Days like these.

Today I woke up at 9:30 to the smell of sausage frying and the sound of deliberate discussions of whether to fry or poach the eggs (with the follow-up discussions being – how do you actually poach an egg?) After heaving myself out of the bed and shrugging on my swimsuit, I shuffled into the kitchen where a large mug of deep café was shoved into my molasses hands. My nose buried in that life-giving aroma took me from 1^st to 3^rd gear instantaneously.

After breakfast on the porch me & the girls hurried to clean up breakfast (1 of 2 mind you, 2^nd breakfast…yes, Hobbit style, would be at our favorite French Bakery around the corner) and piled on the sunscreen before trundling off to the beach. We walked for about 15 mins away from the center of town until we reached a small cove where we plopped ourselves down, scoring a patch of shade and settled in for the morning. Can I just be honest? There is nothing in this whole world more glorious than crisping in the sun & just when you think you might turn into a human version of a potato chip – diving into a liquid sapphire. Just glorious.

After a few hours at the beach we returned to our hostel to shower, change & pack up, and head out for 2^nd breakfast. The early to rise, Sunday morning breakfast crew had already ravaged Le Boulangerie Francese, so upon our arrival – the pickings were slim. Some café con leches were ordered, cinnamon rolls, baguettes, chocolate ganache tarts – for starters. If you're not a foodie yourself, this post probably doesn't mean much to you – but if you are, and you've lived in a country of rice & beans…you'll understand the EUREKA of damn authentic pastries. The baguette was not so ceremoniously ripped apart by my overzealous Polish friend as I sliced up avocado (YES, they're FINALLY in season!!!) and we spread the green butter. We must have looked like Peace Corps workers the way we were reveling in the simplicity of a perfect French baguette.

By the time we were all wishing we hadn't eaten that last bite – it was time to hop on the last bus out of Las Terrenas headed back towards the capital. As we rolled out of the town, we continued to make stops & fill up the bus, until makeshift seats made of wood slabs are put down the aisles to sit 5 across. Our "little engine that could" bus winded its way through the mountains of Samana Peninsula as I marveled (head out the window like a golden retriever) at the GREENESS of this place and the voracity with which everything living thing grows.

As we descended – our brakes were screeching like banshees and the on again – off again AC indicated that our bus wasn't in the best of conditions; which did nothing but throw gas on the fire of sardined Dominicans and Americans. Windows were flung wide open as we screamed down the highway, with rum being shared among passengers and people yelling for the driver to put on another CD that had more than just 4 songs. In the midst of this milieu I couldn't help but grin – I love the chaos. I love the disorder. What is understandably disturbing for foreigners – I have come to live & embrace in all of its VOLUME and ridiculosity. Nosotros gozamos aqui, we enjoy ourselves here.

I got home & went on a run, got to tell off a presidential guard that was hitting on me – and came home to divine curry. Eggplant, onion, broccoli, tomato, cilantro, coconut milk & green curry paste – squeeze of lime & salt served over some brown rice spiked with crushed red pepper, perfection.

Today was wonderful; it is days like these where I have to pinch myself to remember how I came to be so lucky. Good food, good company & such a beautiful country.

Burnout

Burnout is a beast that knocks on the hearts of all displaced persons – at one time or another.

It entices with sugary lies that things are better back home, easier and more comfortable. That this work we are fervently doing is not getting us any closer to accomplishing our lofty goals we now begin to call naïve.

Burnout feels like a pair of shoes that never fit in the first place, but you have worn with optimism and perseverance and have rubbed your feet raw.

Remedies for Burnout:

1. Moderation

2. Treats

3. A healthy dose of reality (that's you're most likely not the ultimate answer to the issues that consume your day)

I will be the first one to say that I am swayed by the romanticism of the notion of sacrificing everything for a just cause.

⁶ "Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?

⁷ Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?

…..

9a "If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,

¹⁰ and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.

¹¹ The LORD will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.

I am equal parts challenged & encouraged by this verse. Part of me feels overwhelmed: "spending" myself on behave of the poor, "satisfying" the needs of the oppressed, "breaking" every yoke; that is a tall order. My view of myself inflates with the daunting-ness of the task at hand – and I rise to the occasion. However, I know the outcome of this tale – I will end up somewhere, exhausted and D-O-N-E. I will be spent and no one will be satisfied.

