This past week, my housemate Jordan and I visited a couple in the elderly program - Ed and Anna. Ed is sixty-five and Anna is sixty-four, and they grew up together in a hollow not far from where they live now. I’d met Ed last week at commodities, but this was my first time seeing their home and meeting his wife. He greeted us on the porch as we walked up to the house. Ed’s a tall man with a big mustache and a mess of silver hair on top of his head. He wears large eyeglasses that magnify the size of his eyes, and I haven’t seen him yet - in person or in pictures - without a pair of dark blue overalls. The huge smiles and warm welcomes we get never fail to make my heart jump up in my chest.
As luck would have it, they had three of their grandchildren visiting that day. The house was a flurry of activity, with “Dora the Explorer” blaring in the background and a play-kitchen being put to some serious use. Their grandson looked to be about eleven, and their two granddaughters were somewhere around seven and four. They regarded me shyly while their grandmother asked me questions about my home and their grandfather sat in a chair next to me, grinning broadly. The youngest granddaughter was absolutely beautiful; she had big blue eyes, and golden curls framed her chubby little face. When she laughed, it came out in a joyful little giggle, and dimples imprinted themselves on her cheeks as she played on her brother’s lap. I didn’t even notice the braces on her legs until her grandfather made me aware of them.
She was in a horrible car accident recently with her brother and her father. I’d heard about it the week before, but I hadn’t made the connection. I’d been told that she’d been partially paralyzed. It broke my heart; this lively little girl would struggle with that injury for her entire life, and it didn’t even appear that she truly understood that yet. There wasn’t any time to feel sorry for her, though.
“Wanna see her walk?” Ed looked at me hopefully. My eyebrows raised a little. I looked over at the girl, then back at Ed. “Sure,” I said. Ed jumped up excitedly and took the girl’s hands. The little trooper slid off her brother’s lap and onto her wobbly feet. With Ed holding her hands up high, she took one shaky step, and then another. I could see the intense concentration on the girl’s face. Ed walked her all the way down the hall and back, while the rest of us watched. When she finally sat back down, we all gushed excitedly, congratulating her and telling her that she’d done a wonderful job. And Ed looked about ready to burst with pride.
Life is a dizzying mix of trial and triumph. Our characters are partially defined by our reactions to these incidents in our own lives, but I think the truer test is how we react to those of others. We are called to celebrate this life with those around us. And it is as much of a blessing to extend a hand to get someone back on her feet as it is to take that hand and walk forward. That is the miracle of love.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Proud? Try Contra.
“The men who try to do something and fail are infinitely better than those who try nothing and succeed."
- Lloyd Jones
Well, Mr. Jones obviously never tried contra dancing.
For those of you who are unfamiliar - as I was - with contra dancing, it's essentially souped up line-dancing. Two lines face each other - you and your partner stand opposite one another - and you continuously switch off with the people around you throughout each dance. I was a little nervous going into it, but everyone I spoke to said it was SO much fun, and that any idiot could do it. This idiot really shouldn't have attempted it.
My basic plan was to sit back, watch my friends, and enjoy the music. To avoid having to dance, I would either A) become engrossed in my cell phone, or B) become engrossed in the stars outside until partners were picked and the caller had commenced giving instruction. These combined methods worked pretty well. But not well enough.
Fellow volunteer Alex, a seasoned contra dancer, offered to lead me in the first real contra set of the evening. I thought, "You know, this is all a part of the Kentucky adventure. I should try it out. What's the worst that could happen?"
My first mistake.
Though Alex basically spun me through the entire routine, I had absolutely NO idea what I was doing out there. It's all sort of a blur. I remember being very dizzy. I remember being swung by a man in a kilt. I remember saying "HI!" to each new person with whom I had to dance (all of which were, in my opinion, phenomenal contra dancers with very strong arms). And I remember telling Alex that we were permanently fighting due to the fact that he got me out on that floor to begin with.
But, all things told, it was a very pleasant evening. Despite my obvious deficiencies in the the field of contra dancing, the other dancers couldn't have been nicer or more patient, and my fellow CAP volunteers were nothing but supportive of my clumsy attempts at rhythm.
