high time I committed it to paper (or... well... screen).

Its not exhaustive, and it doesn't include people, since that goes without saying, but it does include visuals for all my non-verbal/linguistic learners out there (See... Multiple Intelligences! Look at that Masters degree already at work...)

Sydney's coffee and muffins...

My bed

NPR

Trader Joes

Nebraska Bitter

Podcasts

my shoes

well, mostly these shoes:

irresponsibly (awesomely) large Scrabble games

My Bike... (*big sigh*)

books

gilmore girls (hey, honesty here... keep your comments to yourself)

Laughing Planet (Vegan Black Jack Quesadilla...mmmm)

Hiking in the Gorge (although this will be replaced with the far superior hiking in the Andes...)

Sundays at Solid Rock

Stumptown

BUT... these are just things

And I am certain to discover all kinds of awesome things (and people) to fall in love with in South America... things and people I would never get to appreciate if I never left these behind.

Updates (quick ones, again)

2009-04-24T19:45:00.000-07:00

Despite the lack of student teaching in my life, I still managed a fairly action packed week...

On Sunday I celebrated my birthday with the fam. (What?!?!? You forgot it was my birthday?! And you call yourself a friend....)

Just kidding. It wasn't my birthday. My mom (being the wonderfully thoughtful, prepared, think-ahead woman that she is) remembered that I would be in Peru for my birthday this year and so planned an early pseudo-celebration. Good food. Good conversation. Run with sister. Sunshine. Presents. Ice Cream. Perfect.

Monday I went to Lincoln to see all the freshmen that I miss so dearly. I was greeted with gasps (good ones, I think... they didn't know I was coming), hugs, smiling faces, and a stack of recommendation letters the size of my head, written by students. Heart officially warmed. I couldn't stop smiling all day.

Then I spent the afternoon in NW Portland, where I finished up the conclusion of my Action Research... the culmination of 12 months of hard work. If I knew how to do a back flip I would have done one in that moment.

Later that night I met Emily, Tyson and Mikey for a bike ride to Mt. Tabor, where we watched the sun set over my favorite city in the world. Perfect temperature. Perfect scenery. Perfect company. And we topped off the night with perfect veggie tacos at Por Que No.

Tuesday and Wednesday were all about tying up loose ends. Annotating the bibliography. Completing the presentation board. Creating a brochure for the research symposium. Running errands for the trip. I think I squeezed a fairly lofty run into both days somewhere (as I am starting to get nervous for my adjustment to the altitude in Quito). And after all was said and done I met my dad for dinner. Nothing better than someone buying you dinner when you're tired and flat broke.

Wednesday night I also attended class for the very last time at George Fox University (or, at least until my doctorate), and turned in ALL of my stuff ('stuff,' I know... so professional). Third work sample (check); Action Research (check); Presentation Board (check); Brochure (check).

That night after class I stayed up irresponsibly late with Mikey at the Good Foot, listening to good music and sharing good conversation. Perfect low-key celebration.

Thursday I spent the day at Franklin High School with Michelle, watching her work her teacherly magic with Romeo and Juliet for her English Language Learners. I was delighted to meet her cooperating teacher, to see where she has been all of this time, and to observe a truly GIFTED friend in her element... She is an ESL teacher, through and through. I learn so much from her.

Friday I visited Century, where I attended high school. So strange to walk those halls as an adult. The eternal question: do I call my old teachers by their first name or by their last name..??? As I did not establish an answer to this pertinent question prior to my visit, I did a lot of pointing at people, saying things like haaaeeeeey..... yooooou.

After leaving Century I spent the day applying for jobs, which I believe wholeheartedly is one of life's cruel jokes (along with shopping for swimsuits and moving... some of you have heard my theory).

Saturday I celebrated! What an amazing day... really. My sister took me for coffee and a pedicure in the morning. My parents threw me a party, totally outdid themselves (as usual) and so many wonderful people came to celebrate with me!!! Some even drove from far away to make an appearance (and that made me smile, big time!). Amazing. I felt affirmed and loved.

Sunday Kyle Sund and I went to church in the morning and then went out to lunch (Thanks for the 'friend date' Kyle, you're the best!) then he took off on a business trip. I doubt I will see him again before I leave...but I will miss him dearly. What an amazing friend that man has been to me.

