Courtesy A. Carillo

    




I woke up in that sheet-tousled, beaded sweat kind of way. A residual headache moved into my threshold of my awareness as I turned to face the half-open window next to my cot.


I could hear rain falling outside. My glasses were on the nightstand just where I discarded them. I reached out with languid dexerity to put them on again to confirm that the leaves on the shrubs were in movement.


I thought about how the rain would likely pass and how I liked that it did this, contrary to the furious unleash I had known to expect for days--sometimes weeks in the Northwest. Still turned over in bed, I thought some more. It wasn't time for a shower yet.

Yesterday was heavy with an expectant heat. A newcomer, I stumbled around the concrete between the Capitol building and the Senate offices in whatever fabric intolerably trapped my sweat against me. I bet it was Polyester.


I was not supposed to be thinking about sweat. I was there to have something to say to the legislative aides of Congressman Blumenhauer and Schrader, to the staff of Senator Wyden and Merkley. But how does one deal honestly with the emotional weight of reality that 27 million human beings are OWNED? It just seems absurd to me that I use that statistic without time to paint the picture of the brutishness, the ugly depravity, the desperate humanity that is the life of even a single slave.


All that ripples in the shallow pool of the political conscience is prioritized to foreign and domestic. I wanted to ask where the deep end was. I couldn't find how to shove slavery into either category with satisfaction. It is just heinous and that is all. In the world of budgets and other middle-sized objects, my colleague and I spoke of the Trafficking Victim Protection Reauthorization Act and how Oregon representatives could show their support to co-sponsor the bill. The meetings were positive and the aides showed what I ascertained to be genuine concern.


The cry of the suffering is never far off, but when we push it enough away, we won't have to listen. Or we can hear it, as surely as rain falling outside and confirm that our fears about our neighbors are more real than the tsunami that came crashing into Japan. As Gary Haugen said in his speech for the Global Prayer Gathering, reality always wins. When we begin to see the world falling all around us into broken pieces then we will care enough to begin fixing it. Nevermind the excuses and our generally large incompetence to do so. Justice was never a longing birthed in the heart of man, but that of God. I wish I cared about it more even at this moment but it's funny how something like a little comfort changes me.

Suddenly, I'm on a different level and continent and suddenly, that sub-human treatment of human beings becomes something that just can't quite be measured correctly in statistics. Or the criminal enterprise of the sex trade becomes tricky to pinpoint--so let's not overreact. This could be what Jesus meant when he said: he who has ears, let him hear! Truth involves more than perception, but an act of the will.

Clothed in spring.

An excerpt from “John Redding Goes to Sea” 1921:


Springtime in Florida is not a matter of peeping violets or bursting buds merely. It is a riot of color in nature—glistening green leaves, pink, blue, purple, yellows blossoms that fairly stagger the visitor from north. The miles of hyacinths lie like an undulating carpet on the surface of the river and divide reluctantly when the slow-moving alligators push their way log-like across. The nights are white nights for the moon shines with dazzling splendor, or in the absence of that goddess, the soft darkness creeps down laden with innumerable scents. The heavy fragrance of magnolias mingled with the delicate sweetness of jasmine and wild roses.



This paragraph is important. It was part of Zora Neale Hurston's first published short story in the literary magazine of Howard University. The paragraph is for some, too indulgent in detail. For some, the plot was overdone. I've only read this paragraph of the story, and still am glad that she wrote it. I also happen think that it's beautiful.


She took a risk by making this intimate gift of her writing public. She was born at just the right time for this manner of self-expression; her literature, rich with renderings of black culture and folklore at the outset of the Harlem Renaissance. But I'm sure there was a moment she hesitated to share it. A moment that if she yielded to her insecurity, I wouldn't be celebrating her artful prose.


This is the gift of community, the risk that makes writing slightly embarrassing. Committing words on paper is unavoidably introspective and mixed with a fear that what we've created is not really "us". Or if it is "us" that it is not what we wanted to see about ourselves. But if what we've written is honest, it will indicate the distance between who we are what we long to be.This is a hinting at our true identities.



The disparity between what we say and what we do is hypocrisy. We are least desirable in our own eyes when we trade actions for words and they grow anemic. We are most beautiful when in humility, our actions leave no need for words. I want no headstone for my life, because I would like it lived with entirety, with nothing left to say when its done, but these simple words of Jesus: "It is finished." This kind of life is barely the one I am living now, though the one I am stumbling toward. All my obsessive fears, anxieties and inconsolable longings are for a wholeness that I have yet to taste in food, or laughter or friends. They are for the meantime--joyful preoccupations, but only stand-ins and shadows of the greater things.


