Cultural Identity

No hablo ingles

I want to say.

As the flashing lights

Pull up behind,

Surround me

Inundate me.

Of course it isn’t believable.

Blue eyes, fair skin, freckles.

A driver’s license that

Gives edict of my residential birth.

But I say it,

In my mind,

Denying the reality of my skin.

I want to claim my true culture

My internal identity,

But the barrier of my skin

My heritage

My birthright

Cannot be broken.

What’s in a name?

What’s in a color?

Why do we label them as other?

If I am me, and you are you,

If I understand you,

If you understand me,

Then where is the need…

Craniology,

Or something of that sort.

Didn’t you know

There are 5 different sizes?

Therein lies the difference.

It was all pre-ordained, really.

Didn’t you know

The Bible says…

Therein lies the difference.

They’re not really human.

Didn’t you know

We’re doing them a big favor

Making their lives better

Civilizing them.

Therein lies the difference.

They’re stealing our jobs.

Didn’t you know

They’re

Lazy

Thieves

Liars

Criminals.

Therein lies the difference.

But it was a lie.

Where is the difference?

Where is the difference?

I am an egg.

You are a twinkie.

Can’t we just be

What we are,

How we are,

Who we are?

I am a cyborg.

I am not black.

I am not brown.

I am not yellow.

I am not red.

I am not white.

Karito

I was sitting there,

alone in the dark.

You waltzed over,

sprinkled light on my face,

and then there were two.

Walking hand in hand,

more than friends,

sisters of the heart,

we stumbled

over a sunbeam,

and then there were three.

Closer, we could not have been,

through music of the soul,

the new rhythms

you thrust into my core

will never cease

to make me smile,

and I pray

our music remains

in your heart

forever.

What comes first?

I believe in love,

so transcendental,

so powerful,

that it defeated death.

I believe in love,

that looks past

all petty differences

and disagreements.

I believe in love,

which puts others

first in your life,

even if they've hurt you.

I believe in love,

that isn't based

on what you do

or who you are.

I believe in love,

of God,

of the world,

of myself.

Baking is a Hobby

So I know half of the fun of experimental baking is not writing down the recipe you made up, or basing it off of a recipe in the first place, but once you make something good...I don't want to forget it haha. I absolutely love to bake...and cook...but more bake than cook :) Here in Peru, well at least in my family's house, we don't have measuring cups, so every experience in the kitchen is that of experiment. I've started baking quite a bit recently. Last week, I made some scones, based off a recipe, but I didn't like how they made them...so I modified it to fit my taste. This is the original recipe:http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/strawberry-yogurt-scones/detail.aspx . A great recipe to start out with because it's very simple, and fairly healthy for scones. Plus, you can always make it healthier by using substitutes like egg beaters and fat free yogurt :) Also, you should note that there is no baking soda in Peru, only baking powder, so I have to use twice as much baking powder to make it turn out the same way. Well for this recipe, I didn't like using strawberry yogurt, so instead, I used vanilla yogurt with about 6 fresh strawberries cut up into little pieces, and one orange, also sliced up. After mixing up the batter (with my hands of course!) I test-tasted it and decided it wasn't sweet enough. There wasn't any sugar in the original recipe, so I added about a fourth of a cup of sugar, and a dash of vanilla extract. Then it tasted good! So I put them in the oven, and while they were in the oven, I blended up the rest of the strawberries with another orange to make a sauce, which I poured over the scones before serving them....okay, so it might have tasted a little more like strawberry shortcake than a scone, but they were good! :)

Tonight, my family still hadn't given me any sign that they were going to feed me supper at 10:30, so I popped into the kitchen and decided to experiment with the ingredients that I could find. I ended up making a sort of mix between bread pudding and pieces of french toast. First I took one orange and cut it into small pieces, then I tore two slices of bread into small pieces and added it to the orange. Next came one egg, two tablespoons of sugar, a fourth a cup of milk, and three dashes of vanilla extract (if you can't tell, I love to use vanilla extract in baking--also almond, but I don't know if that exists here). After mixing it all up, I put it in the saucepan on the stove until I was pretty sure the egg was all the way cooked. Then I topped it off with some maple syrup and dug in--delicious :)

First Love

I'm praying for you tonight.

You don't know me,

and I don't know you,

but somehow, we are both known.

In the soft dark,

my thoughts flex their wings

and soar on currents

blowing to you.

Your greatest joy,

your worst failure,

floating on

the winds of

celestial air.

I lift them both

up to the windows

of the One who knows,

who knows you,

who knows me,

and trust

that one day,

we will meet,

that He guards

your heart,

your mind,

your love,

for Himself,

until the day

when we are equal

in our love

for One

so much greater,

until the day

when we will meet

and strive together

for our first love.

