That four letter word that in English, we use to mean so many different things. We love our ice cream, we love our parents, we love a significant other, we love our toys, we love a song...anything, anything can be the object of our love. We hear it constantly on the tv or from our own speaking to describe something, "Oh my gosh, I love your shirt." "I love this class." And yet, we are not so free to use it with other human beings, we qualify who we can say it to.
LOVE, is that deepest of human connections. It is what we use to express our most profound relationships, our most humbling human experiences. We love the people in our lives, but how often do we describe people we just barely know as loving them? How often do we tell our closest relatives - let alone a mere acquaintance - that we love them? And why not? We freely express our love for the cup of coffee we are drinking.
For much of my life, but highlighted even more so here in Bolivia, I have wrestled with what LOVE looks like as a verb. It is a verb. A word that means action.
So how do I take action? How do I LOVE in the most profound of its definitions? Does it have limits or do we just put those on ourselves because it is easier or because we are afraid of something?
I have felt called since a very young age to help others. To do something outside of myself. Perhaps I am naïve in thinking so, but I have faith that most of us in the world have this same desire - to live for something bigger than ourselves - to brighten somebody else's life. And here I am, plop in the middle of another country as a volunteer and I just feel torn. My culture is not left by the wayside, it came with me. I struggle with what I feel called to do with what I am told is healthy, balanced, or normal.
I like to work with other people. I like to give of myself and share and here, LISTEN. A part of me feels like there should be no boundaries, no work hours, no time constraints or physical restraints. No need for self-uncertainty or self-doubt. I should just boldy go to the people I work with and listen with no fears or hesitations. I should go interrupt the soccer boys' evenings to get them to come out and play or talk or share. I should find ways to be with people and GIVE to them with no fear of what it costs me.
But another part of me says that I need to take time for myself, I need to follow the boundaries of the work hours, of the social norms, I need to protect what I have and not just give without thinking.
I wrestle with LOVE. I always struggle to know, should I give it all up and go? What am I hanging onto so tightly? Why? And WHY in the world as I get older does it seem to get even harder to let go of my perceived securities? I KNOW, I know. We all do, we all know what is important in our lives and yet, somehow, I am so distracted, so convinced that there is a balance. That my middle class life style is not hurting anyone. That I am in another country so that is good enough if I need to be selfish too. And day after day, no matter how many times I have this discussion in my own head, no matter how much tension I feel suggesting that there is something bigger I am being called to do, no matter how many facts I see that show me my lifestyle IS affecting others - I give in to the reasoning that I need balance. I take the easier road. I hold back and restrict the act of love. Why?
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Sunday, September 16, 2012
One Neighborhood, One Perspective
This past weekend I spent a day in a neighborhood called Kara Kara - it is in District 9. If you asked any local person downtown, if they knew this neighborhood existed at all, they would refer to it as the "neighborhood with the city dump." A Maryknoll priest lives there and he wanted us volunteers to understand a little bit about the place he lives and works.
Kara Kara exists on about three rolling hills, that is to say, there is not more than a soccer field or two worth of flat space in the entire neighborhood. There were no trees to be found on any of the hillsides, the ground is made up of mostly dry dust. Ken, the priest, walked each of us volunteers to a different house to spend a couple of hours with an individual or family there. He informed us that the people willing to have us stop by just happened to be the wealthy of the neighborhood so to keep that in mind.
I had the great fortune to spend a couple of hours with a man named Giovanny. He has a little plot of land with a brick house on it. It is a one room, no kitchen, no bathroom home (there is a "toilet" outside). Himself, his wife, his 20 year old son, 18 year old son, and 13 year old daughter all live there. They have an unobstructed, perfect birds eye view, of the city dump below them on the hill.
Giovanny and I spoke for a couple of hours about many different topics, including Evo Morales, the current Bolivian president. I think what struck me most out of the entire rich conversation was when Giovanny spoke the phrase "...the middle class, like myself...".
He considers himself the middle class? When I asked him what his dream would be for himself, what he most hoped for out of Evo as president or anybody in government, he said he hoped for a home with three or four rooms and a chapel in his neighborhood.
A couple of years ago, a non-profit organization, tried to get the city to move the dump as it is upstream of town (water issues is a whole different topic) and is just a hole in the ground with no lining or any sort of maintenance/regulations to keep the rain water from washing the dump into the river. Kara Kara fought this organization like mad and organized to keep the dump and neighborhood as it was. It provided a source of money and they didn't want to see that go. They received a SMALL amount of money for having it in their neighborhood and used this money to make a soccer field, etc. Another way they made money from it is dozens of people from the neighborhood wait at the dump. As trucks from the city bring the trash and dump it, these people dig through it looking for recyclables or anything valuable that they can resell for money.
The dump was allowed to stay as nobody else wanted it, but, with the agreement it would start to be lined with plastic in an attempt to better the water flowing to the city.
I left Kara Kara that day so grateful to see one of many, yet a distinctly unique, Cochabamba neighborhood. I am lucky to get to work, live, and visit many more neighborhoods.
Kara Kara exists on about three rolling hills, that is to say, there is not more than a soccer field or two worth of flat space in the entire neighborhood. There were no trees to be found on any of the hillsides, the ground is made up of mostly dry dust. Ken, the priest, walked each of us volunteers to a different house to spend a couple of hours with an individual or family there. He informed us that the people willing to have us stop by just happened to be the wealthy of the neighborhood so to keep that in mind.
I had the great fortune to spend a couple of hours with a man named Giovanny. He has a little plot of land with a brick house on it. It is a one room, no kitchen, no bathroom home (there is a "toilet" outside). Himself, his wife, his 20 year old son, 18 year old son, and 13 year old daughter all live there. They have an unobstructed, perfect birds eye view, of the city dump below them on the hill.
Giovanny and I spoke for a couple of hours about many different topics, including Evo Morales, the current Bolivian president. I think what struck me most out of the entire rich conversation was when Giovanny spoke the phrase "...the middle class, like myself...".
He considers himself the middle class? When I asked him what his dream would be for himself, what he most hoped for out of Evo as president or anybody in government, he said he hoped for a home with three or four rooms and a chapel in his neighborhood.
A couple of years ago, a non-profit organization, tried to get the city to move the dump as it is upstream of town (water issues is a whole different topic) and is just a hole in the ground with no lining or any sort of maintenance/regulations to keep the rain water from washing the dump into the river. Kara Kara fought this organization like mad and organized to keep the dump and neighborhood as it was. It provided a source of money and they didn't want to see that go. They received a SMALL amount of money for having it in their neighborhood and used this money to make a soccer field, etc. Another way they made money from it is dozens of people from the neighborhood wait at the dump. As trucks from the city bring the trash and dump it, these people dig through it looking for recyclables or anything valuable that they can resell for money.
The dump was allowed to stay as nobody else wanted it, but, with the agreement it would start to be lined with plastic in an attempt to better the water flowing to the city.
I left Kara Kara that day so grateful to see one of many, yet a distinctly unique, Cochabamba neighborhood. I am lucky to get to work, live, and visit many more neighborhoods.
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