I did have to dance one more time after the initial trainwreck. Some poor guy misread my "leave me alone" text-message-checking face for my "please, please, PLEASE come ask me to dance" face. I think the red flag for him was when I apologized before the music even started. Jeffrey, if you're out there somewhere, thanks for being a good sport.
It was a humbling experience. I did a lot of hiding. I made a lot of excuses. It would appear that I called many more people than I actually did. And I may have feigned serious injury at one point.
Needless to say, I'm going again on Saturday night.
- Lloyd Jones
Well, Mr. Jones obviously never tried contra dancing.
For those of you who are unfamiliar - as I was - with contra dancing, it's essentially souped up line-dancing. Two lines face each other - you and your partner stand opposite one another - and you continuously switch off with the people around you throughout each dance. I was a little nervous going into it, but everyone I spoke to said it was SO much fun, and that any idiot could do it. This idiot really shouldn't have attempted it.
My basic plan was to sit back, watch my friends, and enjoy the music. To avoid having to dance, I would either A) become engrossed in my cell phone, or B) become engrossed in the stars outside until partners were picked and the caller had commenced giving instruction. These combined methods worked pretty well. But not well enough.
Fellow volunteer Alex, a seasoned contra dancer, offered to lead me in the first real contra set of the evening. I thought, "You know, this is all a part of the Kentucky adventure. I should try it out. What's the worst that could happen?"
My first mistake.
Though Alex basically spun me through the entire routine, I had absolutely NO idea what I was doing out there. It's all sort of a blur. I remember being very dizzy. I remember being swung by a man in a kilt. I remember saying "HI!" to each new person with whom I had to dance (all of which were, in my opinion, phenomenal contra dancers with very strong arms). And I remember telling Alex that we were permanently fighting due to the fact that he got me out on that floor to begin with.
But, all things told, it was a very pleasant evening. Despite my obvious deficiencies in the the field of contra dancing, the other dancers couldn't have been nicer or more patient, and my fellow CAP volunteers were nothing but supportive of my clumsy attempts at rhythm.
I did have to dance one more time after the initial trainwreck. Some poor guy misread my "leave me alone" text-message-checking face for my "please, please, PLEASE come ask me to dance" face. I think the red flag for him was when I apologized before the music even started. Jeffrey, if you're out there somewhere, thanks for being a good sport.
It was a humbling experience. I did a lot of hiding. I made a lot of excuses. It would appear that I called many more people than I actually did. And I may have feigned serious injury at one point.
Needless to say, I'm going again on Saturday night.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Snow
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
- James Joyce, The Dead
For the past few days, we've been snowed in here at the Jackson House. Amazingly, we really haven't gotten on each other's nerves; we're all definitely itching to get back to work, though. On Monday, after a morning of reading and putting puzzles together, a few of us felt restless enough to go out for some fresh air. So, Jordan, Megan, Judy, and I hiked up the hill behind our house.
It was very cold, but we warmed up once we started moving. The snow fell in big, soft flakes, and it piled up on the branches overhead. It felt like the world was whispering, and that we should have done the same. After a little while, we came to a huge rock formation. When the weather's nice, one can scramble on top of it to find a ladder and ropes left there to help the hiker get to the other side. Since it was covered in snow, though, we took the long way around.
Enormous icicles, some more than twice my height, hung from the ledge overhead. We found a spot where the ledge stretched over a grouping of large rocks, and we decided to sit for a while to take in the scene before us.
It was ethereal. From underneath the ledge, it looked like we were in the mouth of a great benign beast with long, sharp teeth. We fell into a comfortable silence, and I listened. I heard the roar of the wind coming from behind the rock, and the sound of it rushing overhead. The trees dipped and swayed with the wind, dancing to a song I'd never heard, but that I knew. The snow floated down gracefully to the same hymn, and the melting ice behind us beat a delicate percussion. It felt like time was suspended, and for a brief moment, we were all allowed to be made aware of the universe's song. And we were allowed to be a part of it.
What a beautiful miracle this life is.