The beginning

She sat on her bed, one foot under her butt, just thinking in the shadows of the room. The sun was gradually sliding down the sky, sometimes hiding behind the wispy gray clouds, sometimes shooting friendly beams of warmth across her pensive face. It seemed like there was no one to talk to, no one to have fun with, no one to eat or drink with—no one to love. Every day she got up, went through the daily rituals of cleansing, eating, going to school. Everyone smiled, a few stared, many just walked on by. The other students in her class greeted her, but no one bothered to ask why she looked so tired every day. No one rushed to sit by her. A few kind students made efforts to include her in the conversations, but they didn’t know her, didn’t know that she wasn’t interested in their silly gossip, that she didn’t want to participate. This was normal, it was her life. Sometimes she took the chance, reached out, tried to fit in with the mindless chatter, tried to pretend that the pointless activities had some profound meaning, but eventually she always cracked her mask, couldn’t keep acting like she cared, and ended up alone. Again. Just sitting and thinking, pondering, wishing for a friend. The rare times when she couldn’t deal with it anymore, her heart overloaded with loneliness and longing, she poured it all into her music, her writing, her art, tears flowing down, which she tried to hide from the world. She knew she was silly, and yet she couldn’t escape the feelings that always dragged her down. To her, it was real, and something she couldn’t just walk away from. She concealed her feelings from those she knew to love her, except in moments of weakness, because, however well-intentioned they were, they never ended up really listening. Instead, they ended up talking about their own lives, or butting in with advice, thinking feelings are a simple math problem that can be solved with the right equation.

Luchas

Tears of yesterday
fall into the footprints of the present,
the dirt creasing and smudging
the crisp impressions of new life.
What is this grudge against learning,
against embracing the vibrant,
the living mezcla of tuturutu,
aji, and el pie de Misti?
Stuck in the mold
of dreams known before,
Luchas for new inspiration,
new love, nueva hogar.

a kind of guy

You seem
like the kind of guy
I would get to know
if I was reading a good book.
The hero of the story,
the one who always comes through
in the end,
and saves the girl.
You seem
like the kind of guy
who smiles at everyone,
and though you talk to me,
I know that you
won't ever remember my name.
You seem
like the kind of guy
who could be so much more
than the average career-and-settle-down,
who doesn't give up big dreams
just because they're not practical.
You seem
like the kind of guy
I wish I knew.

To love is to be hurt

To love is to be hurt,
not free from pain.
Always continuing,
always reaching out,
even when your hand is smacked away,
and your heart gets shattered.
When I think about his pain,
how he was abused emotionally
by his twelve closest friends,
betrayed, denied, abandoned,
how he was physically wounded,
in the most brutal way possible,
mocked, jeered, tormented,
yet.....
he chose to love the friends who abandoned him,
he chose to love the soldiers who beat him,
he chose to love the crowd that mocked him,
and still.....
he chooses to love the unrepentant murderer,
he chooses to love the straying spouse,
he chooses to love the gossiping friend,
he chooses to love...me.
How can I refuse to love
those who simply rub me wrong?
How can I refuse to love
those who stabbed me in the back?
How can I refuse to love
the strangers that I meet?
To love is to be hurt.

Wrecked

Wrecked.

Crashed up on Plato's shore.

Tomes of history breaking the surface,

washing up against me,

shredding my skin

like a load of sharks.

Truth.

Everything is relative

or is it?

History seems to think so.

volumes upon volumes

of contrarity and failure

to prove either way.

nothing is ever proved.

what to believe?

confusion pouring down in torrents.

I reach out,

grasping for faith

and find....

Community

One of the things I struggle with the most as a Christian is the feeling that I don't belong, even among believers in the church. I've had problems with this situation for as long as I can remember. This has been brought home to me yet again through my college experiences of searching for a new steady church to attend. Although people are generally friendly, this is as far as it goes--no one ever seems interested in actually developing a friendship or getting to know the real me.

Thinking back, this is exactly what the pastor at my current new church was getting at with his sermon last Sunday: the level of community within the church--moving from "I know your face (and maybe your name)", to "I know you and you know me". This is so vital to church community. If we can't feel like we are accepted even among our brothers and sisters in Christ, then what is the point of fellowship?!

Listening

Reflecting on all of my previous posts, I began wondering, "Why do I have a blog?" I'm not sure if this is a common reason, but I think my major motive is to be heard. Even if I have an unresponsive audience of 1 or 2 random people who just happened to click on my page, I somehow have a secret longing fulfilled. I would say that in my day-to-day life, I don't get listened to very often. It's not that people don't talk to me, or that I don't have friends. I actually have many friends. But no one seems to understand the fine art of listening. Many claim to hear what I say, but even if the sounds are vibrating through their eardrums, they aren't processing them with their hearts. They are quick to cut in with their own stories or advice, rather than just sitting, and letting me spill my heart. I'm afraid I've become rather calloused when people tell me that they want to know me better, or that they're "now ready to listen." I'm used to being ignored. So instead, I write, in the way most comfortable to me, when I can no longer contain the frustration, anger, sadness, pain, or on the rare occasion, joy within me. Of course, I am always willing to share with someone who seems genuine in their interest to hear my thoughts, and I realize that I need to reciprocate, but those lovely circumstance are few and far in between. I know that I have been blessed with a loving mom, who has always listened to me, always been willing to stop doing something important when I needed to talk, never demanded that I listen to her in the same way. Realizing this, I have begun to reciprocate recently, trying to fulfill her need for a listening ear as well. I think the stage where we really transform from being a mere needy infant into a mature adult is when we make the choice to listen, rather than be heard. It's not just a physical change, but also spiritual. When we choose to listen rather than be heard, we become more and more like God, who always listens to our sorrows and joys, our complaints, and rare praise. Maybe this choice of listening to the needs of those around us is merely the beginning of something bigger, developing our ears for the voice of God. Maybe He is simply waiting for us to make the choice to listen--for Him.