Now I know the logical flannelgraph progression of this – of course I have to rely on the Lord, there's no way by my power alone I can do all this. But have you ever found yourself in a position where the need is overwhelming? Where the hunger, the homelessness, the oppression and injustice is thick in the air and around every corner? Where even at your front door and on weekend getaways – the sharp edges of this broken world seem to prick you. Where you could work tirelessly for the rest of your life and still see hungry and oppressed individuals. Lord, how does burnout NOT occur there?

Thankfully – that has not been my case, but like every expat – I have had brushes, seen glimpses of burnout, and I guess I'm still learning. I assume that's where the "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" comes in, maybe I'm just not there yet.

Clock Time and Patience

Clock time is outer time, time that has a hard, merciless objectivity to it…clock time always makes us depart. p.95

Patience is the discipline of compassion because through patience we live in the fullness of time and invite others to share in it…When we live by the clock we have no time for each other…[we] perceive human suffering as a disturbing interruption of our plans; we are constantly preoccupied with our free evening, free weekend, or free month and lose the capacity to enjoy the people we live and work with day in and day out. P.99

I have learned to live outside of clock time (for better or worse as an employee) thanks to the pace of life in the Dominican. People are not in a rush and know how to value a visitor and take time to invest in a person. I love how people linger. The art of conversation is one practiced and perfected the DR as you lament over the lack of sunny days and mounting laundry, share about family and stun with your knowledge and appreciation of Dominican words, food and music. No one never has enough time for someone else, people come first and that is refreshing.

And as I start my transition away from this green island – I begin to think of souvenirs that I can start taking back – as a memory of my time here. I hope that an attitude of peace, coge lo suave and patience radiate from my life. That I may mimic my fellow Dominicans as you receive their full, undisturbed attention. That I may continue, even in a culture obsessed with clock time, to live outside of it – to live deep.

Patience means to enter actively into the thick of life and to fully bear the suffering within and around us. Patience is the capacity to see, hear, touch, taste, and smell as fully as possible the inner and outer events of our lives. It is to enter our lives with open eyes, ears, and hands so that we really know what is happening. Pg.91

[Excerpts taken from "Compassion" by Henri Nouwen - READ IT!]

KITTENS!

It's official – this apartment in Gazcue now echoes with the sound of little kitten meows. There are two & they were born on Wednesday the 19^th and are way too cute for their own good.

Pancakes for One

The past month has been an interesting exercise in solitude as I have lived by myself here in the DR. The following are some snapshots from the past month – nothing has really materialized as a productive blogpost – so I shamelessly took this snapshot format from another friend's blog. May it be a window into my life here however mundane & uneventful it might be. Enjoy!

Friends: April 3^rd, 2010

I have recently been marinating on this quote:

"Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away." – Dinah Craik

How great is that quote?

What first comes to my mind are good friends and grace. Friends give grace and the benefit of the doubt when needed. That essential "belief in you" component that is so often crucial to success.

Pegagozo: April 6^th, 2010

I am completely OBSESSED with Chris Brown's "Forever" song. I know it's old but apparently I didn't catch on when it came out & when I have the office to myself (an occasion that is about as frequent as a lunar eclipse) it's a favorite of my mid-afternoon pick-me-up hits. Also – fun Spanish word for the day pegajoso – it means sticky in the sense of a song, object, etc. Unfortunately I mix up my "j" and "g" so that I will often say pegagozo (which is a made up Claire word found in neither English or Spanish dictionary) which after one of my co-workers corrected me enough times I finally explained that, No! es que me pega-gozo (it sticks joy to me!) never again has she corrected my mispronunciation of that word.

Curry & other spicy fridge items: April 9^th, 2010

I think I may have permanently seared by taste buds off of my tongue in the name of GREEN CURRY! I have a pretty high tolerance – but as cooking by myself makes me all the more gutsy (combined with the fact that I currently have 6 different types of high quality hot sauce in my fridge that I feel compelled to sprinkle on everything – I think I may have gone too far.