Then, Sunday afternoon I did this crazy thing. You may have heard of it. Its called... (are you ready for this...) reading. Yes, reading as in reading. No, not a text book. An actual book. With a story and characters and a plot. During that very crucial time in my life on Sunday afternoon I came to two conclusions. First, Steinbeck is a genius. Second, everyone should read for pleasure on Sunday afternoons.

THEN (almost done, I swear) I went to church AGAIN! What the heck! I know, I am so spiritual (not really, there are just a lot of services at my church and I wanted to say goodbye to all my peeps on my last Sunday in town. After church I gathered with friends at McMennamins for one last farewell. My friends are amazing. They laughed with me and prayed for me and promised they'd still be my friends when I came home. I didn't want to leave. So... I didn't. I stayed up irresponsibly late (again). What is happening to me post grad-school!

So... that's the rundown. Now that I've bored you with all the details, I have to go... mostly so that I can think of something interesting to write for my next post. Perhaps I'll conjecture something witty or profound. With snazzy visuals to coincide... hmm...

*scratches chin, goes deep into thought*

Stories from a middle school...

2009-04-22T19:20:00.001-07:00

Okay, so its not witty OR profound, but if you let yourself it might just make you smile... I was going through some old photos from the middle school where I student taught last fall and came across this one.

I laughed out loud, and thought to myself: here is one (of the many) reasons to be a teacher.

My days are full of wonderful, precious, silly moments like this one.

It reminds me, in a strange way, not to take myself so seriously. Life is crazy. And we're all a little strange, in our own way... aren't we?

As adults we just learn to hide it better.

Wait... I wrote that?

2009-04-20T22:55:00.000-07:00

I was reading through the Literature Review from my Action Research and found the following excerpt.

I must say... I agree with myself wholeheartedly.

"Just as students are tied irrevocably to their histories, their self-conceptions, their accessible discourses, so too are instructors tied to these elements of identity. For this reason, the task of teaching writing is hard work. It requires an instructor to value her students’ authentic, honest voices above our own, and to value all student voices equally. To be the kind of instructor who embodies this benevolence and balance—the kind of teacher who is unyieldingly committed to the development of all student voices, even those hindered by shame or fear—she must be willing to set aside her own agenda, her own misconceptions, her own grave misunderstandings, and let students prove her wrong. She must relinquish control, allow the students to explore, and be willing to vacillate between the role of teacher and learner.

Thankfully, it is not only the student who benefits from this kind of conscientious instruction. The entire learning community reaps the rewards. An author’s authentic, irresistible voice is a gift. And while a student certainly profits from opportunities to explore his unique identity through language; his peers, his family, even his instructor are also simultaneously altered by this event. Indeed, the entire community is transformed when a writer is able to clearly communicate his thinking, his knowledge, his opinions, and his feelings. It is these expressions of language that both “inform and negotiate our understandings and misunderstandings,” of ourselves, of one another, of the world which we inhabit (Reif 2006 191)."

Mmmm.. practical question: Do I need quotation marks to quote myself? Am I in danger of plagerism here?

Perhaps I will sue me.

Here's to ironed socks

2009-04-09T08:24:00.000-07:00

Updates, the quick version:

Thanks to an old friend from high school whose mother is (serendipitously) a travel agent, I have all my plane tickets in hand, and will not be spending any foreseeable nights in the Houston Airport. Thanks to a little help from my parents my bank account is not completely empty...
After the job fair the other day I made a quick stop at the Army Surplus Store to accessorize for our Peruvian trek. I purchased a few items I never foresaw myself owning (including, but not limited to): an emergency whistle, a spork, 20 feet of webbing, dehydrated green beans, castille soap and a plastic poop shovel (don't ask). I was also the only one in the store wearing a skirt and 3-inch heels.
Speaking of the job fair, it was slightly less depressing than I expected. I didn't get a job but I did get a few pre-screens, an interview with Hillsboro School District, a fruitful conversation with a woman from David Douglas, and the opportunity to give my "60-second commercial" about three hundred test runs.
I only have a few things left on my gear list for the trip, including: warm socks, hydration pack and a compass. Somehow I thought that was metaphorically appropriate.
I found out that my Ecuadorian host family will likely have a maid. I was also told that maids often do you laundry, cook your meals and iron your socks. I have never worn ironed socks before, but I pride myself in being open to new experiences.
Speaking of new experiences, I searched "typical Peruvian food" the other day visited the first sight that Google suggested. The site boasted the Peruvian delicassy "Bull Penis Soup." Then I googled the word for "vegetarian" in Spanish.
Some of you know that I actually am a vegetarian--or at least I have been for the last year and a half. I just began introducing meat at the start of this month to prepare for the trip. Many of you have asked me how that is going... I'll just say, "its fine," because I doubt you really want more info than that.

