Nap Inspired Genius

I love napping. I always have, always will. There are some moments when I feel guilty about taking my daily hour and a half nap in the Dominican Republic, mostly when I think about my friends and family in full time jobs or juggling grad school and internships and life and all of that, but then I fall asleep and the guilt passes. Sorry guys. I find that it's not the rest that I love, but that somehow when I come out of my naps and my brain is switching over from sleep mode to wake up and smell the coffee mode, I surprise myself with good ideas. It's where I've decided to take a vacation with my dad before I head home, it's where I decided I'm going to write a book, where I planned my outfits for the first week I'm home, and where I figured out a way to appreciate my last days here in a way that will let be thankful for the time that's left, and focus a little more on the present. I've mention my anxiety and my want to come home despite how much I loe it here a thousand times, so let's just move past that saga and pretend I've described it again, shall we? You don't really have a choice, so just nodd and smile. Obviously as the days become less in number, my anxiety is increasing because I want to go home and, as I mentioned before, I'm afraid somehow I won't make it. Call me irrational, it's true, but the feelings are real and they often take away from my ability to enjoy my time here. I've tried to combat it in different ways, and at night when I pray, I list ten things that I'm grateful for to remind myself that life is good, and beautiful, and full of happy things. As I've progressed through doing this, I've found that I'm focusing more on things I'm grateful for because I miss them, rather than because I am experiencing them here. And so, kind of subconsciously when I was waking up, I confronted this issue and decided to find one thing every day that I am not only grateful for, but that I could only have experienced here, in the Dominican. And thus, I am presenting this list to you. Some are things from last week, some are from this week. All only could happen here, and are things I would have missed out on if i did what I wanted and jumped ship last week. These are the things that are keeping me calm, and reminding me that no matter how tough some days are, how hard it can be to find peace amongst the anxiety, I wouldn't have given up my time here for the world. 1. A chicken laid an egg in my clothes today. Literally straight up roosted itself amongst my jeans, tank tops and shorts, and laid its egg in the middle of its make shift nest. It reminded me what it's like to laugh at unexpected surprises, and how much I like scrambled eggs. 2. Lacking a baseball, I watched Freddy's sons and friends play baseball with a child's bat elongated with a stick, and the tops of water jugs. It reminded me how even when people here have nothing, they make something work. It also reminded me how at home, we seem to need the best and newest of everything, and forget that sometimes its more fun to play with the box than the actual toy. 3. I lost horrifically in dominoes to my friend at the nursing home. I ended up playing with him by accident because my friend Ramone turned me down, saying his legs hurt. How that pertains to dominoes, I'm not sure, but I found myself playing with Julio, who was not only a better player but a better sport. I hadn't asked him to play before because he has Parkinson's and I wasn't sure if he had the muscle control to play. He clearly does, and can kick my ass. It reminded me not to be afraid to ask questions, and not to judge by appearances. 4. I got to sit in on a general assembly meeting at ADESJO where all of the community leaders come together once a month to air grievances and talk about what's happening. Understanding all of the proceedings showed me how far I've come in my Spanish. Hearing people bitch, complain and congratulate ADESJO reminded me of the importance of free speech, and of having an organization that not only  provides a safe place for people to talk and air their opinion, but relies on that as the basic function of their operation.  5. I returned to Rancha Arriba with Freddy to meet with some more people in the community and sort out some organizational matters. It reminded me how much I really do just love truck rides through the mountains. It also reminded me how poverty here exists on another level. How  5 dollars is something we may throw away at home, but can change a life, at least for a day, here. It also reminded me of the importance of sun screen as it was a very hot day. 6. I ate arroz con leche sitting outside on a worn out adirondack chair while looking at the mountains and a tree that looks like something out of the African planes in the lion king. it reminded me to be grateful for my view, because it will change in a few days. 7. I went walking and had to navigate my way around Spanish speaking children, motorcycles, broken irrigation tubes which cause flooding, chickens, cow poop, actual cows, big rocks, and scattering salamanders. It reminded me to look where I'm going, because I didn't and I fell.  8. I drank coffee with way too much sugar, and loved it. It reminded me how important coffee is to the culture, but more so how it's important to take the time and enjoy it. To take five minutes. 9. Upon waking up from my nap, Argentina prepared me two mangoes from their trees outside. Apparently when eating a mango, one is not enough and two is the absolute minimum. It reminded me how much I just really love mango. And how expensive they will be once I'm home. 10. Did I mentioned a chicken laid an egg in my clothes? Let me remind you. A chicken. Laid an egg. In my clothes. This is by no means a great list, or the best one. It's not perfectly written, grammatically correct or full of grandiose things. But it's helpful. Is helpful because it reminds me to be grateful of things everyday no matter how I'm feeling.  It reminds me that even when I want to be somewhere else, I can find something to be grateful for here. And it reminds me that as much as I want to come home now, it would mean missing these little things, which I don't think I could live without. And it gives me strength to make it through until next weekend, when I can be home and bring my heart physically to where it is emotionally. Until then, I will keep napping, keep living and keep listing. I hope you do the same.

Q & A

Our sophomore year of college, one of my best friends received a quote in the mail via a good friend from home. It was one of those quotes that comes at the right time, and speaks to you in a way nothing else can. It was one of those situations where you're forced to believe in fate and things happening for a reason, because that's the only way to explain how something so perfect shows up so unexpectedly. The next year, Kalin passed  the quote to me right when I needed it, saying it was time. It had done its work for her, and now it was time for it to help someone else. I, in turn, would later pass it on, and forget about it, much like you forget the little moments when life seems to just get in the way. About a month or so ago, when I got an email from a friend, the quote found its way back into my life. I smiled at it, thought how funny it was that it would find me across the world, and then tucked it away, again forgetting about the importance of the little moments. It wasn't until last week that the quote made its way back into my conscious, appearing at a time when I was questioning the meaning of my trip here. And there it was, that quote coming to serve me again. Written by Rainer Maria Rilke, it states " I would like to beg you to have patience. With everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for answers, which could not be given to you now because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer". It's one of those quotes, much like obamas book, that I didn't understand at the time, and even at different times in my life, after I've understood it once, I've failed to find he meaning again. It seems as if it only makes sense when the person reading it is ready for it to make sense. In other words, it's magical. Coming into my second to last week here, I would be lying if I said I wasn't ready to come home. My anxiety is at an all time high, and I'm tired of it. I'm ready to drink a grande iced skinny vanilla latte, and eat a big green salad. I'm ready to see people face to face without a computer screen in front of me. Struggling with this, I also started to struggle with what my time here has meant, what the meaning is, what I'm taking away from it, what I'll change about myself when I get home. And then that started to freak me out. Would I still be the funny Siobhan I was before? Would I be quiet and withdrawn for a little? Will I want to talk and be with friends, or hid away? Will I love the same things? Will I cry a lot? How will my life change? Will I even be ready for a full time job, or the full time job of looking for a full time job? Will I lose my Spanish? What will happen? Will I have time to do all my laundry? Will chocolate still EXIST in the world when I get home? As you can see, asking myself questions and begging the answers could easily drive me to insanity. Looking for answers to questions I don't have made my skin crawl, made my face hot, brought on a slew of tears, made me want to be home right now. Because I'm a control freak. Because I have to have the answers, and when I don't I get mad and anxious. Because I like to know what's coming, because I like to be proactive and independent and to make things happen the moment I want them. It's not instant gratification so much as its knowing that when I want something, I can work to get it. But no matter what I did,I couldn't fix this. I couldn't find the answers to my questions. Because, guess what smarty pants, they don't exist yet. And that's when the quote came back. And in a very un-Siobhan-like moment, my anxiety stopped, my chest cleared and I found the answer by not finding the answer. I realized, quite naively, that I'm never going to have the answer because I'm never going to stop asking the questions. In no way does this trip have closure, or even end once I get back to the states. I'm always going to come back here. I'm always going to try and figure out how to change my life to better others. I'm always going to look for new ways, better ways. I'm  always going to wonder, try to fix things, want to fix things. It could be here, it could be in education, it could be in my personal life. The point is, because I'm a person that never stops, the questions are never going to stop. And thus, just by living, I will have to find my answer. Because living is the answer. The questions that I'm asking can not be passively answered. They can't be thought out, but rather I have to act my way to the answer. And eventually, I'll find that I'm living it without realizing it. Or, I'll find another question. For some reason, instead of it being a source of anxiety, knowing this gives me some clarity. Maybe its because it takes me off the hook for not having an immediate answer to everything. Or maybe it's because if nothing is never really final, it means that everything is a process and thus goodbyes are only temporary. I don't know. What I do know is that I loved my time here, and I wouldn't take it back for anything, despite the hard days and tears I've cried, despite my anxiety. I know that I'll take it with me, and it'll change me. Maybe not right away, and maybe not in a way I'll notice, but it'll change me. With this, I also know that at my core,I will always want to go back home where I belong. I'll always be witty and sarcastic, because it's my defense against the world, and my best feature- Really its what draws in all my prospective suitors. And I know that no matter what, chocolate solves an anxiety attack.  Wishing you a day filled with questions, Sabrina