- James Joyce, The Dead
For the past few days, we've been snowed in here at the Jackson House. Amazingly, we really haven't gotten on each other's nerves; we're all definitely itching to get back to work, though. On Monday, after a morning of reading and putting puzzles together, a few of us felt restless enough to go out for some fresh air. So, Jordan, Megan, Judy, and I hiked up the hill behind our house.
It was very cold, but we warmed up once we started moving. The snow fell in big, soft flakes, and it piled up on the branches overhead. It felt like the world was whispering, and that we should have done the same. After a little while, we came to a huge rock formation. When the weather's nice, one can scramble on top of it to find a ladder and ropes left there to help the hiker get to the other side. Since it was covered in snow, though, we took the long way around.
Enormous icicles, some more than twice my height, hung from the ledge overhead. We found a spot where the ledge stretched over a grouping of large rocks, and we decided to sit for a while to take in the scene before us.
It was ethereal. From underneath the ledge, it looked like we were in the mouth of a great benign beast with long, sharp teeth. We fell into a comfortable silence, and I listened. I heard the roar of the wind coming from behind the rock, and the sound of it rushing overhead. The trees dipped and swayed with the wind, dancing to a song I'd never heard, but that I knew. The snow floated down gracefully to the same hymn, and the melting ice behind us beat a delicate percussion. It felt like time was suspended, and for a brief moment, we were all allowed to be made aware of the universe's song. And we were allowed to be a part of it.
What a beautiful miracle this life is.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
I love Sundays.
I really do. Especially around here, Sundays are the perfect day to take a step back from the world and realign your priorities. Last Sunday, I went to Saint Martha's (remember Father Bob, Newman kids?), so this was my first Sunday at Saint Paul's in McKee, which will in all likelihood be my home parish this year.
Mass starts at 11:45, which actually means 12:00. I know. Meant to be, right? It's a tiny community compared to Saint Joseph's on Long Island; no more than forty people are members of the parish, and the majority of that number is made up of a few families. The church itself is small - split into three main sections: the church, a play area, and a gathering area with an attached kitchen.
Throughout Mass, you can hear the cheerful chatter of the several small children in the building, and a few not-so-hushed conversations of the older folks in the back. There's an adorable little girl in front of me who starts to twirl during every song and, at one point, announces to the congregation that she likes my "beads" (the infamous pearls, Ceparano girls). The priest (who, I discover, has only been here a few months) is lively and down-to-earth, delivering a homily about the Beatitudes, Mother Teresa, and serving the poor out of true love for God that hooks me. When the time comes to offer signs of peace, the pews practically empty out; everybody walks around giving hugs and laughing with each other, careful not to leave anybody out. At Mass's end, everyone reconvenes in the gathering area for lunch. Well, almost everyone.
I'm stopped in the lobby by a gentleman named Mac. He shakes my hand and asks if I'm new here. I was pretty prepared to go through the motions of introducing myself to a new community again; I've got the whole modified life story thing down to a fifteen-second science. But before I can start into it, he takes my left hand and says, "I can't help but notice you don't have a wedding ring. How'd you like to become a rich, young widow? I probably don't have too much time left, anyway."
I throw back my head and laugh. Talk about being caught off-guard. Mac nods earnestly, though, and says, "You're exceptionally beautiful. But you probably get that all the time." Let me pause here to advise any and all single men reading this that this particular course of action is risky unless you're a kindly older man with a southern accent. I shake Mac's hand and tell him that it's been a real pleasure talking to him, and as I walk away I mutter under my breath, "How red is my face?" Alex, a fellow volunteer, readily answers, "Very."
I got to talking to Mac over lunch, though. He's a funny, charming fellow with an incredible knowledge of local and family history. He tells me about Kentucky's early years, and how his family first came here from Virginia in 1790. In fact, his ancestors were the first settlers of the south fork of the Kentucky River. We talk about his life and he asks me about mine. Frankly, his is a lot more interesting. He tells me about his kids, and his past jobs, the old antiques he has saved from the nineteenth century. He warns me that I'll probably fall in love while I'm down here. I laugh even harder.