Steel

Hard face--
a mask?
Cold heart--
brittle
Shattered in two.
warm
tender
vulnerable.
Looking for love--
afraid to show.
Past hurt
no one cares.
The crust builds up again.
Leaving the impression
of steel.

Heartbreak:

who is there,
that will listen to
and ponder
the thoughts
of my heart?

who exists,
that can dissect
each and every one,
from beginning
to end?

who can understand
the aches,
the longing,
the things my mouth
cannot express?

Heartbreak:
for something
deeper than
a relationship

who can love,
truly love me--
not just in name,
but whose every act
expresses a choice?

Heartbreak:
for something
only Heaven
can provide

who can show me,
that it's okay
to free yourself,
to let go of guilt,
and dance
the song of life?

Heartbreak:
for someone
who breaks all
life's petty rules

who can comfort,
hold me when
life doesn't understand,
who can just sit,
and listen to my tears?

Heartbreak:
for the one
only God
can provide.

Scribbles

There is not a word I could say
not a speech I could write
not a song I could sing
that could express
what you mean to me.
We're family--together--one
in more than the true sense of the word.
Connected by the ethereal--
no one can understand this bond.
You understand me--I, you
and so I find myself,
left scribbling more letters
to distract myself
from the emptiness of the room.
So many thoughts
so much anguish
so much joy overflowing
yet I can not share.
You left--with a piece of me,
that no one else will ever hold.
I treasure your gift--
I embrace it--
present it fully to the light,
letting it illuminate all around,
Always praying,
for your return.

Crystals

Like a mighty oak,
growing tall, sure and strong
hands clasped, lifted high
An axe thrust
meant for the core
but deflected.
Sap pouring out,
oozing through the seams,
soaking through the bark.
Sunshine--
freezing the sap in its tracks.
Crystals of infinite wonder,
honeyed gold,
frozen in time.
The oak still growing.
Ever shooting upward.
Ever reaching up.
Ever stretching.
For God.

Fictionary

What would happen,
if all our dreams came true?
What would happen,
if we got everything we really wanted?
Would life become perfect?
Is it possible?
Why doesn't God
give us everything we desire?
Would we take him for granted?
Would we eventually find out
we never actually wanted it?
Would we leave God,
running away from His relentless love?
Always striving for something
we can't attain from a human?
Fiction clouds my mind,
making me believe in
dreams that aren't fulfilled.
It begs me to follow the rainbow,
knowing I will always find an empty pot,
or worse--the despair of nothing.
When the haze lifts,
I firmly plant my feet.
I choose to believe.
To believe in a story
that God himself writes.
He's no soap-opera author.
He doesn't twist the plot,
manipulating my life with indifference.
When I'm willing to hand him the pen,
He writes--
corrects my pitiful scribbles,
and completes the story of my heart.

Note to You

Yesterday seems forever
I thought our past would be never--
we got lost in the world of however.

Now you are no more
moved on, passed my door
leaving me empty to the core.

A different kind of love
not from earth, but from above,
what friendships are made of.

So many thoughtful words,
now frozen through discourse,
make talking seem a curse.

Regretful that it had to change,
wishing for our yesterdays,
when you were still my friend.

Arms

Aggravated.
On an emotional spiral of despair.
why?!!!
I don't care.
A face that won't disappear.
Everywhere it pops up,
like a bad commercial
that you can't get out of your head.
Loathing.
Self-hate.
No control over desires.
Pretending everything is wonderful.
What would happen if I let it out?
But I can't.
I can't ruin others' lives
with my own sob story.
You're supposed to heal me!
I don't understand!
I want to follow,
but I continue to wallow,
hopelessly, aimlessly,
feeling more and more lost,
farther from you with each
misguided step that I take.
I escape for a day,
then slide back down
to the filthy blood
of my confusion and denial.
I don't know how to let go.
I've tried a million times.
I know Your plan is always better--
but is it?
What could be better?
Why isn't it happening?
Loneliness.
But too hurt to trust.
Guarded stares,
Judging thoughts.
Dots and stars
circling my heart.
I want them all to fall off.
no names,
no approval or failure.
I just want to fall into
Your arms.
And never fall out.

Hh

Hearts beating--
every
pulse
bringing
pain.
Lungs breathing--
every
intake
causing
agony.
Souls shaking--
outraged
at so
much
hate.
Minds racing--
boggled
with what
is real
and
what
is fake.
Hands writhing--
longing
to exact
justice
to the
culprit.
Feet pounding--
chasing
every
dream
hopelessly
lost.