Cranky and Protective

My brother has always been really protective of me. It started soon after I came home from the hospital, and he piled blankets on me to make sure I stayed warm. Clearly his three year old brain had yet to learn about overheating or suffocating. When I was three, he saved his accident prone sister from driving her power wheels into the stream, and warned our parents when I almost drowned in a lake after falling through the ice. When middle school came around, he threatened to beat up the bullies saying mean things, and later in high school threatened to beat up the boy who tried to kiss me. No wonder I have bad luck with boys. College came around, and he'd always been a phone call away. He let me hang with him and his friends when I had no one, and even after just because they were more fun than being by myself. His protection has truly formed me into who I am today. It's why I feel bad for anyone who doesn't have an older sibling,and it's why I know I'll always have someone to turn to, even if it's just to put me in my place.  While I've felt protective of my friends before, it wasn't until last week that I felt the true force of what it means to try and protect something from someone meaner, someone ignorant. And I felt it not for a sibling, but for an entire culture. Learning from my brother, I got protective real quick, a d got heated even faster. The Lavery temper followed me here. Here's the thing. Having gone to Saint Michael's college, we were taught that doing service in another country first and foremost meant respecting the culture and the people. We were taught to go in with an open mind, to learn as much as we could and to be sensitive to the fact that we would not always understand the cultural subtleties or implications. Simply, we had to think of how our actions would be interpreted, both now and in the future; how they would affect our group, and the group after us. We were taught to think not of ourselves but of others. Oh, and we weren't allowed to drink or have sex. The small things. So when I started translating for a group of nurses, I figured they would all do the same. Put their lives on hold, put their needs on hold,in order to be here to better the lives of others. And granted, 99% of them did. 99% of them were great and wonderful. But haven't we learned that it's the 1% that can ruin it for everyone? And ruin it they did, at least for me. Simply put, there were a group of girls more interested in wearing nothing, in drinking until nothing was left, and of putting it all on the table than they were in leaving their needs behind and giving of themselves...in appropriate ways. Because most of my fellow translators were young Dominican men, under 20 for the most part, cute, Spanish speaking and kind, the girls went after them. And kissed them, slept with them, and from my view, used them. They came into the culture, and used it to their advantage. And who can blame the translators for giving in? What teenage boy wouldn't with drunk girls throwing themselves at them? So naturally, my Lavery blood kicked in and I got protective. And pissed. From where I stand, it was justified. Here's why. These girls came on a trip to help others, and instead were helping themselves to the culture in ways that were crass and rude. I don't care how much good they did during the day, they ruined it at night. Don't get me wrong. I get that going to a tropical island is sexy and fun and that you want to let loose a little. But you can do it with your pants on and in a way that doesn't disrespect the culture. Because at the end of the day, you're not only proving what your character is, but you're using the people here for your own gain, and making it harder for future groups. Because now, any white volunteer that comes through is going to be assumed to be easy, and there for a good time. And from personal experience, it's not much fun to deal with when those aren't you're motivations. Because when we get down to it, you're not falling in love with the boy like you say you are, you aren't going to keep in touch when you get home, and you're not going to marry him. So you leave, and what happens to the boy you just left? You used him, and you used his culture. I get that I'm ranting. I get that my writing is cranky and angry and might not make sense. I get that there are people who will read this and get offended. But guess what? I was offended. I was cranky and angry and therefore decided to write about it. Because that's what I do. And when you get protective of a culture, when you learn the implications and the subtleties, when you take the time to get to know the people, you can be cranky when people blatantly dont care. It's not about me knowing more. Its not about knowing the answers. It's about caring enough to think about your implications, to think about how your actions are perceived,to think about other people during the day and at night. And when I care so much about a place, and witness other people not giving a damn, mama bear comes out and she gets pissed. Brendan taught me well.  At the end of the day, I guess I also have to say thank you. Thank you to Brendan for not only keeping me alive and well during my formative years, but for also teaching me the meaning of protection. Thank you Saint Michael's for teaching me what real service means, for teaching me how to respect other cultures, and for making me sign a no sex contract. God knows I would have gone crazy without it (jokes, mom and dad). And I'll even give a shout out to the whores who came. Because without you, I might not have realized how fiercely Ive come to love this culture, with it's good and bad, or the extents that I would go to to defend it. And finally, thanks mom and dad for not letting Brendan suffocate me in my crib. Much appreciated. Wishing you a happy weekend, Siobhan 

Looking Back

I do a lot of looking forward in my life, a lot of planning. In college, notebooks were filled with appointments, schedules, colored coded sticky notes and plans for the upcoming weeks, months, semesters. God be damned the person that wrote in my planner in a free space; they were negating my plans, and my organization. As often as this is a skill, which I like to think it is 99% of the time, it can also make it hard for me to stop and appreciate the moment, to recognize where I've come from. It's something that I've blogged about in the past, and is something that I continue to work on. So what better way to work on this skill than to stop, take a moment and reflect on where I was a year ago, with all of you along for the journey? Let's go, seriously itll be fun. And just a little rainy. A year ago, I was sitting in our best friends townhouse, waiting for the next day with the hope that it wouldn't really come. The night before graduation is one filled with high emotions, stress, anxiety and hope that rain will stop and the sun will shine. For the record, the rain never stopped and I've got my water damaged diploma to prove it. The night before graduation turned into the morning of, where quite literally it could not have been a more epitomized moment of what our friendships were, of how our relationships acted out and of who we were within each of those relationships. We made a plan to eat breakfast at a certain time. Only half of us were ready, and sat down to eat. Tragedy struck in the morning, making celebrating a little harder. The stress of finding families, of getting seated ran some of us ragged. And I was not having a good hair day. True to saint mikes fashion, no one knew whether or not we were taking a big class picture, and we winged it. Just like we would for the next year. Graduation morning was not idealized. It was not perfect, or in many ways very pretty. Being shoved out of your townhouse by a certain date at the same time that you're forced to say goodbye to your best friends, while waiting for a new car battery I might add, is not glamorous. It's cruel and unusual punishment. And yet, we made it through, just like we made it through the first year of the "real world" as scary as it seemed. Looking back, the succeeding year followed much of the same pattern as graduation morning. Tragedy struck for some of our best friends, forcing us to look at what's important in life, what we want to take with us and what we can leave behind.  We realized that plans in the real world are a lot harder to make than plans on a tiny campus, and that sometimes we missed the simplicity of sticky notes and planners. We tried too hard, did too much, found mistakes and bumps along the way. We left home, came home, and tried again. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't pretty. There was a lot of rain, but we winged it and we made it through. Someone asked me a couple of months ago if life in the real world was scary, and as bad as he had heard. At first i wasn't sure if I was qualified to answer, seeing as I avoided the year of rent, car loans and 401k funds, instead moving off to a tropical island in the middle of an ocean. And then I started thinking that there is no one real world, but rather the world that we find ourselves in and make for ourselves. Moving to north Carolina is a different real world from landing your first full time job, or finishing grad school or moving out of a small town for the first time. But it's still real. Working in a restaurant is as much real world as making your own products or presenting in front of your company's CEO. Getting a parasite in the Dominican Republic is as damn real as suffering from a bad head cold in the US- you still find yourself missing home. So whose to say what's the real world? Whose to say if it's really as bad as it seems? You. You are. You do. Because the real world is what you want it to be. And as long as you dictate it to the degree you can, it's not so bad. The key to surviving, I truly believe, is listening to your heart, realizing that this is your time. That what you do is your decision to make. That where you want to go is under your control. So, yes, the real world can be hard. But you can change it. Yes, there are obstacles, but you can move them. And, as always, there are rainy days, but when you get to run through them with your graduation gown and your best friend beside you, they aren't so bad. I get that my voice might be annoying on this subject. After all, I'm not at a desk job, or any type of job. I don't know how to pay rent, or even look for an apartment. But, I'm here, in my real world, and I'm happy. I didn't do what I thought others wanted me to after college, and im happy. I created my own real world, and I'm happy. Sure, there are days that suck. But they pass, and I realize that where I am, what I'm doing, its what I was meant to be doing in this moment. And I wouldn't have known it if I hadn't tried. If I hadn't leaped, and taken away the safety net. So the point is, the real world doesn't suck. Your life doesn't end when you get your diploma. Your friends don't disappear once you cross the stage. Things change, yes. Life can be hard, yes. Tragedy hits, yes. But it's doable, it's manageable. And just remember, when your planner full of sticky notes doesn't help, it's still okay to wing it. Because that's when the fun begins. That's when, instead of being in a full time job you end up speaking spAnish on an island. And loving it. Happy graduation, and one year anniversary to my very best friends in the real world. I couldn't be here without your support, and cant wait to see you in a month. Love you, Siobhan

¿Habla español? Si.