I mean, I could hardly finish my meal. Ouch.

Rain: April 11^th, 2010

The rain has returned to the Dominican and has brought along with it its first cousin; humidity. Dang.

Finding my Zen: April 12^th, 2010

A find in the "cheap-and-something-other-than-rice-and-beans" lunch category has recently appeared on the gringo horizon in the form of an Indianesque vegetarian restaurant, close to my house. We also found out that they offer yoga classes Mondays and Fridays which perked my un-athletic interest. [sidenote: I was told before coming to the yoga class that I was to dress in long white flowy clothes – to which I quickly replied "I have none." Obviously throwing off the instructor's chi, she continued with other instructions around drinking water before and eating after and saving energy – I nodded all too complicity for her believe me.]

During our yoga session, myself and my too kind neighbor and first-time-yoga buddy could barely keep it together as we twirled our arms in circles and touched our toes and curled up in a ball and rolled on our back – and then everything over again – but faster! (I couldn't get the image of preschoolers learning motor skills on those primary color, vinyl covered wedges – or my little brother before a T-ball game doing warm-ups in baggy uniforms out of my mind.) As our yoga session progressed I realized that the goal was relaxation and meditation versus a workout. "That's fine," I thought to myself, if only the windows weren't open and the studio across the street from a boisterous colmado blaring meringue music, moto-taxis roaring by and the smell of street food – it made it a little harder to create that inner peace as I tapped my fingers to Shakira's "Tu," again blasting from the colamdo. I love this place.

Home : April 15^th, 2010

I have come to thoroughly enjoy my evening walk home from the office. The day is cooling off and as I stroll through Gazcue (the name of my neighborhood) – I get reprieves from the scent of trash ripped apart by stray dogs, urine and pollution – by heavily scented honeysuckle. It is odd hours like these when I have come to feel this is my home. I know these streets and I feel comfortable here. I have a sense of ownership and even though I still dislike living in the city – there are moments when the air thick with flowers and a cool breeze that I can just be; defying lines of Dominican or American.

KITTENS: April 17^th, 2010

Oh my gosh. My cat, named Chin Chin (which means itty-bitty ,because when we rescued her she was tiny.) Is going to have KITTENS! She is officially not Chin anymore, she's HUGE & fat…and ornery for that matter. I'll post pictures of the proud mom after the fact.

A Dominican Day

I am typing this post by the light of my headlamp as the April rain has seemed to bring an increasing number of transformer explosions…and I think the power is going to be out for a while.

I went to the salon today and like most regions with afro-roots (haha, ok bad pun), salons are permanent establishments in neighborhoods that are frequented weekly – in this country, pa'ponerle liso (to make your hair straight).

I went today out of sheer disgust for my mop and desire to "chop it all off" – but emerged having made new friends and with a legit tubi (pronounced too-bee) where your newly striaghtened hair is swirled around your head and clamped down with so many bobby-pins that you'd set off a metal detector just by sneezing from 20 feet away (the reason you have a tubi is to avoid to lurking frizz that comes with all this humidity here). See picture above.

I should have known better – it being April and the weather likely to change without a moment's notice – but had left my house without taking an umbrella with me. Usually I am the one who chuckles at my Dominican friends who – the second it begins to jariznear (lightly sprinkle)– frantically search for plastic bags, newspaper, jackets – anything to keep their hair dry. And now – the tables were turned, as my hair slowly began to surrender to the hairdresser's magical touch and get all purdy and straight – it started to pour. I waited and waited until it let up to a sprinkle – and with tubi and plastic bag in tow – made my triumphant march home.

I honestly couldn't keep it together – imagining how odd I must look to my neighbors and I'm pretty sure cracked up the entire 3 block walk home. (One man in particular decided to comment on how good he thought I looked which made me let a peal of laughter – to which he stared confused at me – like he didn't get the joke.)

And having returned home only to have the transformer blow & my power go out, really seals the deal. I'm embracing this totally Dominican day, tubi, power outage and all.

At the Feet

I am so often a terrible Mary.

I like my running around, feeling important because I can make others wait, can make others bend to my demanding schedule.