There is more, I am sure, but that's all that I can think of for now...

Hablando se entienden la gente...

2009-04-08T21:39:00.000-07:00

It means “In talking, we understand each other.” I am enamored with this concept, and with the beauty of this colloquial Spanish phrase. Ever since the day I learned these words the truth of this statement has demonstrated itself perpetually in my world.

The other night, over beer with a friend, I was reminded how desperately I necessitate opportunities to collaborate, how much I crave the chance to 'put the puzzle together' with other people. I was sharing a short break with a good friend, a luxury I am rarely allowed in graduate school, and as we chatted and sipped our IPA I was reminded of how hopeless I am without the insight, the reflection, the perspective of others... to help me figure out where the pieces fit.

When I am allowed to attach words to thoughts, I am altered. When someone is willing to sit on the other side of a table and just nod his head, I am refined. Further, when I allow myself to listen, to drop my defenses and really LISTEN, I am amended.

I learn how similar you and I actually are; I learn that if I give you the chance, you just might understand.

I am embarrassed by how wrong I have been in the past, embarrassed of my misconceptions, misappropriations, mis-assumptions. But I am also stimulated by the common ground we have now established.

This is really what "language learning" is all about, right? What learning is about, period...?

The sharing of words. The nodding of heads. The desperate attempt to understand. The inclination to let it unfold. The willingness to revel in the process.

Querer

2009-04-06T17:13:00.001-07:00

In Spanish, the word means "To Want," but it also means "To Love." I have always been fascinated by the way that these two words connect, with the relationship they share.

An example, if I may.

For the first time in quite some time, I find myself recently really wanting something. That may seem strange to say, since most of us want things every day. I am no exception. I want a few extra hours of sleep each night, I want a latte, I want a better alternative to Microsoft Word Auto-Format.

But when it comes to really wanting things, this whole graduate school business seems to render me fairly void of normal human emotion. In fact, unless I really force myself to stop and take a breath in the mess of this process, I forget to notice what I want, feel, love.

Today, in contrast, I find myself wanting desperately. I am preparing for the Oregon Educator's Fair (an event that promises to be fairly disconcerting... thousands of educators fighting for mere dozens of jobs... ) and I realize that, after all this graduate school craziness, what I really want--more than anything--is to be a teacher.

And that want, for me, is indelibly tied to love.

Wanting and loving are not easy charges. They imply dearth as much as they do drive. They imply drudgery and exertion. They intimate absence as surely as they do fulfillment.

Many of you have heard me say that graduate school is the most difficult thing I have ever done; but, in some ways, it is easier than this...

Plane Tickets... Grr

2009-04-02T20:55:00.000-07:00

I am having one of those moments.

For some reason someone told me (I can't even remember who) that it would be best to wait until I was in South America to book my plane ticket from Lima, Peru to San Jose, Costa Rica. Apparently its cheaper this way...?

Apparently not.

In fact, most of the airlines that execute that flight are TOTALLY booked for the week of June 15th, the week that I was planning to fly. As a result, the cheapest plane ticket I can find is $820 and has 3 layovers--one in Newark, one in Atlanta, and one in... Houston???

Yeah, that's what I said.

So... unless I stumble across an extra $800, and/or suddenly have the urge to sleep in several airports I have never visited, it looks like I'll be hitch hiking to Costa Rica. Should be interesting.

Earning my boy-scout badge (or something)

2009-03-29T20:43:00.000-07:00

In light of the wilderness treks we are planning for South America, Mikey and I decided to go for a little Team Adventure pre-adventure yesterday.

No big deal. Just your everyday, run-of-the-mill, 15-mile hike in the rain.