I love translating. I love being able to hear what is said in one language, and change the message around to fit the boundaries of another. I love the fact that most of the time literal translations are impossible, either because they don't exist or I just don't know the words, and I have to work out a puzzle to decide how to express the same thing in different words. And, being the control freak that I am, I love the power that it provides. The way someones health or situation is in my hands, for me to fix. I'm basically a superhero. Who speaks two languages. AKA I'm more powerful than batman.  For me, the fact that I am able to speak two languages, or really 1.75, is some sort of measure as to how much I've accomplished here. I've said before that there are days when I feel like I don't do enough, like I could have done more, run farther, held more hands, spent more time with my host family. But the fact that I can create sentences in another language, can hold theoretical conversations and truly express myself is a mark to the fact that my time here has been worthwhile. I came knowing the basics, and nothing more. I'm leaving knowing another language. Obviously there are words I don't know, things I need help with, but I don't have to stare starry eyed at everyone when they ask me basic questions. I can respond, and make sense. If we are being honest, which I always (kind of) am, I also love the look of surprise that people have when they realize I can communicate in something other than English or forced sign language. It always starts with someone asking questions about me to whoever I'm with, assuming I just don't know. And when I start jumping in and answering for myself, the look of surprise never changes. It makes me feel like I have a secret weapon, again, even better than batman. While all of these treats make knowing Spanish great, my favorite thing about being able to translate is the ability it has given me to learn more, see more and do more. Because ADESJO and the sisters have used me as a translator, I have been able to see and do more than I otherwise would have been able to. I have been able to learn about the bee keeping societies here, and how bee hives are kept. Granted, I didn't understand half of what they were telling me in English, let alone trying to fit it into Spanish, but at the end of the day with a head about to explode, it was still interesting and different. Working with nursing students now, I've been able to learn about the health care system here, see different patients and visit new communities. I've been able to visit the domestic violence center, i center i didn't even know existed before translating, and hear about how this organization is working to combat a crime that is much too prevalent in much too many countries. I've got to meet new friends, see different perspectives and become an asset in ways I didn't think we're possible. Ive been able to meet more people in ocoa that are my age, as they have translated alongside of me. I've even gotten to boss people around in spanish, meaning I've been able to translate the famous attitude that i possess in English into another language. I'm sure they really appreciate that.  The Spanish language has opened doors for me. It's allowed me to learn in ways I couldn't have imagined. It allows me to connect with people on a level that surpasses hi, how are you. Of course, we can make connections with people with the simplest of phrases, with minimal language. But theres something to also be said for being able to dig deeper, to question more and not to settle for a simple answer because that's all you can understand. My fear in returning home is that I will lose all of this that I gained. That I'll come back in a year unable to speak, unable to translate. I think the loss of a super power is a lot more painful than never having one to begin with, which is why I will do my best not to shed this cape. Instead, I will let it keep opening doors for me, talking to others in Spanish and learning more about other cultures at home. I'll wear my Spanish cape out of pride, just because it took so damn long to sew. Wishing you a day whee you feel like a superhero as well, Sabrina 

My Slippers

Ok. Fine. I admit it. For the last week and a half or so I've been anti-blog. I don't know how it started, or why it came on, but I had the infection, and I had it full fledged. Even though I had a couple of ideas of what I could write about, nothing excited me. Nothing made the words jump put of my fingers. Nothing made my heart stir. And I confess, when that happened I wondered for a second if I had stopped being inspired here. The thought was striking, provocative and scary, seeing as I have a month and half left and the last thing I want to do is just coast through uninspired. It was with these thoughts that I started to get a little nervous about not wanting to write, and about getting hate mail from my dedicated followers, even if there are only two or three. Hate mail is hate mail. And then it happened just like it always does. Inspiration hit when I thought it wouldn't, and in a place I didn't expect. You'd think that after this kept happening, I would come to expect it. Apparently I'm a little dense. About a week and a half ago, on one of my down days, I went to Theany's house searching through her box of books to find some new material. Picking up three randoms, I was just hoping to find a book better than little women, which I was struggling to get through. Whoever said that was a classic clearly also thought that staring at grass growing was an invigorating hobby. What I found in Ed box of treats was more than just books: it was my spotlight on the world, and my life. I know that a lot of people think of books as a way of escaping; as a means of leaving this present life for an hour or too and engrossing ourselves in the lives of others. While I see that side of the argument, I don't think it holds water, at least not for me. It's through books, through novels and truly well done literature, that I've come to understand my world more. It's shed light on myself and my life, and made it possible for me to empathize with others, in different situations. It's through books that, yes, I've seen other parts of the world, but I've also changed parts of my own. When a novel is truly special, it changes us, shakes us, and moves us. Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese was one of these shakers. It was a book I was flying through, loving every page. And then it made me stop. It was a passage about halfway through the book that made me rediscover my inspiration, my want to write. It made me not only see the things that I struggle with, but except them as part of myself instead of casting them off like a smelly sock. After returning from an extended prison stay, the father of the twins in the books explains the importance of owning ones slippers. He explains that " the key to happiness is to own your slippers, own who you are, own how you look, own your family, own the talents you have and the ones you don't. If you keep saying the slippers aren't yours, en you'll die searching,you'll die bitter, always feeing you were promised more". Although it makes more sense within the context of the book, the point is simple: own yourself for good or for bad, and love it. Because its how we think of ourselves that often decides how others do as well. It was in this paragraph that I found my inspiration. Because, in my life, here and at home, I have a lot of slippers. And being here has illuminated them, some good and some bad. Looking back on my blogs, while I've revealed a little of myself here and there, I haven't truly owned my slippers, and I truly don't think I can keep writing, keep being fair, keep exposing my experience, until I do. So here, in front of the blogging community, I am going to own my slippers. Get ready for a whirlwind. I am Siobhan Lavery, aged 22. I am not married, I do not have children, I do not have a boyfriend, and I am not Canadian. All of these facts are disappointments and surprises to every Dominican I meet. More so is the fact that I'm not actively searching for a boyfriend to fulfill the supposed hole that exists in my life. I hate being taken care of. I am a girl who has the best family in the world, and really didn't recognize it until I was in college and learned that not everyone's parents are as supportive, and not everyone's brother is a great role model, leader and comedian. I am a home body, which makes traveling hard but worthwhile. My true passion in life is education, specifically special education, although someone here recently helped me realize that international service is also a passion of mine. I have the best friends in the world, and wouldn't trade their craziness for a more mentally stable group in a second. I am a person who loves to share my experiences, which makes it easy for my to talk to groups and help them shed light on their own time here. I can speak Spanish better than I know, and have a laugh that's ridiculous and sometimes contagious. I love chocolate, am fiercely independent,and have an attitude that, as my mom put it, follows me no matter what country I'm in. These are some of my slippers. These are my nice slippers. And then there are my dirty slippers that I've tried to cast aside, but that I have to own. I struggle with anxiety. I have a grave fear that I won't make it home to see my family. I always feel the need to tell people how much I love them in case I don't have another chance. I have a great anxiety about the fact that the world is rumored to end at the end of this year. Sometimes I can't breathe because of my anxiety. I struggle with my body image. I hate the fact that I haven't been to a gym since the beginning of January, although I also think its good for me to struggle with this. I fear that I'm not spending enough time helping others here, and that I'll leave with regrets. I'm afraid I haven't touched enough lives, even though mine has been touched by many. I hate teaching English even though I love teaching in general. I've realized that I can't live in another country for more than 6 months because I love my home too much. And sometimes I worry that I won't find true love in my life; that my standards are too high, even though I refuse to lower them. These are my slippers. These are my struggles and my strong points. And here's what I see. When you separate the slippers, when you categorize them, they are just things, material. But when you throw in the beautiful with the ugly, they become real. They became me. I am not who I am because I only show my beautiful side to the world. I am who I am because I am sarcastic, anxious, emotional and chocolate loving. I am who I am because next to my anxiety, I have a lot of love. And next to my strengths, I recognize my weaknesses. I wouldn't be who I am with only the good. It is the ugly slipper that has made me Siobhan. Its my slippers together that have brought me to Italy,Vermont, the dominican and the world at large. It is my slippers that will bring me home. So here it is, my blog to return to the world after an absence that felt much more profound than it was. And it's fitting that it would be a book that brought me back, as it's books that reveal myself to me in ways other things can't. My hope, for you, is not only that you never lose your inspiration, but also that you never leave your slippers behind. Wear them, and wear them with pride,. Happy Thursday, Sabrina

The Danger of Venn-Diagrams

Comparisons are a funny thing. It's something that we naturally do as humans; how does my butt compare to hers, am I having a better hair day or is she, or how does my life journey compare to that which others the same age are embarking on. It's something we learn to start doing at a young age, and in many ways it's helpful. It can keep us in check as we look to others to see what is socially acceptable and morally right. It can help us make decisions that otherwise we may be confused about. We learn to compare in school with venn diagrams, t charts and pro/con lists, and it's something we take out of the classroom and into the real world in order to make sense of the chaos that is life.

Last week, I realized first how dangerous comparisons can be, and then again how they can help us keep perspective. During my week off, I had a hard time with a bout of homesickness. When I was left to my own devices without tasks and activities, I found myself thinking a lot about home and what I was looking forward to. In a lot of ways, this is normal. I can't wait to see my family and to share small moments with them and my friends. But on the other hand, I started to live in the future instead of the moment. I found myself looking forward too often, missing what was right in front of me. I was too busy comparing and planning that I was tuning out the lesson that was right in front of me. Kind of like in class when I took way too many notes and then missed what came next. Some things never change.

And then last saturday I was delivered a blessing in disguise. The week before I was invited by an employee from ADESJO to come to his house and to a private pool with him and his family in thanks for the translating I had done for him the week prior ( yes, I now know enough Spanish to translate. Be proud of me). I honestly didn't want to go. I didn't know the family, and still feel awkward going places without someone in my DR family by my side. Plus the fact that I was going to have to put on a bathing suit after three months of eating platanos. But went I did, as I was invited and that's the nice thing to do- thanks for the lesson in manners, mom and dad. 
When I walked into the family's house, I was immediately struck with not only how nice it was, but how western it seemed. The kitchen was stocked with appliances you would find in the US, and was big and airy. There was American music in the background and I was spoken to in a mix of English and Spanish, as the oldest son speaks it almost fluently, and the mother lived in Canada for a while. Lunch consisted of chop suey over rice, and tuna sandwiches were made to bring to the pool. Taking a tour of the house revealed an actual shower with hot water, and other western comforts. And the time at the pool was spent much like it is in the US; occasional swimming with a lot of drinking and singing. At least, that's what happens on my family vacations. Overall, the day wasn't awful. I survived in my bathing suit, and only felt out of place half of the time. But I can honestly say that I've never been happier to arrive back into Freddy's house with the people that have come to accept me as one of their own.