"It is more blessed to give than to receive"

I lived in a trailer in Mexico for a summer in college. A pueblito, 10 dirt roads by 10 dirt roads dusty. It was that summer that I begin my education on detrimental giving. The missionaries I worked with acknowledged that when they passes out clothes to the village that the second hand clothes peddlers made less money, but what were they to do?

6 of one, half dozen of the other, right?

As a nation, Americans are pretty philanthropic, for whatever reason, Rockefeller's legacy or the eventual realization (every Spring when we clean out our garage) that we have so much crap. Or maybe its the 178 references to the poor in the Bible (someone please correct me on that if I'm wrong - thats just what Google told me.) Bottom line, we love to give. Anyone who's volunteered their time or felt the instant gratification of giving a needy kid a new pair of shoes, their eyes lighting up like Christmas, I mean – the ads for these things practically write themselves.

So how could something so good be so bad?

Back to Mexico, the Pastor at the church I attended spoke one week about their Missionary families they had in Morocco and Spain. After the service I pulled him aside and inquired why this tiny little village in Mexico was sending missionaries out all over the world, weren't they the ones that needed help?

He began to explain to me the dependency visiting American mission groups had created in his community. His church community was beginning to become apathetic and doubted their own potential to get things done. Fast forward – I have never seen a prouder congregation. Not only were they learning about other cultures around the world from their connection to the missionary families they supported, they were financially invested and proud of it!

Let me get back to my original point, I am so often a terrible Mary. I love to give and it is humbling to receive. But one thing I have learned about living abroad in such a generous culture is that it is SUCH an important exercise to sit down, shut up and receive. It moves me out of my God complex and gives someone else the chance to be blessed through giving.

I think one of the root reasons why this is particularly hard for Americans to do is that many have been raised in a "self-sufficient" culture. We have so much – we don't need to rely on others for survival – we have forgotten what "need" is.

A large portion of my job involves getting clients stories and communicating these on to potential donors, our marketing department, etc. One thing I have realized is how empowering it is to ask someone to tell their story. It's the simplest posture of Mary, sitting at Jesus' feet, listening.

It has become one of my favorite parts of my job; inquiring, listening and furiously scribbling so as not to forget any idiosyncrasy. And I've seen many a loan client go from timidly telling their story in a halting fashion, like a first time stick shift driver to someone who bravely stands up in front of a group of gringos and with pride and confidence weaves her story like an artist.

So, I encourage all to acquire a listening posture. It doesn't have to be in the Dominican Republic, it can be anywhere. Be open to the humbling exercise of receiving and allow another to occupy the coveted position of giver. I think you'll find that doing this also helps you be less of a control freak (if you're prone to that) and gives God more space to surprise you on a daily basis.

Gua-Guas

First, for those of you who have never lived in the Dominican - a gua-gua (pronounced "gwah-gwah") is a local bus, usually falling apart but with ornate curtains and tassles that put the king of Persia to shame. Most people don't have their own cars so these buses with cryptic routes are usually ones easiest way to get from point A - point B. But as with most things here, strike me as wrapped in a web of idiosyncracies.

Riding gua guas in the Republic Dominicana is a perfect encapsulation of so many things I can attach the adjective "Dominican" into.

First, you have the method of charging. The standard is – pack as many people on the bus and have the cobrador (person who charges you - driver's right hand man) stand with the door open, screaming the bus'destinations while driving down the highway – just in case there are any stragglers you can make a few extra pesos off of. (There are few bus companies I know of that charge BEFORE getting on the guagua and its an interesting business decision they have made. Banking on the fact that there is a small traveler population that will patronize their company thanks to the "lesser- hassle" pre-trip payment.) Yet what really surprises me - is how against the Dominican grain this thought process is.

In a place where poverty is rampant – lack of security (financial, health, personal) drives many to live in the extreme present. I had very insightful taxi driver comment to me "nunca piensan en manana"( they never think about tomorrow) regarding other taxi drivers who rip you off, the reality being if they charged me a fair – even discounted price – I'd give them repeat service – and they'd probably make more money that way. But often, as today is all one is assured of, today is all that matters.