The tempestuous spring stirs all of these thoughts within me, and I am dividing reluctantly to events beyond my control, like the flowers in Hurston's story.  I want the clothing of nature: the flower's glorious potential achieved in simply being alive. It has no concern for the heat of day,or the cool of night for each will come at it's appointed time. Yet at the looming storms, I shirk this kind of flower-like peace, to toil for what cannot be gained without surrender: the use of my gifts, the cultivation of relationships, the quieting of all my discontentment and the courage to communicate his power in both word and deed.


Without animation from his Spirit that brings me daily life, I close up like a plant without rain, and well with no spring or animation within. And he asks me again:


“So why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; 29 and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. 30 Now if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?" Matthew 8:28-30.


It then becomes not a matter of control, but the assurance that what shakes loose in a rumbling storm is the sweetness of rain. Open is the only way to receive.

At the community table, let's be nice.

Washington,


I want to love you. I really can't love you, but I want to.
You're assertive and unhelpful in manifold ways.
A city that wishes not to be civil, despite the political charade.
The blessed are not one step ahead on the escalator.
The blessed are not those who will to power, who run the races but have no riches in character.
To settle for the game? To this I am indignant.


I want to love you but I want to train you more.
That is no healthy relationship, that involves a sort of leash.
I sit down at your community table to reconcile and am looked over for my seat by a lunching couple.
They didn't want to dialogue, they wanted to eat.
Next to me, not with me.


My manner is hostile to you, Washington, and mistaken for naivety.
Like the waitress who pulled me aside on "a personal note".
She said to me: "You don't have to move for them. Next time just let them find another place to sit."
I understand that I need not always be "nicey nice" but to scold me for making a little space?
Pardon me, if it is some infringement on your conscience.


She is nice, even while growing teeth!

In the smirks of my niece is where I come home, and in a strong cup of Peets.
Both are not "of" you Washington.
And it's true of me too.
I'm not sure if I'm settled with that paradox.
Warm sentiments have their place, and it isn't here.


I want to love you Washington, but I wish to teach you a lesson  more.
The wisdom of my older sister is profitable in all this foolishness.
At four-years-old, she made this declarative statement into the video camera that is hard to forget:

"When tigers bite, you have to stand back."

The truth could not be more plain.
She didn't say that tigers don't bite.
Or even to get mad at tigers when they do.
She only said that when  tigers bite,
When they push and shove, and blast that sucker who cut them off in the round-about,
now subjected to a sounding horn for the next minute, to stand back.


To take in what has happened to make that person such a pill, and determine not to become one.
As quick as I am to point out the faults of others, I bear my own too.
I won't justify them.
No, I don't have to scoot over,  but I will.
And I will also let the waitress keep her two cents.


This city has bared it's teeth a time or two, and it has not gone unnoticed.
But according to Jamie, this is natural. Some creatures bite.
A city built to prosper will be abrasive.
But if I stand back, if I expect what is coming.
I will not be devoured by it.
I may even gain a kind of understanding for it.


For the many cultures, for the interns who bus my table when they're not engulfed in what's changing the world.
For the spoken word poets, who drop a line of tribute to Langston Hughes.
For the future Martin Luther Kings and Mother Teresas who are surely around me.
For the man or woman being Jesus to the forgotten and dejected in this urban wasteland of loneliness.


It is a tangible presence, the loneliness here.
That is why I stand back, why I push away.
Because sometimes it threatens me too.

District of Colombia, you are vast.

Yeah these are old shoes, that I've been walking in

I'm wearing weary, like it's a second skin

I've been looking for a place to lay my head

All this time like a vagabond, a homeless stranger

I've been wandering, all my life you've been calling me

To a home you know, I've been needing

I'm a broken stone, so lay me in the house you're building.

-Audrey Assad

Here find newcomer infatuations squashed beneath the gritty heel of urban anonymity. Something happened to me, and since it has, a strange disenchantment clings to my every thought about DC. I expected it to pass, as cantankerous moods often do, but this one has stuck to me like bad gum on a shoe.


What happened to disrupt my pleasant complacency? It's a bit of a gut punch to admit, but I'm beginning to tire of the vagabond life.


From the suburbs of sleepy Northern Virginia I went with a full weekend unplanned, and a backpack with limited outfit changes. To find myself in the disjointed sprawling complexity of District of Colombia, I wandered blocks without purpose. Should the marble and brick woo me into the right neighborhood, maybe I'd find a door with my name on it.


This as my motivation, I was more than willing to contend with the two following unknowns: who would join me on this adventure and where I would sleep when it was done. More descriptively than a vagabond, I have also become a mole. A traveling mole with bags. Bags with useful things--but  for  the airtight density in which they are packed.