Here's why. There was a moment when, in being spoken to in English and encouraged to eat my tuna fish sandwich, I forgot that I was in the Dominican Republic. The family and house was so western in so many ways, that it was as if a piece of this country and culture was lost. Not all of it, but enough for me to notice. Sure, the creature comforts there may have been greater, but at what price? If I had ended up living in that type of house, I guarantee you my experience would have been different and for the worst. I wouldn't have learned Spanish as quickly, I wouldn't have eaten as many platanos and I would have lost the experiences of the culture that I find so rich. I would have missed the sounds of the merengue music which were replaced by Bruno Mars. I would have missed the community coming to visit, and half of the family living in the same house. I would have missed the sounds of farm animals in the middle of the night, and I wouldn't have learned how many bucket dumps it takes for me to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. Would life with the other family have been easier? Sure. But I would have missed so much richness. I would have missed everything that I've come to treasure. 

It was with this in mind that I gladly came back to my little home, and hugged the family. It was with this in mind that I took my bucket shower, got dressed, did NOT put any make up on
( ha ha) and then left to go to church with the family, because that's what we do in this culture. And it was with this in mind that I realized that while being homesick is hard, and looking forward is easier than living in the present, I have to let it go. Home will always be there waiting for me, and the time will quickly come where I will go back to it. But this won't always be here, not in this pure and unadulterated way. I don't have a lot of time left to soak up everything here. And as hard as it is, I have to leave my pro con list behind and be here, in the now. As I learned on my LEAP retreat my second year of college, I have to stop anticipating and start participating. Comparing here to home won't do anything but make time go slower, and take me away from what's happening. Home will always be there. My friends and family will always be there. And I will be happy to go home. But until June 13, I also have to remember to be happy here. Because this will soon come to an end. Home never will.

Wishing you a wonderful (almost) April vacation!

Sabrina

Rated-R

Warning: this is going to get honest and provocative. I'm gonna talk about sex and the catholic church in the same sentence. So when your eyes roll back into your head, don't say I didn't warn you. Read on at your own risk.

At the beginning of this week, when I was forming ideas about my next blog, it seemed obvious that I should write about holy week and what that entailed in a community driven by their Catholic beliefs.I  was going to write about the amazing palm Sunday mass in which hundreds of people processed down the streets waving palms and singing, or the chance happening that is going to allow me to observe in a special education school here in town. I could have described the awesome new resident of the nursing home and how i started to form a friendship with him, or even about the boredom that sometimes ensues from being home all week with no where to go.

And then, last night, I ended up going to a church meeting which was all about marriage, and how to be a good spouse. I obviously didn't know this was the topic when Freddy and Argentina convinced me I should go, and felt only slightly out of place when everyone was told to hug their spouses, until Freddy and Argentina enveloped me in a group hug. It wasn't until the priest began outlining the pertinent aspects and challenges in marriage, that I actually felt like i didn't belong, not only because I was boyfriend/spouse less, but also because I didn't agree.

Before I came to the DR, I self identified myself as going through a kind of religious crisis. I have, and always will, believe in God, but i was questioning where that fit into my life and how to act it out. I was questioning aspects of my belief and how they related to my everyday. When I came here, I felt like I had found what I was missing for the first time in a while. I finally found a church that was as active and dynamic as the one at school; where the community was involved and seemed to be truly living the word of God. It was amazing to see how much change and good the church brought to the people in the area, and how openly it was received. I found myself believing in this church, in these people, in the ceremonies. I found myself beginning to feel secure in my faith for the first time in a long time. And then last night happened.

In the midst of this marriage talk, I was reminded of all the reasons why I struggle with the catholic church. It started when the priest said that half of the purpose of a marriage is to procreate. Wait. HALF??? I mean, do I want children? Sure,One day. Maybe not tomorrow,  but one day. Am i planning on having that be the only point to my marriage? No. And to go forward from there, I'm pretty sure that I'm  going to have sex with my husband more than just the amount it takes for me to create a child. Because he's my HUSBAND. People wonder why there is so much divorce and infidelity in the world: I don't. With rules like that no wonder people are cranky. The priest described curbing our urges like eating: there are times to eat and there are times not. Well, Mr., I say that I eat when I'm hungry and therefore if I feel another sort of hunger, I'm gonna fix that too. Because its natural. Because I'm human. Because its my right and I'm pretty sure God understands that because I was created in his image and all that.

And then we got to the issue of Gay Marriage. It came up under the list of things that can deter us from a happy marriage; things that can lead us away from God. If I could have handled the procreation argument, this is where I lost it. To list the number of reasons why this argument upset me would take a lifetime. It would include the fact that if gay marriage is a sin because procreation can't occur naturally, does that also make an infertile couple sinful? It would include the fact that with so many unhappy heterosexual relationships, are we really to deny happiness to a happy marriage just because biology got in the way? Oh, and then theres the fact that people don't choose to be gay. That they were made in Gods image. That they are who they are and deserve to be that person in every way possible.

I walked out of the marriage meeting sad, and frustrated. It wasn't that I had learned anything new, it's just that I was reminded of all the reasons why I don't agree with the church. It brought back my questions of whether it is okay to pick and choose what I like in the church, because there are so many things I like...there are just also a bunch I dont. I know that the church is a man made institution interpreting mans word about God, and that there is a separation between believing in God and in following all the doctrines of the church. And I know that my struggle is one that any questioning catholic goes through. I just also know that it sucks to be living in a word where it seems like the church is perfect just to be rudely brought back to reality in a lecture I probably shouldn't even have been in.

I guess it's kind of fitting that during holy week I found my own struggle, one that doesnt have an easy answer. The only way to solve it is to keep living and figure out how to reconcile my morals with those of the church. I don't know how that will result, but I do know  that I believe that everyone deserves happiness no matter who they love. Oh, and that procreation isn't my only reason behind the action, if you catch my drift. Other than that, I guess it's just a mystery I'll have to figure out day by day. Sometimes, I'd rather have the easy way out.

Wishing you a happy holy Thursday,

Sabrina 

Halfway Gone

Yesterday marked my half way point for this journey. Today, therefore, is the first day that I start the downhill slide. It's the first time that I have less days in the future of this trip than I do in the past. I made it to the top of that mountain, metaphorically and quite literally, and can now see not only how far I have come, but also what the trip down will entail. Honestly, it's kind of cool.

The trip up started rough. I thought it would be a lot easier, and was surprised the first few days when I needed more love and encouragement than I thought I would. But it was phone calls home, inspiring messages from friends who had done this before, and a general sense of support that helped me get started. And once I was off, I was really off. Naturally, I stumbled a lot on the way, but I also figured out, or remembered, that I really love to learn. I love stopping and thinking about things as they happen, and figuring out what that means in the bigger picture. I like figuring out the language, simply because it means that survival is actually possible. And I like my companions along the way. I realized the hard way that not everyone in the DR is like Freddy and Theany, but rather that they are the cream of the crop. It took some getting used to to realize that there are people here that arent nice and that are only looking out for themselves. I forgot that this place is just like the rest of the world, full of beauty and hardship; Freddy and Theany make it easy to think that everything is as calm, beautiful and thoughtful as they are. By looking at the poverty that exists here, I was also able to see the poverty that exists at home. That while here people may not have shoes or clean clothes or the basic needs, they have a love that is often dismissed at home. They realize the importance in relationships and stopping to think about other people and their needs. Which made ME think; what is worse, the poverty of things, or the poverty of spirit? The trip up created more questions than answers, and ended up requiring a much different path than I had originally planned. Instead of building houses everyday and working on my physical labor skills, I'm doing a lot of sitting and talking, translating and holding hands. And somehow, it just fits.

So now I'm at the top, right? I'm at that point where you can't climb any higher and the only thing taller than you are the trees you're standing under. And from here, the view down and out is incredible. Looking back, I can see where I came from. I can see that the volunteers who came and visited changed my path; that because of their questions and perspectives, I got to learn more than I otherwise would have. But I can also see a rough outline of what's coming; what I have to look forward to. And now that I can speak Spanish ( kind of) it all makes a little more sense. I can see the holidays that I'm looking forward to experiencing here; holy week, Easter Sunday, and the day of Trujillo's Assassination. I can see the ceremonies I will be privy to watching; election days, a community members ordination as a deacon, and weekend baseball games. I can see the relationships that I'm excited to keep up, while also knowing there are others hiding that will change me for the better, just like the others have. But what's most exciting is that a lot of the journey is hidden. Because I've done half of it, I have an idea and am excited for it, but I also know that there is a lot to come that I can't even imagine.

And then, in the distance, is home. I would be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to going home. To seeing my family and friends, and eating as much funfetti cake with funfetti frosting as possible ( the one thing I crave is the one thing you can't ship). At heart, I always have been and always will be a home body, which is really why traveling is so much more important for me. Will I be sad to leave here? Absolutely. I'm leaving a place I've come to know and love in so many different ways. I'll be leaving a family that has taken me in like you can't imagine. But, again, what makes it easier, is knowing that going home isn't really saying goodbye. I'll actually take Spanish classes so that my verb conjugations make sense. I'll take merengue classes so that I can move from being okay to actually having hips that move like Shakira. We know I have the goods, I just have to move em. And I'll spread the word. I'll talk my eyes out until everyone understands the importance of this place and the need to visit, if not to help others than to help ourselves. Because, in reality, the journey doesn't end. It just changes and becomes an international trip. Because there is no way to separate the me here from the me at home. Because I need both parts of the world to be my true self. Because abandoning one means abandoning me; something I left behind my freshman year of college along with the bad boyfriend, and have promised myself I would never do again.