Second, its hot and packed! On average the typical "mini-bus" with a 32 passenger capacity (and these are NOT middle America extra wide seats, they're probably max 14'' across) – is filled to the brim with 40+ passengers (NOT counting small children who ride on parents knees and aren't charged a fee – this applies to any kid who looks under 10.) Once all the actual seats are filled up – boards magically appear that are placed over the aisles to create rows of 5 people. Unfortunately- I've yet to find a gua gua company that will charge a slightly higher rate to ride with some elbow room.

Third, gua guas are usually extremely loud – between the blasting bachata music and 4 people singing along with it, to the cobrador's hollering, noise of a beaten up bus roaring at 50mph down pot-holed roads and the general din of Dominicans using their "indoor voices" – talking on their cellphones, preaching or arguing over everything from politics to how to cure the gripe (the flu).

haha - ok, I'm sorry I know it seems like I'm just ragging on my dominican companeros - but if you read my earlier post about the DR teaching me to laugh - I hope you know that I say these things to help me stay sane. I have moments where I feel integrated and don't blink an eye as the car I'm riding in pulls out and stops in T-bone ready position as oncoming traffic continues barreling towards us at 45mph...I know they'll stop. But other times - I'm reminded I'm americana and still show vestiges of my 21 years of life spent in the U.S.A.

Anyway - I hope you enjoy this slice of life. For those of you that have spent time in the DR, I hope this brings back fond memories of those calientes in the middle of July that seemed like they'd NEVER make it to San Pedro and "PLEASE! Can we really make one more stop 15 feet away from where we made our last one!"

For those of you who haven't had the joy of riding gua-guas...hope you come visit soon!

may my mind stroll about hungry

5.

may my heart always be open to little

birds who are the secrets of living

whatever they sing is better than to know

and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry

and fearless and thirsty and supple

and even if it's sunday may i be wrong

for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully

and love yourself so more than truly

there's never been quite such a fool who could fail

pulling all the sky over him with one smile

(E.E. Cummings)

Many dear friends know well my obsession for E.E. Cummings as I often force them to listen to me read them whatever poem has stuck out to me of late. (Always promising its "just one"...but usually betraying their kindness). I have gotten into the habit of carrying a book of his poetry around and opening up to random poems when i'm sitting around with a free moment - honestly, screw the million methods to analyze poetry that were drilled into me in college - what seems more effective?

Letting poetry accompany you in your everyday - allowing it little spaces and places to speak into the mundane and illuminate. I can read a poem ten times - and it can seem gibberish to me (especially if its Cummings). But then the eleventh time - due to where my heart, mind or physical self are - something clicks and the poem starts opening up for me.

"here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap

and to your (in my arms flowering so new)

self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain"

I truly love the first poem and how effortlessly Cummings captures this stage of life i feel that I'm in. 22 years old, just out of college, thrust into a position in international development and working in an environment so different than that of the States. This experience is (and has been) ideal for growth. Daily I am learning things about myself, about international NGO's, microfinance and dealing with people - while often the pace isnt as enjoyable as "strolling" my mind is definitely hungry and thirsty, and I hope fearless.

Sometimes I feel restless and too hungry, too thirsty (my friends have made fun of me on more than one occasion for overusing the phrase "it would be interesting to do a study on..." fill in the blank - the motivation for shoe shine boys and where ones money actually goes to - the correlation of shifts at Barra Payan that Jose (attractive dominican friend) works and the busyness of the restaurant.) I am constantly seeing where my skill set ends and where I need to improve, learn more etc. Where I need an in-house manager or where I need to go back to school.

Yet, what I do relish is the luxury of being able to interact with associates and women who in their often shy, quiet voice, explain how their lives have been made different through a loan with HOPE. In many a soft conversation, secrets of life have been revealed in simplicity and practicality.

May our hearts always be open.

Fingerprints & Joy

One thing I love about life is people. You know how there are some scientists that will say they never believed in God until one day they were just struck with the intricacy of a plant cell: the mitochondria, lysoplasts and so forth – that it was just obvious that there was an intelligent designer.

Or astronomers studying the stars all night long – one night look up and don't see balls of burning gases – instead they a tapestry of constellations strewn like sugar across an inky canvas. And they just know – that there was a creator who made this sight – just for them.