Franklin Ridge is a 12-mile hike up behind Multnomah falls. I was testing out a new hiking pack, so had it filled with several water bottles and a giant rock (don't ask me... apparently this is what hiker people do...)

We hit a little snow at the summit. Not altogether surprising at 2700 feet, but what was surprising was what happened as we descended... the snow kept getting deeper and deeper. Needless to say, I ditched the weight in my pack and we forged through the waist-deep snow, cold and miserable for what felt like a lifetime.

When we finally saw dry ground again, we were ecstatic. The snow had set us behind schedule quite a bit, so we knew we needed to hike quickly to make it out by dark, but now we were cruising down the trail, a mere three miles from the end.

Then, as we approached the river, which was particularly wild from mountain run-off, the trail disappeared... totally washed out by the raging water. We stood for a several silent minutes in utter disbelief. Then there was some nervous laughing. Then nothing.

There was--literally--no way out but up. Either we could hike up and around the way we had come (which didn't seem safe given the amount of daylight left, our ridiculous soaking wet-ness, and our serious lack of necessary snow gear), or we could hike (no... sorry... CLIMB) up a giant cliff to another trail. Or (says Mike) we could camp overnight and wait for someone to come after us.

Um... right. Third option not happening.

Long story short: we climbed. Well, Mike climbed. I awkwardly hoisted myself in a general upward direction, which would have been hilarious if it wasn't 500 feet above a raging river and terrifying. Its amazing the things our bodies can do when they don't have the choice.

I wish I had video of the moment that I saw the trail again. Picture me, COVERED in mud and dirt (no overstatement), throwing myself on the trail, rolling around half-laughing-half-crying. Pure comedy. Unless you are me, of course.

The next four miles were exhilarating and excruciating all at the same time. Exhilarating because I knew that I was going to get to eat dinner and take a shower and sleep in my bed, but excruciating because I had injured myself in the climb.

Longest. Walk. Ever.

The new trail spit us out about two miles from where we had parked. We walked along the road with our thumbs out, praying that some kind soul would stop.

Its okay, I wouldn't have picked us up either.

We were home by 11pm--grateful (of course) for a hot meal and a hot shower and a warm bed, but more so grateful for God's obvious hand of protection (and empowering STRENGTH) that guided us safely through a difficult and potentially dangerous day.

Situations like this do their work to remind me, so exquisitely, that I am not in control. They remind me that God's grace is evident in the littlest things. Like tonight, for example, I have dry feet.

Oh yeah, the basics

2009-03-25T16:40:00.000-07:00

Yes, its true, I am going to South America. And since everyone keeps asking me for the details of my trip (or, in the words of Emily and Dana, "What are the deets?") I thought I'd post them here.

Here are the basics.

I officially graduate May 2nd, 2009. On may 3rd, at 6:10am, I leave for Quito, Ecuador where I will be teaching English and learning Spanish at a Spanish school with a few of my classmates from George Fox. This portion of the trip will include two weekend trips, one to Cuenca and one to the Galapagos Islands.

My classmates leave Quito to return to Oregon on May 23rd, but I am staying in South and Central America for a few months.

I am meeting two friends (Colt and Mike... AKA Skipper and Paco) in Lima, Peru on May 29th. The three of us have a fairly detailed agenda in Peru, including a bike ride on the coast of Cuzco, jumping the tallest bungee of South America and a five-day trek (not the Inca trail, but a similar trek) to Machu Picchu. To say we have a "fairly detailed" itinerary is actually a tremendous understatement. We intend to shove as much fun as possible into three weeks!!!

The guys fly out of Lima on July 15th, and at that time I fly to Costa Rica to meet my friend Daniella and her family where they live in San Jose. While in Costa Rica, I hope to develop fluency in Spanish, relax a little, travel, act as a tutor for Spanish-speakers learning English, and just spend some quality time with people I admire and respect.

My dear friend Emily will be joining me for part of the time in Costa Rica and we plan to take some day/weekend trips to the surrounding areas. I can't wait to experience the climate, the language, the culture and the food.

More 'deets' to come as I determine them.

Oh, so that's why I should have been paying attention in Spanish class...