From here, I can see where I came from, and can guess at what's going to come. And instead of being afraid, for at least today, I'm grateful. Grateful that I've made it this far, and grateful that I've got more time, but that home is in sight. Oh, and I guess I'm kind of grateful for you and your support. Because you, whether you like I or not, are the next step in this chain. You're the next step in spreading the word and making change. Pass this blog on, and pass the word on. To just one other person. Show someone at school, in the office or a dance class ( oh and stand over their shoulder to make sure they read it).And then maybe, just maybe, we can create a worldwide journey.

I hope you enjoy your view from the top of the mountain as much as I enjoy mine,

Sabrina

Mirror Mirror

It's amazing how much other people can tell us about ourselves, especially those we are close to, whether we like it or not. Our progress, our meaning and our wisdom are often marked by how others react around us; the questions they ask, the remarks they make and their exclamations about the way we live. It's as if others are a mirror into what we truly are, and how we are truly acting out our lives. They show us the innermost workings of who we are, and what we are accomplishing, or may be able to accomplish in the future. At least, that's how the saint mikes group was to me.

It wasn't until I was surrounded with 10 people that had never been here before that I realized how much I do, and don't know, about this country. How much I have learned and how much is left to discover, both about myself and the culture. The main difference in having a group here, and being by myself, was perspective. Instead of just thinking about things in terms of how I see the world, all of a sudden I was looking at my new home from fresh eyes; ten different ways of viewing what I saw everyday. All of a sudden, the poverty seemed a little worse, the mountains a little higher and the people a little more welcoming. I was thinking about things like medical care and seeds and lawsuits and what women did when they got their periods, just because different people were asking different questions. We forget how different our lives are, and our ways of thinking, until everyone looks at the same thing and comes up with eleven different, and wonderful reactions.

It wasn't until the group was here that I could truly see myself through the eyes of other people. It was Heidi telling me how she loved to hear me speak Spanish, and how natural it sounded that made me realize I may actually leave here bilingual. Or Allison telling me how much I've relaxed and opened up that made me realize that the Dominican culture has had more of an effect than I may have planned. Or even when ari claimed how sweet the coffee was, almost painfully so, that made me realize I'm immune to it, and probably should detox on my return home.

Most of all, though, it wasn't until the group was here, questioning me, that I realized how much I really do love it here. It wasn't until I could share it with someone else, someone on the outside who was seeing what I was seeing, that it became clear again how much I loved this place. I got to share about the struggles I've heard of, the stories that have been passed down and the lives people are living. I got to share the story of ADESJO, the organization I am so passionate about and just hope that some of that rubbed off on someone. I got to listen to Theany humbly explain her work to others and see their reaction to all the good she's doing; all the good I've been lucky to witness first hand. I got to point out my favorite places, where Freddy's family lived, and the different communities that encompass the area. I got to share about my life here to try and make it a little clearer, a little more meaningful, for everyone else.

Looking at the faces of the 9 students chosen for the trip, more than anything I was brought back to my first time here. 19, insecure and the youngest on the trip, I fell in love with a place that changed my life, even if I didn't know it at the time. I was taken aback by the beauty mixed in with the poverty, with the overwhelming sense of welcome alongside stories of teenage marriage and a lack of education. With the way the people gave everything even when they had nothing. I was in awe of it all, and didnt know where to start or end, other than to sense in some way that this was the beginning of something. I came back confused, heart broken and in love and unable to describe the world I had seen other than to say " its just different". And now, three years later at the age of 22 I don't know much more except to say that this place changes people. I can now see how it changed me, and I got to stand witness as it changed 9 young girls, some still trying to find themselves, and others trying to find out how the world will accept them. It's a powerful thing, watching a transformation and knowing that it can lead to so much good, but also so much confusion.

The Saint Michael's group came at the right time for me. I was in a place where I knew enough to share, but am still ready to learn. I can challenge things more, as I know more of the language, and was open to people showing me more ways to challenge. It was like I could finally see the cycle of how I got here.I saw the last three years  laid out. My first trip here, my study abroad experience, my return trip last May and then this crazy experience, like a play that was already written waiting for me to act it out. It all seemed like a muddle at the time, but here, standing back now, its clear that it was somehow meant to be all this time. And now, along with that, i can see the future. What my next few months may hold, how my returns here will be shaped, cause we all know this isn't the end, and who else i can drag along on this crazy journey. Because of them, I can see it. It may not be clear, but in one form or another its there.

The groups leaving has been hard, without a doubt. When anyone from home leaves, there's a sense of loneliness and a sense of wanting for the rest that home offers, that no amount of arroz con leche or love from a surrogate family can sooth. But what I am ready to accept now, and may not had been had they come earlier, is that I will be sad for a few days, but then I'll find a new challenge or way to engage myself with the people I love. Because the group taught me more than I did them. They showed me I was strong enough, and smart enough, to do this. They were my mirror to myself, and I gotta say, thanks to them, I kind of like what I'm gonna see in the next few months. So here's to everyone that was here. You tryin to make me see who I really am here? Cause ya did, and I'm not gonna lie. I dont hate it.

The Wheels on the Bus...Might Fall Off

People say that the best way to learn about a culture is to just dive in, and see what happens. I like to think that I've done this, often to the extreme over the last two months. I learned about healthcare by burning myself on a muffler of a motorcycle and traveling to the clinic to get a tetanus shot and medication, and I learned about delinquency by being mugged on the side of the road when going for my leisurely walk (exercise really is dangerous). I've learned about religion by becoming a part of the congregation, and about the food by stuffing my face so that later I have to stuff myself into my own jeans. But amongst all of these tasteful and invigorating experiences, nothing smells like cultural immersion more than a bus ride to Rancha Arriba or the capital.

Picture this: to get to Rancha Arriba, I take a broken down land rover that looks like its on it's last leg. I get to sit on the outside, which means I'm next to the paper thin door separating me from the side of the mountain and a rocky river. The window is also open, meaning I could just fly out of that, as seatbelts clearly haven't found their way inside this gem. So far, the physical demeanor of the bus is a little different than our typical greyhound or little yellow school bus. And then there are your passengers.

Typically, on a bus in the US, people don't really talk to each other. Sure, you have the occasional love story probably written by Nicholas Sparks where two strangers meet on a bus and fall in love, but it's not the norm. People don't talk to strangers, which really is a reflection on how most of our culture interacts as a whole. Welp, not here. Everyone that enters is sure to greet each other personally, making sure that they have made at least two new friends by the end. And conversation is plentiful. Sometimes, it's with the driver, which is slightly nerve racking as he isn't so much looking at the winding roads, but instead is looking at the person speaking, and sometimes it's a whole group debate about political parties. And I get to sit in the middle of it all.

Being on the bus has also taught me that the limits of space do not exist in this country. I'm pretty sure I live in a big Mary Poppins bag where things magically appear and fit when there is no physical explanation for how it happens. Take the inhabitants of the bus just last week. We had a man with his chicken and a woman with her baby in one row, along with two other people when there was really only room for half a person. We had one man sitting on the wheel of the bus because all the other seats were taken, even though the driver insisted " no no esta bien, much espacio". Let me tell you. By no means was there mucho anything, let alone space. For amongst this group of people, we also had some sacks of platanos, a sack of rice someone else got to sit on, some suitcases, and a bag of oranges. All intermingling together, hoping that the bottom of the bus would hold until the next stop.

If you're lucky, you might also find yourself on a bus to a major city, where along the way vendors will hop on to sell you things. So if you forgot your sunglasses or container of favorite peanuts at home, it's okay because someone will surely come and try to sell them to you. It does kind of take away the joy of napping, as you have people yelling in a confined space, but after a while it becomes nice background music of some sort. It's also just a fun paradox of what you would find in the Us: I'm pretty sure that if random vendors jumped on a city bus lawsuits would be quick to follow, and stranger danger would be heightened to a maximum degree.

For me, despite the danger and fear of breaking down, bus rides are one of my favorite parts of the week just because they say so much about the culture. People here are open to each other. They want to talk, they want to learn, they want to share. Ans they want to take care of each other. When the seats in the way to Santo Domingo are full, people give up their seats to those who need them, and let others sit on their arm rests. Here, it's not about the individual, but about the community. People will give up a little, or a lot, of their comfort just to make sure someone else has their share. So while my safety isn't a hundred percent guaranteed, and my comfort is taken away when there are four people on a two person bench, I find myself looking forward to the rides. I may have to pray a little more than I do during trips at home, but I've also met a lot more friends and laughed a little more. Maybe greyhound has something to learn from the transportation here. Maybe we all do.

Wishing you a happy Sunday,

Sabrina

People

I'm a person who often lives inside my head. I think, analyze, over think and imagine on a constant basis. It's why instead of having an imaginary friend, I had an entire family with something like 14 kids, a husband named People and one of my children named Thing. It's why, now, I often lead myself into moments of anxiety, because I get stuck imagining the worst instead of living the best. It's a double edged sword- I get a great imaginary family, but sometimes forget about the real world as Im off in my mind.

My solution to this, ironically, is the very name of that imaginary husband. People. It is my relationships with others that can pull me out of myself and make me come back into contact with the world. My sense of doing revolves around these relationships with other people. And like I mentioned before, this country is all about relationships with people. It's what makes time worthwhile. It's what makes volunteering worthwhile; putting a face to a struggle, and seeing the person behind the poverty, the person behind the change.

The other day I was having a typical "I feel like I'm not doing enough" day. Weird, I know, as it's obviously not something I've struggled with. I had been going with Freddy and ADESJO to the villages, but felt like it wasn't enough. I mean, I was sitting in a truck I didn't have to drive, to go visit groups and eat the best meals ever, to then talk to people in the community, watch the other volunteers work, and then turn around. I felt like my presence was obsolete. Until I saw Dario.

