Sacred Sunday

We woke up in a cabin that we've been building for five months, and that we finally finished this weekend. Sunrise was spectacular. So, too, was a big pot of pumpkin soup cooked over a fire and, as the afternoon fog rolled in, a communion of beer and beets shared with dear friends also facing transition.

Our convocation and benediction came from Wendell Berry's The Wild Geese,

And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven,
but to be quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.

And a reading from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. There is a time for everything. 

Of course, the sacred is always punctuated by a hammer hitting a thumb, a screaming baby (not ours) with a dirty diaper, rain, and a neighboring farmer angry about a goat. So there was some of all of that, too.

As we hiked out, leaving Kenscoff for perhaps for the last time, Joseph's parting words to us were "degaje w." [Do what it takes to get by]. A perfectly fitting Haitian send-off. 

Solstice on the Farm

The winter solstice demonstrates the enduring cycle of the heavens by an event that has been directly observable, year in and year out, century after century, for millions of years. The new year begins with the turning point of the winter solstice, as it has down through eons-an unending cycle of dark and light, waning and waxing, ultimately representing nature's birth, death, and rebirth. The winter solstice is a time to affirm our spiritual ties to nature through celebrations and traditions that are thousands of years old. The season is a time to renew family ties, take joy in our natural environment, reflect on the events of the old year, and look forward in anticipation to the new. -- Lisa Hutchins

We spent our "new year" on the farm: making a solstice/Christmas wreath with found treasures, delighting in friends and nature, digging new garden beds and playing by a fire. The next day dawned just a little bit earlier.

Christmas branch

Ben's leg has healed up just fine. Our spirits are taking a little longer to heal fully, but in ten days we board an American Airlines flight to spend Christmas with our families. It will be the first time in six years that I've eaten my mom's ritual caramel pecan sticky buns on Christmas morning. We're excited. When we come back, we move more permanently up to the farm. We're excited for that, too.

Meanwhile, this lovely branch has been pulled out of our storage room to evoke the season. I do love the tradition of the Christmas tree. I love that it stems from an ancient practice of honoring life and anticipating spring during the winter solstice (the longest night of the year), now combined with elements that symbolize my own faith tradition - the lights that represent the birth of Christ. The side of me that rebels against the "institution" of church loves putting up my tree knowing that the Puritans banned them. I love that I bought this particular "tree" on the side of Avenue Pan-American, that it's painted white instead of green and that it's fixed into a recycled milk can with concrete. I love that my ornaments are all local and handmade. And I love the way it looks at night when all of the other lights in the house are turned off.

Changes II

“I like to live in the sound of water, in the feel of the mountain air. A sharp reminder hits me: this world still is alive; it stretches out there shivering toward its own creation, and I’m part of it. Even my breathing enters into this elaborate give-and-take, this bowing to sun and moon, day and night, winter, summer, storm, still—this tranquil chaos that seems to be going somewhere. This wilderness with a great peacefulness in it. This motionless turmoil, this everything dance.” - William Stafford

Over the weekend, Ben and I began moving into a tranquil off-the-grid cottage in the mountains above Port-au-Prince.

We've been desperately in need of change that will ground us to the earth, to god, to more simplicity, intention and space. Our lives in Port-au-Prince have become too busy, too plugged in, too full of politics and constant reaction to crisis. We have become overly judgmental and cynicism has crept into our work and our relationships in unhealthy ways.

Thus, for at least the next six months we'll be living in Kenscoff on a farm and eco-preserve that is only accessible by foot. The land belongs to a dear friend, and we'll be helping her make plans for it, work it, grow in it and build on it.

We will be living in a lush, foggy, quiet, bio-diverse wonderland where there are birds and butterflies and frogs that sound like tinkling bells. We will have a pet horse. We will wake up to this view every single day:

Meanwhile, Ben will continue to work as a photographer and I will continue to work for Other Worlds, but part-time. We've found a roommate for our house in Pétionville so that we can still have a place to stay down the mountain when needed.

We don't feel tired anymore. 

Changes

Thinking about changes we need to make 

 for more balance, space and spiritual grounding in our lives...

A Weekend Away

For Earth Day

There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and dessecrated places.

The care of the Earth is our most ancient and most worthy, and after all our most pleasing responsibility. To cherish what remains of it and to foster its renewal is our only hope.