In the end, he asks if I'd like to go to Ireland with him when I'm done with CAP. I'll think about it.
Edit: Text message received from my mother at 2:25 pm EST reads, "No more church for you... and you're not going to Ireland!" Good to see you're making technology work for you, Mom :)
Mass starts at 11:45, which actually means 12:00. I know. Meant to be, right? It's a tiny community compared to Saint Joseph's on Long Island; no more than forty people are members of the parish, and the majority of that number is made up of a few families. The church itself is small - split into three main sections: the church, a play area, and a gathering area with an attached kitchen.
Throughout Mass, you can hear the cheerful chatter of the several small children in the building, and a few not-so-hushed conversations of the older folks in the back. There's an adorable little girl in front of me who starts to twirl during every song and, at one point, announces to the congregation that she likes my "beads" (the infamous pearls, Ceparano girls). The priest (who, I discover, has only been here a few months) is lively and down-to-earth, delivering a homily about the Beatitudes, Mother Teresa, and serving the poor out of true love for God that hooks me. When the time comes to offer signs of peace, the pews practically empty out; everybody walks around giving hugs and laughing with each other, careful not to leave anybody out. At Mass's end, everyone reconvenes in the gathering area for lunch. Well, almost everyone.
I'm stopped in the lobby by a gentleman named Mac. He shakes my hand and asks if I'm new here. I was pretty prepared to go through the motions of introducing myself to a new community again; I've got the whole modified life story thing down to a fifteen-second science. But before I can start into it, he takes my left hand and says, "I can't help but notice you don't have a wedding ring. How'd you like to become a rich, young widow? I probably don't have too much time left, anyway."
I throw back my head and laugh. Talk about being caught off-guard. Mac nods earnestly, though, and says, "You're exceptionally beautiful. But you probably get that all the time." Let me pause here to advise any and all single men reading this that this particular course of action is risky unless you're a kindly older man with a southern accent. I shake Mac's hand and tell him that it's been a real pleasure talking to him, and as I walk away I mutter under my breath, "How red is my face?" Alex, a fellow volunteer, readily answers, "Very."
I got to talking to Mac over lunch, though. He's a funny, charming fellow with an incredible knowledge of local and family history. He tells me about Kentucky's early years, and how his family first came here from Virginia in 1790. In fact, his ancestors were the first settlers of the south fork of the Kentucky River. We talk about his life and he asks me about mine. Frankly, his is a lot more interesting. He tells me about his kids, and his past jobs, the old antiques he has saved from the nineteenth century. He warns me that I'll probably fall in love while I'm down here. I laugh even harder.
In the end, he asks if I'd like to go to Ireland with him when I'm done with CAP. I'll think about it.
Edit: Text message received from my mother at 2:25 pm EST reads, "No more church for you... and you're not going to Ireland!" Good to see you're making technology work for you, Mom :)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Orientation
My apologies for not updating sooner, and my thanks to all those who texted or called for fear that I'd driven into a ditch. I didn't. I spent the better part of the week on the east side - in Sandy Valley - for orientation. We all learned a lot about the organization and the Appalachian culture, and I met some really wonderful people. I'm so ready to get started in Owsley!
Home and family are running themes here, I'm finding. If a family owns a plot of land, you'll usually see several houses and a graveyard on it. And down by the road, usually, will be an old shack. That's the homeplace. The family originated from that structure, and even though no one's lived there for years, it'll disintegrate before it's torn down. Family names are recognizable on street signs and old barns, and most everybody knows everybody else. Many of my participants have never left the county in which they live now. They've never seen any reason to go. This is home.
I tend to get the same response from a lot of these people when they ask me where I'm from. "You're a long way from home." It's often accompanied by a sad little smile and a gentle shake of the head. When I first got here, it certainly felt that way. But with each passing day, I'm feeling more and more a part of this family. The Jackson House family, the CAP family, the Kentucky Appalachian family.
Maya Angelou said, “I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” I have to say I feel like I'm there.