I met Dario my first week here, when I traveled with ADESJO to meet with the different communities in preparation for the year's volunteer groups. He is a little man, full of life and spirit and at that time was living with his wife, daughter, son in law and granddaughter. I remember the bowl of oranges he put in front of us, and how after I had eaten three, the group didn't understand why I wasn't eating more. Typical Dominican culture. I continued to meet Dario over the weeks, as I visited the numerous groups in his community, and each time we seemed to form some sort of bond. One time, he told me that his house was my house, and truly meant it. A couple weeks later, seeing him at the ADESJO office, he asked me why I hadn't been by recently. When Freddy ensured him I would be there soon, Dario promised to cook me a meal. And then the last time we visited, he wouldn't let me leave without a huge hug and a bag of oranges. The fact that we were in a rush didn't matter. Mandarins were more important than time, and to me Dario is more important than being busy.

And then there is Santa, one of the cooks who stays with groups preparing all of their meals for the week. I have met her a bunch of times with different groups, and have come to love her sense of humor, hugs and fantastic meals. The other day she too got mad at me, this time for not coming to her house when all of ADESJO was invited. It wasn't until I assured her that I wasn't even in the country at the time that she let it go, and then promised to make me her infamous arroz con leche before I left...even though she's supposed to be cooking for other groups and not according to what I want.

And then we have Eduardo. I met him three years ago when I first came to El Rifle, and despite him being old enough to be my father, we struck up an immediate and immature friendship. I saw him this week for the first time since 2009 and it was like nothing had changed. I got in trouble for being here for two months and not having seen him yet, and he got in trouble for not visiting my group last year in Los Palmeritos. We shared a pack of Dino cookies, and got over it pretty fast.

And how could I forget Apollo, who I feed at the nursing home, or the kids at the school who shout out my name and are eager to learn. Or Patricia who soaks up as much English as she can to prepare for an eventual move to the US. Or the man who drives the guagua for the school in Rancha Arriba and lets me sit in the front. Or Ernestina. Or the teachers at the school who don't get paid. Or Juana. Or Freddy and his family. And everyone.

I could go in for pages about the relationships I've made. About the people who have pulled me out of my head and helped me live here. About the conversations I've had, and mostly understood. About the true laughter that resonates. About the stories I carry. The point is, it's these people who make it worth while. In talking to a friend, I mentioned that I felt like I wasn't moving mountains. He said, no, you aren't, but you're making the mot of your experience by talking. Your getting everything out of it that you can.

And should I even be surprised? That I feel the most connected and real when I'm taking? Let's be honest, I'm the girl that doesn't shut up, that talks in my sleep and as fast as can be. And here I am. Talking and sharing. Making the most of my time here, and eating as many oranges as I can. Trust me: it's a lot.

Wishing you a weekend filled with friends, whether imaginary or real,
Sabrina

Slow Down Sister

I have a feeling that if a scientist searched through my DNA, he would find a little strand called "must do everything possible at all times". I was somehow born with this notion that if an opportunity exists, I have to take it. If work is available, I must do it. And if, by golly I have to slow down, catastrophe is bound to ensue.

I like to think that this phenomenon started in high school, but I'm pretty sure it was before that, in preschool when I didn't understand why my brother got to do homework, and i didn't. Or in elementary school when I decided to run the school store and run for class president ( I lost, and am still bitter). Or even in middle school when I tried out for a play because I thought, why not, and was only forced to quit when I realized that I physically could not be blocking shots in net and be on stage as an alien at the exact same moment. If only I had hermione's time changing device I could have done a lot more.

The seven years of intense education I had starting my sophomore year of high school confirmed this DNA analysis. I did everything. I breathed academics, ate extra curriculars and slept sports. I edited the newspaper, acted as a donkey in a play, weight lifted with boys, hiked the Appalachian trail, hoarded fourteen year old girls into their rooms at night and managed to keep up friendships and relationships. College didn't change that. It was the same story, with more extra curriculars and classes, more friends, more international travel and a little less time.  I don't think i slowed down once in seven years. And then after graduation, I worked myself to the bone to save money, to be here.

Ok, Siobhan, get to the point, we all know your type A. Get on with it.  Well, blogging audience, the point is that when I am forced to slow down, it's against my nature and I hate it and I want it to stop immediately. I am in every sense of the word a doer. Here, I feel it even more because I only have a limited time to do. Five months seemed like an eternity when I landed on January 14, but with my two month mark creeping up on me, staying in bed with a stupid stomach bug for two days seemed like a lifetime. I felt like I was letting all of my opportunities slip out of my hand. I felt useless.

Needless to say, this is not a reflection on the culture, but on my reaction to it. I'm pretty sure Freddy would have liked to quarantine me for another few days, and that Theany was mad that I had gotten out of bed at all. Here, they slow down. Here, I freak out. I guess my fear is that I'll leave and not really have done anything. That I'll have dabbled in service, but that I will have wasted time and not done anything big. People tell me all the time that they are proud of me. Sitting in bed watching another re run of friends, I can't figure out why. It's only when I'm out and engaged that I feel worthwhile. Otherwise, I feel stuck and restless.

It was after feeling like this for two days that I got some words of encouragement from a couple of friends.Sarah reminded me that it isn't the amount of time, but the little moments. Like when Argentina told me that I was going to turn into a pig because my bath water was too hot. Or when Joel bravely found the rat in my room when I stood on my bed and cheered him on...from a safe distance. Or when Raphael played me in dominoes and I discovered I might not be as bad as I thought. Or when I survived my first merengue. And then Pete reminded me that the world keeps turning, and that there will still be things for me to do when I get better. That all the problems in the county won't be solved in the two days that I'm sick. And Freddy reminded me that living somewhere is different than visiting somewhere. That things go slower when you are somewhere for a long time. That there is naturally more space, more time to breathe. 

This is my challenge. To remember that I don't have to cram everything into one day, that I am here for more than a week and that I don't have to live in that mindset. To remember that conversations are more important than work, that slowing down is natural everywhere outside of the US. And to remember that even though I'll be leaving in June, that doesn't mean my time here is done. That really this is a life project that I will continue at home in between my visits to my other country.  My learning doesn't have to stop when I leave, and my time doesn't have to be filled every second. More important, like Sarah said, are the small moments.
It's a big challenge for a type A person to undertake, a big game to talk and then have to follow up. But I have three and a half more months to figure it out, followed by years of return visits to practice. Maybe I won't be perfect by the time I leave, but then again maybe I'll drop from being a type AAA battery to just a AA. it's a big goal, but us type a's always need something to reach for.

Wishing you a day filled with lots of nothing,

Sabrina

Dazed and Confused

Two years ago i started reading Barack Obama's memoir, Dreams From My Father. It was one of the many books on my "to read" list, and my motivation for starting it was simply to be able to cross it off with a check mark at the end. At the time, I never finished reading it, and handed it back to the library with some over due fines. It wasn't until two weeks ago, when Sister Ruth let me go through her treasure chest of books that I rediscovered it, and started from the beginning.

To be honest, I didn't follow much of the book. In times, the writing was confusing and the insights too complex to be written down in simple wording. I found much of his critiques on race in the US to be overdone, wondering if he focused too much on color and not enough on substance. But then again, as I'm sure he would say, I am a white American upper class woman born on his "powerful" side of society. what do I really know about being an African American in the US?

After reading the book, I had the feeling that I needed to sit with it for a while. That it was one of those books that don't make sense when you close the cover, but somehow begin to take shape in the days, or in my case mere hours, that follow. 

Much of his book is about his feelings of being an outsider in a society where identity is pertinent. It's about his struggle to find his definition between different races and continents, between a white family in Hawaii and an African family in Kenya. Clearly, there wasn't much for me to relate to on an immediate level. I'm an Irish- italian American with a firm sense of self, spending the last 22 years figuring out where I stand in the world. Until 7 weeks ago when I stopped being a racial majority and started being one of a handful of white people in the city I call home.

Being American here didn't start to present a challenge to me until approximately 8 o clock last night. I've been blessed with the ability to live in a host family that is accepting of me and willing to help me learn. They treat me as an individual, as a member of their family, and help me to express and substantiate my opinions through my different experiences.  I realized last night that this isn't the case with everyone.  Being a white volunteer comes with preconceived notions, ones that I hate and that shake my firm foundation of comfort.

 It starts with people wanting my opinion, thinking that I'll agree or that I know best. It started last night with the declaration from a man that I must agree that his son playing with girls toys was unacceptable  and the worst thing that could happen. What do I say? Do I get into an argument in broken Spanish about how being a good parent is loving your child no matter what they are? About how I can already see the path of his relationship with  his child's and that it kills me? That I want to hug his child and tell him he's beautiful, no matter what he likes? No, because I'm in someone's else's home, because I literally don't know the words, and because I'm the American. I'm on the outside. If I agree,It collaborates their belief, which is the last thing i want. But if I disagree I can easily become the rude American, and create riffs in the family circle that seems to include everyone in Ocoa.  So I fake that I can't understand, look stupid and take another sip of soda, hoping that the moment will pass quickly. It does, and another takes it's place.

The ever so popular conversation of whether or not i have a boyfriend commences.  Apparently being 22 and single is absurd, leading people to question why I don't have a boyfriend, and then to assure me they will find me one. There is no space to explain that these five months are not for me to fall in love, but that this time is for me and the people I am working with. The last thing I want to do is cloud my short time here with a romance that won't last and that involves way too many tissues, chocolates and emotions that i would rather spend elsewhere. In this specific conversation, I was not only told that I could easily find a boyfriend among the many nice friends that this specific gentlemen, the father of the son playing with girls toys, promised me, but also that I could bring the said "chosen one" back to the US where we could both live. As the American girl, I am less attractive because of whatever beauty I may or may not possess, and am more attractive because of my ability to bring someone to the US. I've become a vessel for the new world.