My purchasing power lessened as my wallet became less easy to render. Imagine dodging an umbrella, a headband, bunchy scarf, bottle of sanitizer, lone makeup brush and cell phone charger before brushing the quilted sides of a grey wallet to pay for a latte. Stoop to pick up the stray leather glove that  leaped on the floor in the frenetic search, and you begin to see.
Every male now nods his head in agreement with the complete uselessness that is a woman's purse. I do not disagree, but challenge one to propose a more functional solution that does not evolve into a fanny pack. My city flats, which so neatly fold in half to be wedged also into the bulging mass of my handbag, remain the only concession I am willing to make of fashion for sensibility.


At times, there is no pride in standing on these two feet of mine, even with great shoes. The loneliness as I wandered, unearthed many undesirable questions in this time of being subjected to my own decisions. There are places to act and others to pause in my life, and no one to tell me which is the other. This street or that street?


 I even sat at the communal table at Le Pain Quotidien in case Yoda, or possibly, a friend were to emerge and offer some advice. Organic jams and morning brioche comforted me instead. To soothe is not always with words. Yes, I've become somewhat of a foodie, and even with an extra pound(ish) to show for it! But my suits still fit....I hope to stumble upon enthusiasm again and will search all the tucked away corners. You'll know it when I find it.

A manner of traveling.

Happiness is not a station to arrive at, but a manner of traveling.

--Margaret Lee Runbeck

I take the train to work. It might be my favorite part of the day, an excuse for my thoughts to slow down and settle, for one whole, protected hour.
Within that hour, these two truths have surfaced:


1. That time is a good gift.
2. That life proves truly miraculous when I slow down enough to get a good look at it.

Onboard, a sigh of preparation for work is released as the train pulls away from the platform at 7:21 AM and again at 5:41PM to chase down the sun.
Sometimes the continuum of days is dizzy and nauseating, like a cheap and spinning fair ride that I want off of.  But others days are a symphonic and lovely march, onward through the year.


Existing in a state of perpetual wonder is not something that humans do well. We're are too overstimulated and unimpressed to take in the glory of something as basic as "being."
We are simply too full to make room for the wonder. Full of agendas, full of emptiness, full of ourselves.



Oh Lord, God of our Fathers
This day, let it be known
That You Lord, are God of the present tense
Oh Lord, father of history
This day, let it be known
That you Lord, are present in our human events.
--Jon Foreman



The God of the present tense is in every moment, and when those moments are stolen for fears of the future, or regrets of the past, He is simply crowded out.


Taking a posture of boredom in these rare, in-between moments of travel is even more absurd. So much of life's"waiting time" could be assigned away as a petty inconvenience of adulthood, but the thanklessness of that perspective troubles me.


I will fight the apathy more, because God breathed one potently creative breath of life, just to make me "be." The world of my perception is far greater than the sum of a few predictable reactions in the universe. Everything around me, was a God-thought before it came to be, what we call so plainly "laws or theories" originated at the center of a being who calls himself the "I Am."


What a wonder. The weather is my favorite tangible reminder of this wild God I serve. I could spend hours marveling at the power of the storm or the tenderness of an afternoon downpour that suprised even the weatherman.
My minutes, my hours and seconds are all on loan. The 60 minutes to an hour, the 365 days for a year, the 100 years or under for my lifetime, all these things,will return to their true owner.


Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.


James 1:17 illustrates perfectly, the beauty of this continuum, a God who says that it is of His very essence and nature, to never change.


I guess riding the train makes me aware of my time as a gift. It burdens me with blessing to think of my Father's patient dispensation of freedom to humanity through time. Will we love or despise Him freely in the years yet to live, and in the end, what will our lives have to say? That we treasured Him more than gold and lingered in the moments slow, just to feel Him near?  Or did the days slip idly through our fingers? Forsaking His table of communion leaves little to speak for at the end.


Those who consider hell to be an unjust damnation of humanity would do well to reconsider. If the extravagant and costly sacrifice of Christ does not cause a yearning for Him to utterly consume our present moments, how much less appropriate would it be to demand the promise of His home beyond this earth? What a strange request that would be. Even the living God respects the spaces where he is not desired.  He takes no interest in prisoners, of that I am sure. But more certainly, He will take the  days of a servant with a deeply grateful heart.

...I've lingered long in fields of toppled idols, searching for a grain of desire in the rubble, even at your whisper of "beyond."


Before You now, the summation of all I could want, is my honest grief for the years, hours, minutes I wasted in those fields, waiting for the idols to resurrect. Their broken pieces did not assemble. I cursed even the dust.

we<3it.com

Still, You will redeem what the locust has eaten, the desolation and foolishness. Grant me this white dress to wear, and I'll say yes again and again.  I'll cast aside my wandering rags for the banquet-wear of the Bridegroom...

Bailamos!

Was the next lyric that came to mind: Let the rhythm take you over? If so, be not ashamed. I too harbor some loyalty to the pop sensation, Ricky Martin: my early introduction to Latin music.