Home and family are running themes here, I'm finding. If a family owns a plot of land, you'll usually see several houses and a graveyard on it. And down by the road, usually, will be an old shack. That's the homeplace. The family originated from that structure, and even though no one's lived there for years, it'll disintegrate before it's torn down. Family names are recognizable on street signs and old barns, and most everybody knows everybody else. Many of my participants have never left the county in which they live now. They've never seen any reason to go. This is home.
I tend to get the same response from a lot of these people when they ask me where I'm from. "You're a long way from home." It's often accompanied by a sad little smile and a gentle shake of the head. When I first got here, it certainly felt that way. But with each passing day, I'm feeling more and more a part of this family. The Jackson House family, the CAP family, the Kentucky Appalachian family.
Maya Angelou said, “I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” I have to say I feel like I'm there.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
One Week In
This week has absolutely flown. There's been so much to absorb and so many people to get to know, and I've just loved everything about it so far. This week I'll be heading over to the east side for orientation until Thursday night. After that, I'll be able to throw myself into my work in Owsley County, and I CAN'T WAIT!
Being nestled in these heavily wooded hills got me thinking about an old teacher at my high school. Mrs. Buser is long gone, but she said something during the seemingly never-ending Long Island winter that I've never forgotten. We would complain about the trees, saying that we missed the leaves and couldn't wait for the buds to show up in the spring. She countered, though, that one of the beautiful things about winter is that it's really the only time we can appreciate the branches for all of their intricacies.
And here I am, surrounded by the starkly bare trees every waking minute. Millions of them, with billions of branches, reaching for the heavens. It makes me think that maybe, sometimes, we need to be stripped of the things by which we identify ourselves. That's the only time we can see and appreciate our own bare-boned and beautiful God-given potential.
Being nestled in these heavily wooded hills got me thinking about an old teacher at my high school. Mrs. Buser is long gone, but she said something during the seemingly never-ending Long Island winter that I've never forgotten. We would complain about the trees, saying that we missed the leaves and couldn't wait for the buds to show up in the spring. She countered, though, that one of the beautiful things about winter is that it's really the only time we can appreciate the branches for all of their intricacies.
And here I am, surrounded by the starkly bare trees every waking minute. Millions of them, with billions of branches, reaching for the heavens. It makes me think that maybe, sometimes, we need to be stripped of the things by which we identify ourselves. That's the only time we can see and appreciate our own bare-boned and beautiful God-given potential.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Sturgeon Creek
Today, Judy and I went to pick up a lady named Shirley to take her to get a new pair of glasses in a town that was about a half hour away. Shirley lives .. off the beaten path, let's say. To get to her, we had to cross over Sturgeon Creek. Twice.
The bridges one must cross to get over said creek are extremely narrow. I'd heard stories this week leading up to today about these bridges. Now, it's been raining on and off since I've been here, but it rained steadily all day today. When we picked up Shirley, the water was rushing under us. When we brought her home ..
Remember Oregon Trail? Remember fording the river with your oxen, and holding your breath while praying that you wouldn't lose any? Judy and I did that with a minivan today. The creek had risen very quickly, and we couldn't even see the edges of the bridge at all. I'm gripping the edges of my seat, Judy's white-knuckling the steering wheel, and Shirley's saying "Aw, go on ahead. Just drive straight." So, we did. And I'm typing this, so we clearly didn't get swept away. But we felt quite adventurous, indeed.
The bridges one must cross to get over said creek are extremely narrow. I'd heard stories this week leading up to today about these bridges. Now, it's been raining on and off since I've been here, but it rained steadily all day today. When we picked up Shirley, the water was rushing under us. When we brought her home ..
Remember Oregon Trail? Remember fording the river with your oxen, and holding your breath while praying that you wouldn't lose any? Judy and I did that with a minivan today. The creek had risen very quickly, and we couldn't even see the edges of the bridge at all. I'm gripping the edges of my seat, Judy's white-knuckling the steering wheel, and Shirley's saying "Aw, go on ahead. Just drive straight." So, we did. And I'm typing this, so we clearly didn't get swept away. But we felt quite adventurous, indeed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)