2009-03-25T15:36:00.000-07:00

I sat next to Caroline Allen in Spanish class my Sophomore year at Century. True story. And I can't remember the name of the guy who sat in front of me, but I thought he was pretty cute, and I guess I spent more time staring at the back of his head than I did focusing on the conjugation of verbs.

Erin Elder and I made an astonishingly professional Spanish video for Ms. Gray Junior year (oh, the sarcasm); and Senior Year we made another one with Kyle Brown and Brant Shilliam. I remember zero Spanish from the video, but I do remember lugging my parents' living room couch to Dawson Creek park to mimic the theme song from Friends. I also remember staying awake through the night to edit the video. Hmm... I can't for the life of me think of how to conjugate a reflexive verb.

At Whitworth my Spanish classes were at 8am, which I thought was a dirty trick since 8am was about thirty minutes after my bedtime. I will take credit for those times I pulled myself out of bed to attend Spanish class, but can't say as though I learned a great deal in my sleepy stupor.

And, truthfully, learning languages has never come easy to me. Speaking Spanish feels a bit like learning Triganometry or Calculus. And plus, I mean, I have pretty much mastered English... That's enough, right?

Oh.

Each day I work with students who speak multiple languages and find it overwhelming that these students must learn English in order to be even marginally included in modern life. All the time I hear people say (in blissful ignorance, I believe), "Well... if those people choose to come to America, they should have to learn our language." But not one fourteen-year-old student I've met has chosen to move to the United States. And still each one of them graciously, dutifully learns English, desperate to participate in the experiences and opportunities that characterize this country.

As an English Speaker, I think I am resistant to the idea of learning another language because it requires me to lay down my arrogance and self-efficacy, my intellectualism and advantage.

Just being honest.

I am terrible at Spanish, and everytime I try to learn it or to speak it I feel like a royal idiot. But I actually think that is part of the point. So here it goes. I apologize in advance to all of South America for the Gringo (Gringa?) that I am... but I am committed to experiencing the frusteration that my students have experienced, to exhibiting (if I am able) the lovely grace and persistence they have each modeled.

Maybe soon I will KNOW (apprender) not just know (conocer) what is "Spanish" for "Teacher."

First Stop: Quito, Ecuador

2009-03-25T15:26:00.000-07:00

I found this picture of the mountains in Quito, Ecuador and couldn't help but think of the view of Mt. Hood from Portland.

Life comes full circle, I think.

Two years ago I spent my birthday with a group of friends hiking Dog Mountain on a beautiful, sunny, Oregon afternoon. Nothing could have been closer to my idea of perfection, but for so many reasons, that day was profoundly miserable for me. My body was frail, weak from emotional stress and chronic sickness. The group I was with moved quickly to the summit. I found myself alone on the trail, thinking: I'll never make it.

I was pretty busy feeling sorry for myself when Janet arrived, a woman twice my age, who could have definitely *taken* me in a fight. I didn't know Janet, and she didn't know me, but I must have looked fairly miserable because she offered me her trail mix and a sip of water. I asked her if she could pass a message to my group at the summit. "Just tell them I couldn't make it," I told her. She agreed, but as she forged ahead, she called back to me, "Just put one foot in front of the other. You're more than halfway there."

I know, I know, the whole "mountain=obstacle" analogy is so terribly cliche, but stay with me here.

Someone said to me recently: Even if you are on the 'right track' you won't go anywhere unless you keep moving. And when he said that I just couldn't help but picture myself standing on the side of that mountain, trying to decide if I should summit or descend.

And as banal as it sounds, I have always likened that experience to the emotional, spiritual and practical mountain that has predominated the past two years of my life. So many times I have wanted to quit. So many times I have thought I wouldn't make it. And over and over again I would force myself to say, just put one foot in front of the other, just keep moving.

Those of you who know the story know that I did in fact summit Dog Mountain that day. The lesser known fact is that I sobbed like a little baby when I reached the top (not like the peaceful inspirational crying you see in movies but, like, terrible, loud, uncontrollable sobbing. Awesome).

Yes, it is quite possibly the most cliche analogy in the history of analogies, but... it feels pertinent to me. And perhaps the most pertinent part of the analogy is Janet, who provided the refreshment I needed to take my next step.

If you are reading this, it is likely that you are "Janet" for me too. Thanks for sharing your trail mix, for reminding that I am one step away from the top...