And where does Latin music intuitively lead next?  To dancing.


Allow me to preface by saying that in all my 23 years, I have never maintained a desire so fervently than to learn the art of salsa. Zumba, much like Ricky, was just a tease, until at last I recieved a proper invitation to a Cuban dance club. As J-Lo so brilliantly quips in Shall We Dance, the rules of engagement are as follows:


1. Don't think.
2. Don't speak.
3. Don't move, unless you feel it.


Allow me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bibtqDxXv1o&feature=BF&playnext=1&list=QL&index=1


As with any form of dance, without complete and total surrender to the art, it is neither enjoyable to watch or participate. In my head, I knew this, but in my limbs, there were nerves.  A staccato stride masked my anxieties as I departed the Woodley Park Metro in my red t-strap heels. Once again, I was lost and semi-agitated, due to the regularity in which I find myself in this scenario. Being a nomad occasionally has its petty frusterations.


I strained ahead for the inconspicuous Habana Village sign that hovered just enough above street level, allowing me to miss it the first time around. The detour led me to the entrance of one particularly dark alley and a choice unfolded before me. The clock read 15 minutes late. Forced to consider this questionably reputable bi-way to arrive at my destination, I didn't spend too much time deliberating.  For the sake of convenience, I took off into the shadows, cursing Mapquest as I went. As stupid as I am thankful, I did not die.


The clanging salsa tunes filled my ears, and I spotted my friends at the corner of the bar. A full scan of the room located the usual suspects, ethnic couples in effortless rhythmic passion and non-ethnic singles, admirably trying. I was such a one that fell into that aspiring category, though friends assure me that based upon my preference in music and culture, my being born white was some kind of cosmic mistake.


I began loosening my shoulders just enough to find the beat and frankly tried hard not to look too much like I wanted to engage any dance partners in the immediate area. I had stranger danger, revisiting in my mind those swift but effective maneuvers to momentarily incapacitate any male. Thanks to my tactically skilled brother-in-law, I mostly expect physical closeness with strangers to involve the some form of lethal force. With shock and awe, you must be wondering how in the world I am still single.


Should you dare to guess what happened next? Someone asked me to dance.


He was far enough along in his basic salsa step that I obliged, with the small crowd of my friends smirking in our direction. It was fun even, aside from the frequency with which he began stepping on my already work week weary feet, a kind of pain more irritating with each time he tried to lead when clearly, my foot was still there.


I feigned thirsty to rescue my unfortunate toes, when I spotted my friend being spun around by a man who was to salsa, as white is to rice. Luis is the exact representation of all things one can appreciate about a region of the world that produces miracles: men who like to dance.
I watched from a distance with appropriate awe, when at last the their lesson ended and I all but fell off my chair to be next in line. He first asked me if I spoke Spanish, as he clearly did, so I did not attempt any fabricatations. He moved with a kind of ease that was characteristic of a native and I asked how he learned. With an unmistakable accent, he explained that in the Dominican Republic, "dancing is what we do."


I liked that.


His feet were much kinder than my last partner's and quite frankly, I was planning to hold onto this arrangement for a greater portion of the night. He spun me as if I  knew it was coming the whole time and his movements commanded that I follow. "Smaller steps, more hips" were the corrections he made to my frame, a very direct statement made less suggestively than you would imagine. That is just what I love about salsa: that for a single moment, two people could not be more in agreement about their bodies, for the sake of the dance. 


 But soon, he too needed a rest, probably from trying to losen my catcus-like attempt at certain unfamiliar movements. He kissed the top of my hand to acknowledge the dance, and walked away.


But the merengue would change all of that. My friends had retreated to the third floor to sit a few songs out when I saw my chance to really learn what salsa was all about.


Otra Vez!


As I settled into the side-to-side tempo shift, I was again following the confident lead of Luis. This was more a dance of passion than had reached my comfort level, but again, it was surrender to the movement that allowed the style to come forth. 


I realized, in being pulled up two inches off the floor from extravagant sweeping dip, that I was beginning to learn something. I know my form needed much more work, but there is just something about "doing it right" that I could feel. Then after aligning in a face-to-face hold, he locked arms for a lift. I was unprepared for my feet to leave the floor, but they did anyway. What were we doing? I didn't have time to figure out what was coming, but knew only in that moment, complete and careless freedom.


At just the opportune moment, my friend cut in to say that they were headed home. I was breathless and had no notions of taking the walk back solo to the metro as I had come. As I quickly obliged, I told Luis, "I'll see you next Saturday!" half assured that it would be a lie. Though coming to think of it, I may be ready for round two. My introduction to salsa demanded that I leave all premeditation behind, to simply breathe the air of the moment. That may even be the best part....