As the night drew to a close, I started to understand what Obama was saying about being an outsider. I felt less like person and more like an ideal that I didn't fully understand, but was supposed to live out.This morning, it was solidified. I like to think, naively I now see, that volunteering time means more than giving money. That the personal connections are important, that they mean more than a check. At the nursing home I have been talking to one woman, bed ridden for years, on a consistent basis. I spend the most time with her and have come to value our friendship. Today, I felt as if the last  four weeks of conversations were stripped away in one quick swoop.Today she looked at my shoes and asked me what size they were. After I responded, she told me she wanted them when I left, that she would remember them. She then asked if I had anything else for her; that she wanted things. I was immediately taken aback and hurt. I felt like the only reason I was valuable was because of what I had, not who I was. Not to mention that she was already planning for me to leave, when i still have three and a half months left. It wasn't my story or friendship she wanted, but my shoes.

I don't know what the answer to this struggle, this being an outsider, is. Do i give away everything i have, because i can and therefore should? Or do I refuse to give shoes or things to anyone, to prove that it I'm not here to give things, but to give time? Do i stop sharing my possessions with others in a culture where all they do is give? Does that even make sense in a culture when people need so much? Does my time here even matter? Or is it just what I'll leave behind in materials that I should care about?

And what about my opinions? Free to express them in Freddy's house, I feel taken aback and defensive outside. I feel shy and like it isn't my place. But is it? When do you speak up and when do you know that it isn't your place? Is choosing one an abandonment of self, or identity?

Today, I feel confused. I've been faced with the struggles I knew would come, but didn't want to. I feel like my foundation has been shaken, and I'm not sure how to right it. I'm not sure how to dispel the American stereotypes when I can't stop being the white American girl. Sure, I can say I'll keep being myself, but I also have to keep being sensitive to the culture I'm living in. It isn't black or white. It isn't about just giving people things, but rather the expectation that because I am white, giving is automatic. Because I am American, I will bring someone back to the states. I will give money, just because I can. I don't know where to draw the line. I don't know where to right myself. What I do know is that I owe Barack an apology. Your book wasn't confusing. It was my own lack of clarity, lack of understanding of your life, that muddled the words. And honestly, I wish I didn't have the clarity to make sense of it. I wish I didn't have to be the outsider to understand your words. I'm sorry that you were for so long. I see where you stood, I hear your words, and with dread, I understand. I get it. I just wish that I didn't.

Neither Here Nor There

One of the biggest mistakes I've made in preparing for this trip, and trying to adjust to new elements as they come, is my comparison of life here to my life in Italy when I studied abroad for 4 months. On the one hand, it made perfect sense for me to compare the two. Living in Italy was the only experience I had living abroad for an extended period of time, so it was the only niche into which I could try to fit my new lifestyle. On the other hand, it was the dumbest thing I could have done. News flash: studying abroad with English friends in a developed country is a little difference then going alone to a country that, in all it's beauty, still struggles with poverty.

Nevertheless, when I found out that I would be teaching English twice a week at a catholic school in one of the campos, I was immediately filled with dread. I hated teaching English in Italy. I had no control over the lessons or the kids, had little support from the teachers and just generally found the experience to be more stressful than enjoyable. I left each day questioning whether or not I was meant to be a teacher, and what it was I was doing so wrong that made every lesson a failure. So it was with an anxious heart and heavy mind that I entered the old barn where the catholic school is located. Granted, the hour bus ride that left an hour late and follows eroded roads and cliff sides the entire ride didnt exactly ease my fears.

As soon as I entered the first partitioned classroom, I realized the mistake that I had made. Comparing my experience in Italy to what would be my experience here was like comparing my skin color when I arrived to my skin color now- not even fair. I walked in to a crowd smiling faces staring up at me and wanting to soak up every word that I said, whether in English they didn't understand or Spanish...that they still didn't understand because I'm not exactly a language expert. They wanted my love, my help, and my attention. And I could have given it to them forever. My time with them the first day was cut short, and instead of feeling a sense of relief, I felt a sense of sadness that they didn't get to finish decorating their name tags, and would have to wait a whole other week. I knew then, that this time was different. This time, the classroom was my home and not my enemy.

Granted, there are similarities. Elementary aged children everywhere are the same. Full of energy, unable to sit still and still in awe of their own voice and knowledge, leading them to want to teach instead of learn. I was the same all those years ago ( sorry mrs. Livingston). Most kids are good for about a half an hour of English, and then are bored. Instead of fighting it, this time I came prepared with coloring books and enough markers to go around. I learned from the terrors in Siena, and refused to be beaten this time around.

I'm not sure if this time is different because of me, or because of the kids. Maybe I grew more than I knew in my teaching abilities during my last year of school. Maybe somewhere along the road I found the patience I've been lacking since the day I was born. Or maybe I just connect with these children on a deeper level than teacher and student. Maybe they mean more to me than the kids in Italy did. Whatever it may be, what I know is that I'm counting the days until I go back. I know I want to be there, and I want to plan. And I know that no matter where my life will lead me, my heart and home will always be in a classroom, whether in a beautiful school in Vermont or a barn in Rancha Arriba.

I've always believed that education is the way to change the world; truly I believe it is the only way. And I believe it is my mission to do my part and be a facilitator of that change. You see, I don't teach because I love children. In fact, out of the classroom I secretly find many of them annoying. It's the brutal, and surprising, truth. I teach because each child deserves the chance to decide what they want out of their lives without limitation based on what family or country they were born into. I teach for the child who has no hope, to give them that starting spark. And never have I seen the need for education more than I have here. These kids soak up everything, in the hope that one day they can be what their dreams are telling them now they are capable of. Even if it's only for two or three hours twice a week, I teach here to keep that dream alive for one more minute of one more day. To give them that hope.

So next week, and the week after, and the week after, I will board the crazy gua-gua, be smushed against the window and make my way to the barn. I will make my way home to be with my kids and try to teach them the difference between there, their, and they're, while asking ask myself who in God's name made English so complicated. Really, it's unnecessary.

Wishing you a great weekend,

Siobhan

These are a few of my Favorite Things

It came as kind of an annoyance that my one month anniversary of being in the Dominican Republic should land one of my least favorite holidays. But, gosh Siobhan, you might say, I thought you were a true believer in love and flowers and soul mates...why on EARTH would you hate valentines Day? Well, my friends, it isn't a holiday about love, but about who gets the biggest bouquet of flowers or best box of chocolate. And being boyfriend-less does not make this holiday fun. It was much to my relief, however, to learn that this holiday, when celebrated in DR, is less about romance and more about friendship and appreciation. This I could swallow, and it was in this spirit that I spent my own solitary one month anniversary with my ADESJO family. And it is in this spirit that I bring you the fourteen things I have learned about myself and this culture in the last month. Ye the use of the number fourteen is cliche, but so am I so just deal. Or x out of the page and miss the best blog ever- your choice.

Top 7 cultural revelations:
1. When offered a chair, you must sit down. If you do not, not only will you be looked at as having two heads, but you will be asked to sit down repeatedly until peer pressure gives in and you find yourself in the seat anyway. Avoid the awkward 30 seconds of trying to be polite, and just give in. And don't expect this to change as time goes on...Freddy's family still gets up so I have a seat whenever I walk into the room. It's a little like being royalty.

2. Tight clothes are ok, and preferred. This came as much a relief as I realized the if I keep eating at the pace I do, even my baggiest clothes will look like thy were tailor made for someone 2 sizes smaller. This is okay, because here it is the fashion. Even better is if you can add in something see through. I'm working that one in.

3. When people say "gracias a dios" they don't mean the casual thank god that we say at home. They truly mean thank you god for the gift you have given me, whether it be good health, food or a good friend. Religion here is not contained in books, churches or in a said prayer. It is lived, breathed and acted every day. It is less a belief and more a form of being. I have had more beautiful and simple religious experiences here than I have in the last few years at home, and I finally feel like I am starting to find something I was missing. Gracias a Dios, for opening my eyes.

4. Everyone you meet is either a best friend or family member. If you met them at church, they probably work with you, may offer you free medical care ( long story for later) or may just end up at your house that upcoming weekend. And if they aren't actually family, they will be soon. When a Dominican tells you that his house is your house, it isn't a line from a movie, but something that comes from the heart. And if there isn't enough room in their house for you, chances are they will build you your own...like Freddy is building me mine.

5. It is important that before embarking on this journey to is beautiful culture, you fast for a month or two. When it comes to food saying no doesn't exist. For someone very health and image conscious, it can be a daily challenge. To them, food is love and care. For us, it has often become an enemy, something to be avoided or to enjoy and later feel guilty about. Here, moderation is silly and who cares if you only eat carbs? They enjoy life, and want you to as well. So fast, bring your stretchy pants and get ready to enjoy the best food in the world.

6. Slow down. Things here are done at a slower pace. People and relationships are more important than work, and there is always tomorrow to get things done. A successful day is one where you talk to many people, laugh, dance and eat. It has little to do with our form of productivity, and more to do with the quality of your time spent. A cup of coffee or two don't hurt either.

7. And finally, when those boys yell at you from across the road, it's okay to pretend you don't speak Spanish or English. When they tell you they love you, the easiest tactic is to cross the road and look at your feet like they are the most interesting things you've ever seen. And when they make a hissing sound, it's less that they are mad and more that they want to get in your pants a little. Beware.

Ok, so that was kind of long and we are only half way through. Sure, you can leave the page now, but remember how much I just made you laugh? There's more to come and this time you can laugh at me. I wouldn't go anywhere if I were you...