For me, its people. I think my at times debilitating love for people comes from my stumbling upon the fingerprints of God on his creations.

(In my mind that is prone to creating elaborate images – I imagine the Potter with rough hands & dirt under his fingernails, creating the world and eating a really messy PB&J sandwich at the same time. Between bites he's separating the sky from the water from the land. Another bite; he's now making pomegranates, avocados and coffee. One more; sunsets, the feathers of peacocks and the heart of Adam. All these things bearing the sticky mark of their Maker.)

I see a parent's love for the great-out-of-doors and how they revel at the sight of a hawk and think, that love and dedication for this created world is something of God and is a shared part of His heart.

I see a friend's artistic eye and how they seem to glow when they make art. This is God seeping out of their lives – in such a beautiful act of worship.

I see a co-worker's generous acts of service in preparing outstanding coffee and her watchful eye on all the young gringos in the office – sending passionfruit tea home for one who's fallen ill. This is God's heart.

I see a million flecks of Christ in the people I interact with daily from genuine smiles, to kind gestures, to sacrificial acts. And I can't help but love abundantly.

I see people from other faith backgrounds, Muslims, Catholics, Mormons and can't help but respect God's unique fingerprints on them and their religions.

I am impressed by the dedication of many Muslims, stopping everything they do five times a day to re-orient them self (both physically and spiritually) towards their center. I think, what if Christians did that – what if I did that, how would my life look different if I so obviously wore my beliefs on my sleeve.

After traveling through South America – and standing in some of the biggest cathedrals in the world – I respect the Catholic perspective of God – noticing how they really get the grandiosity of God. While sometimes I get wrapped up in Jesus being my BFF – I forget I'm also talking to the Almighty, Creator of the Universe.

I spent last week with a group of Mormon dentists who came down to work in some of the most impoverished communities in the DR. The matriarch of their family passes away a few months ago and I was struck by their deep sense of family and love. The way extended family has stayed a network of support for their granfather and to see their grief in motion, cleaning, pulling and filling rotton teeth in a foreign country. It was a beautiful thing, covered in sticky fingerprints.

I.G.K.M.I.T.F

I'm
Gonna
Kick
Myself
In
The
Face

This is my new acrostic poem for how I feel about technology. I'm trying I really am. I know that people living abroad 20 years ago were reduced to writing letters and nowadays with e-mail and skype and facebook - this should be alot easier.

Buuuuuuuut, it's not.

Technology has now become my new foe - taunting me with all of these glimmering possibilities to connect with the ones i love - but somehow thwarting me at every turn.

I know this rant isn't productive - I just want you to know if you pick up the phone and its a terribly statically me on the other - I'm just as frustrated as you.

May these tech tides turn soon...

Coffee Bliss amidst Rolling Blackouts

One of the issues that I firmly believe is keeping the Dominican Republic as a country from taking that next step in economic development is their chronic electricity shortage.

Now what does this have to do with coffee? Everything.

In all of my time here in the Dominican Republic I have never seen a fresh-milk latte. Never. And those who know me know that I sniff out coffee shops like a crackwhore finds smack. (I KNOW, so not PC Claire) but I can find me a good café anywhere. For the first few months I lived here I was elated every time I saw a "café con leche" on the menu – only to inevitably send it back as the milk tasted spoiled. It wasn't until a friend who had a little more time in the country than me tasted my rejected latte and said "Claire, that's not spoiled – its just box milk" that I had to face the reality that one of my core food groups and simple pleasures in life, would not be accessible in the DR.

As with anything in life – there are gradients. Here, powdered milk is extremely common and a staple food for most Dominican children as they much away on their morning "cornflays." One step up from that is the infamous "box milk;" milk that has been UHT (Ultra-heat-treated) and converted to a stable substance that needs no refrigeration and who's shelf life is probably longer than most people's Christmas fruitcakes. This is a brilliant alternative for families that want milk amidst rolling blackouts, but it's quite inadequate for lattes.