-- Wendell Berry

Guede/Ghede/Gèdè/Gede

In Haiti, Gede (or any of its alternate spellings) welcomes us to November. November 1st, All Saints Day, and November 2nd, All Souls Day, are national holidays. The gede are the somewhat raunchy spirits that preside over death... and sex.

Here is a picture Ben took last year in the National Cemetery:

Also, check out these photos from Day of the Dead celebrations throughout Latin America. I think Port-au-Prince needs a zombie walk.

Saut d'Eau: Behind the Scenes

We go early, at 6 AM, to avoid the crowds, ra ra bands, and drunken afternoon revelry. While Ben takes pictures, I am perched on a rock overlooking the waterfall.

I revel in watching people take part in the festival. It's like watching a diorama, made up of a dozen flowing, shifting scenes, each separate but somehow all interconnected. There is something breathtaking about watching hundreds of strangers bathe together, communally worshiping by means of [what is to me] an extremely intimate act. And with such inhibition, too, because by bathe, I mean: sudsing up with soap and shampoo, scrubbing the callouses off of your feet, shaving your legs, brushing your teeth.

A Haitian friend likes to talk about the power of the Haitian collective. I've never seen that demonstrated so vividly. A woman at the top of the waterfall begins to sing and, collectively, instantly, the energy intensifies, rippling across the crowd and people are frantically praying, waving their arms, dancing... and then just as suddenly, they all stop. And a father picks up a bar of soap and resumes washing his baby, while the group of women next to him are gossiping and laughing, brushing their teeth, and occasionally breaking into song. Just past them, a young man is taking big swigs of rum as water from a cascade pounds his back.

Discarded clothes litter the waterfall. Empty bottles, candle stubs, broken kwi (the half-gourd bowls used in ceremony), and soap suds swirl together.

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My pictures of Ben taking pictures:

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Randomly, I am interviewed for television. My interview (in Creole) goes something like this:

Q: What is your name?
A [inciting confusion, always, since Alexis is a man's name]: Alexis
Q: When did you arrive in Haiti?
A: In July 2008.
Q: Do you live in Haiti?
A: Yes, I do, in Port-au-Prince.
Q: How long have you lived in Haiti?
A: For 3 years, since 2008.
Q: Are you here with your family?
A: Yes, I live here with my husband.
Q: And your children?
A: No, we don't have any children 
Q [incredulous]:You don't have children?
A: No, no children, [adding for approval]... not yet.
Q: Are you a doctor?
A: No, I'm not a doctor.
Q: What is your profession?  
A [stumbling]: Um, ah, I, um, work with an organization that, um, supports Haitian civil society and the Haitian social movement, advocating for human rights and...
Q [cutting me off]: What do you like about Haiti?
A [attempting to redeem myself]: There are so many things to like about Haiti! I like the people, I like the culture, I like the food, I like the art and the music, I like the language, I like the beautiful countryside - like where we are now, I like...
Q: Okay, thank you.

No kids, not a doctor. Why did I do feel like I am a disappointing interviewee? I have got to figure out to explain what it is that I do.

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After last year's Saut d'Eau festival, Ben wrote this in an extended caption to accompany his photographs:

"Haitian pilgrims gather at the waterfall at Saut d'Eau on July 16th, the anniversary of the 1983 sighting of the Virgin Mary, alternately identified as the Vodou loa, or spirit, of Erzulie Freda, the Goddess of Love. The waterfall at Saut d'Eau is the site of the largest Vodou and Catholic pilgrimage in Haiti. A second sighting of the Virgin was reported during the American occupation. Each year, thousands of Haitian pilgrims make their way to Saut d'Eau to bathe in the sacred water and revel in the presence of the loa, particularly Erzulie and Damballah the Serpent, father of all life and keeper of spiritual wisdom, who is said to live in the falls. The water is believed to be curative and many women come to Saut d'Eau seeking fertility."

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There is so much happening that I want to try to understand, but when I ask the people around me, they howl with laughter. What are the leaves that people are bathing with? - They're leaves. (Someone tells me that there are 7 different kinds. Basil is all that I recognize). What do they do? - They cleanse. Cleanse from what? (More laughter).

Saturday in Saut d'Eau

A Weekend in Photos