Top 7 personal revelations:
1. I hate change. Not really a revelation as everyone but me seems to know this, but more of a reminder. As my parents and best friends told me over and over, if you can get through the first four days, you'll make it. I also am not blind to the irony that as much as I hate change I consistently throw myself into situations demanding it, and then don't understand why I'm homesick. So who volunteers to be the next person to remind me that this is how I am when I inevitably forget again? Applications always accepted.

2. I need time for myself and absolutely need independence. For those of you who have known me the last year or so, this may be obvious. But what is remarkable is that if you read my blogs from two years ago, or simply knew me as a freshman or sophomore in college I was much different. I hated being alone, needed someone to eat meals with at all times and often depended on someone else for my happiness. Granted, my need for independence has caused some hiccups, but for me it's also a hallmark of how I've grown.

3. I'm prone to bug bites and need to exclude all sugar from my diets. Also, when at the drug store before a trip it would do me well to remember that just because I am buying bug spray doesn't mean that I won't actually get bug bites, and that maybe I should splurge and buy the anti itch cream just in case. Not doing so has been a grave and itchy mistake and is one I will never make again.

4. I should never expect to sleep through the night. If it isn't our family of rats, or the symphony of pigs that keep me awake, it's my constant need to pee, or my irrational fear that a spider will lay eggs in my ear and have babies in my brain. Don't ask, but it kept me up for a good hour before I slept with a blanket wrapped around my ears. Why said baby blankets weren't still good at age 22?

5. I'm better at listening when I don't know how to respond. It's amazing how much you can take in and learn when you truly listen to someone else. I've been forced to do that here as I understand much more than I can speak back, and it makes me wonder how much we miss at home. It's common knowledge that we miss most of what people say because we are already formulating our response. I physically can't do that here because it takes me too long to process, and because of that I listen much more, and say less. It's a lesson I was forced to take, but one I think would serve us all well. Truly listen, as if your survival depended on it (because mine does) and then take the time to respond. Slow. Down.

6. I can be funny in a other language. Without my humor and sarcasm, I am lost in the world and am much less fun to be around. It's kind of like a clown without the big shoes- still enjoyable but missing a crucial element. So naturally I was worried that I would be a shoeless bozo for five months. Have no fear my friends, even with my limitd language capabilities I have found a way to make people laugh, and thus have found my identity in another world. I realized the day I started to feel at home was the day I made a joke and Manuel laughed and meant it. I knew then that I had found my shoes.

7. Lastly, I have discovered that I am stronger than I thought. Besides being able to lift two cement blocks at once, I can also live in another world and survive. I can be dropped somewhere with limited knowledge of the language, and forge my way through the days. Sure, I still need my nutrients of family, friends, and chocolates, but I can actually do it. Some days I still question whether I am actually making a difference here, and what my purpose on this journey is, but I no longer question if I am capable. I've already proven to myself that I am.

And that, my friend, is my much too long list of fourteen things that I have learned. I am excited to have given myself the chance to learn them, and to see what comes next. If I learned that much barely understanding what was happening, imagine what will happen after month 3 when I really understand people. And I offer you my congratulations for sticking with my until the end. I would send you a gold star, but it would take about a month to arrive in the states, and by then it would lose its glimmer.

Happy late friendship day,

Sabrina

Mother Mary Comfort Me

The Hail Mary is one the prayers that I grew up saying as a child. It was one that I prayed at night, along with the Our Father, when I was younger, and it is a tradition I still hold on to. Im not sure why I started repeating it, but I guess I liked the balance of praying to a male and female figure before starting my personal prayers. It was a recitation that I knew by heart, and to which I thought I understood the meaning, until this past Monday when I started volunteering at the local nursing home.

I walked in that first morning, not knowing what to expect. And what I came to experience was simply humbling. There is something special about walking into a room with 30 elderly adults, all with different mental and physical capacities, as they pray aloud as one. Even more moving was when halfway through the prayer repetition, I realized that they were praying the Hail Mary. Although I've known the prayer all my life, all of a sudden i saw and experienced the meaning of it first hand. I saw the meaning more than I even felt it. Here were a group of people all in the last stage of their life, repeating a prayer asking for forgiveness now and at the hour of their death, knowing that those two times are not as far apart as they once were.

As the repetition ended and everyone moved to hug each other, tears came to my eyes. I realized that no matter what we do with our lives, or who we become, we all end up at some form of this stage. Some of us develop Alzeihmers, some of us lose our hearing and some of us just lose the abilities we used to have. But at the end of the day, as we lose different pieces of our bodies and minds, we all want the same thing. To be forgiven and to be able to connect with others, now and at/until the hour of our death.

Many could say that when I go to the nursing home I do the least amount of work compared to the other organizations I'm working with. I do a lot of sitting and hand holding, occasionally play dominoes, help serve breakfast, feed some patients and hang laundry to dry. It isn't a lot in theory, but when my three hours are up, I feel more fulfilled than I have when I've worked whole days at home. There is something, I don't know what, about being able to hold someones hand that feeds the soul, both theirs and mine. There is something about feeding another person that breaks down any cultural barrier that may exist and is an expression of humanism in the rawest form. And when it takes me 20 minutes to leave because I have to hug everyone goodbye and promise to be back soon, it reminds me that human connection is what we strive for.

I've begun to learn that it's not the hours you spend on a project that matter, but rather how full your hours are. My three hours with these beautiful people are full. Full of life both past and present, of love, and of connection. I may not understand what they say, but I understand their smile. And in a world where it is increasingly important for us to understand different cultures, I can tell you that the elderly age the same here as they do in the US, and that despite our differences, we all end up on the same road.

So I would like to dedicate this not only to my grandfather, who may believe that he is living in a resort, but also to the hundreds of staff and volunteers who go and sit with him everyday. I know he may not make sense, but sometimes people just need to be heard. And when we give them that right, we give them connection, and a little more time. We help them, at least for a little, extend the time between "now and at the hour of our death". And in the end, isn't that the hope we all need?

Tomorrow, when i go back to see my new friends, i do so in the name and eith the respect of all the people who take the time to hear the elderly; Who let their stories live on in another generation of people. And here's to you, grandpa, wherever you may be in your mind and spirit. Have a milkshake on me,

Sabrina

Rabbit Rabbit

It's funny how life just works sometimes. Many of you have heard me express my frustrations in my lack of tasks during my first two weeks here. As much as many people would love to sit in the sun, read, eat and be taken care of, it was driving me nuts. I needed to start doing things, and I needed to relieve my cabin fever by getting out of the house. So I set a goal that on February first, no matter how or what it meant, I would do something. I would go to the nursing home and beg that they let me work, or I would just hold on to the back of Freddy's motorcycle and refuse to let him leave the house without me. Clearly I've matured in the last 3 weeks.

The morning of February 1, at about 230 in the morning I awoke to do my nightly pee in the dark, and then lie awake to the symphony of animals. It was also at this time that I whispered "rabbit rabbit" into the depths of the night and hoped that somewhere God was also awake peeing, and would hear my wish for good things to come. Well. Did he ever.

February first was the beginning of what would be a whirlwind of meeting with volunteer groups, villagers, Canadian ambassadors, Dominican senators and great cooks.  I spent the days traveling with Freddy, Sonia and Antonio to the villages to make sure all of the volunteers were okay, and that they had all the necessary provisions. Along the way I made some Canadian friends, met a future saint mikes prospect, and realized that maybe I am useful here.

As much as I realized I was needed when I had to translate for a group who spoke zero Spanish, it was in the in between moments that I found myself smiling and truly reveling in my life here. It was when, after talking to an older group of volunteers and joking around with them, Freddy looked at me and told me how special I was. It was when I didn't go to a closing ceremony for a group, and they asked Freddy where I was. It was when groups remembered me and wanted to talk to me about my experience so they could learn more within theirs. It was when a girl gave me her email address because she wanted to know more about what I was doing. It was when people told me I was brave, even though I'm just following my heart... And everyone else when they tell me to "vamos". And it was when Sonia, Antonio and Freddy all claimed that I was their child; that I was a child to ADESJO.

This week I realized I may have something to offer. It may not be in the form of building, but it's just in me. It's my ability to talk to people, to introduce myself, to smile and to share what I have been through. Its in talking and being able to listen to and justify someone else's experience. Looking at the groups leaving, I saw myself in their tears and inability to say goodbye to the people who had stolen their hearts. I was brought back to my first and second times here, and I was reminded of how I got to be here today. And as I saw their tears, heard them say grace and give thanks for learning this week, and looked around at the people who care enough to call me their child, I felt the tears form in my eyes. Because for the first time since I've been here, I've realized just how hard it will be for me to leave. To say goodbye to my crazy, sunny home. This week, while I started to put the pieces together, I also started to lose them one by one. You see, my heart, it's already broken and traces are all ready spread over this province. I'm already falling in love, for a third time, in a different way. Simply put, when June 13 comes, I'm screwed. 

I still have complaints, frustrations and anxieties, that I will continue to write about and process. But thats life; a lack of frustration would be a lack of learning, or living with passion. Amidst these feelings, however, is progress.  I've lost count of the number of days it's been since I've last had a tearful meltdown, and I've tuned out the animals...for the most part. I still may not have a bicycle, or my independence, but I'm in a different world and with that comes adjustment. I'm experiencing much, just not on my own timeline, and I'm starting to be okay with that. So cheers. Here's to a new week of still not knowing what's happening until it happens, of being exhausted all the time, and of trying to figure out just what people are saying. I couldn't be more excited.

Love to you all from the beautiful mountainside,

Sabrina