After over 8 months in the Dominican I had all but given up hope on delighting in a cup of "reminds me of home" until one day at the supermarket I noticed the worlds smallest section of refrigerated goods. There, like soldiers in quart size cartons, stood three items: heavy whipping cream, whole milk and 2% milk. Like a mirage of an oasis in the desert – I didn't believe my eyes. My roommate and I picked up the cartons, inspected them – noticing that the majority looked a little worse for the wear, and reading the label added another abbreviation to our vocabulary for "tainting the pure." LL stands for long life and is another method used in the pasteurization and preservation of milk. Thankfully, this milk isn't taken up to the infernal temperatures as box milk is – and still retains the majority of its original properties. So I decided to give it a try.

Which brings us to this morning. It's Saturday and if there's one thing I that delight in on Saturdays its laboring of the perfect cup of coffee and sitting down with a good book to enjoy it. And that's exactly what I did.

Software: Dominican Santo Domingo coffee, raw sugar, and LL 2% milk

Hardware: Grecca (small Italian style percolator), camping cup, jar

I brewed the coffee in my grecca (which comes out quasi espresso like, except with fuller flavor), heated the milk in my camping cup – then transferred it to the jar where I tried my best to "froth" it. Then I just combined it in my American mug with a little raw Dominican azucar and voila! Saturday morning bliss.

Now, listening to myself talk – I do sound a little particular and demanding, I mean come on Claire, you're living in a developing country! But for anyone who's lived abroad, there are always those little experiences that connect your seemingly two separate lives (home and abroad) and remind you that you're still the same person regardless of what continent you reside on.

For me – it helps me remember not to negate the Claire that many stateside friends know and love. It reminds me to not beat myself up when I feel like I haven't "assimilated" enough into my host culture – because they reality is that, I am and will always be gringa. It's also a moment for me to reflect and be profoundly thankful to my Lord – for the blessings he has bestowed upon me, that I have the resources to buy quasi-fresh milk – and live in a neighborhood where the power grid is decent.

All this wrapped up in a comforting cup of milk, coffee and sugar – makes Claire a happy bear.

Sabbath and Shalom

Streams of mercy never ceasing call for songs of loudest praise...Oh to Grace how great a debtor daily i'm constrained to be, let thy goodness like a fetter bind my wandering heart to thee, grown to wander Lord i feel it, grown to leave the God i Love, here's my heart Lord take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.

A perfectly fresh winter day in my Caribbean home, a place that makes me thank every cool breeze that blows through my window – light streaming through this blessing of an apartment. Yet my room is cluttered with proof that I've been on the road for the past two weeks, half unpacked suitcase, weeks of dirty laundry and homeless books scattered everywhere. The many things that scream my name and demand my attention before our Superbowl party tonight, are all blissfully put aside today. I am learning to delight in the Sabbath.

Many have commented on my work habits here in the DR – most well intentioned and concerned that I will burn out; but I love what I do.

In my first few weeks in the DR weekends were a terrible thing. I had come here to work and learn and experience and the week was a gloriously challenging beast where I was stretched and tested and relied on, but the weekends were deadly quiet with time to meditate on my geographic location and that silence frightened me. Missing people and places is painful and I made up my mind it was better to keep busy, to keep pushing those sad thoughts further away by constantly filling up my plate with work, tasks - responsibilities. I wanted my fulfillment to come from something close, something I could control – not relationships that were distant and painful at times because I couldn't commune as I'd like, coffee shops, farmer's markets, Shelter island dates, etc.

Somewhere around fall of last year all of that extra work I'd put on myself, the pressure, the drive combined with my daily devotions of "My Utmost for his Highest" got to me – and I threw in the towel. I was tired of feeling like I never measured up. Tired of having Oswald point out everyday where I fell short. I was TRYING didn't that count for anything? So I tossed him under my ambitious pile of other books to read – wagging my finger at him – that I wouldn't return until I could feel better about myself after reading him.

I came back to the DR in January with the daunting task of being the most experienced person in my department, yet feeling so lost and overwhelmed with the tasks at hand. I was frustrated that managers were in short supply and the assumption that I was the answer to that structural abyss for the time being. Then on January 12^th the earthquake that devastated Port-au-Prince, brought a whole new dimension to my job.

What I would have given for someone else to take charge, someone with more experience, wisdom, skills.

And that brings us to this morning. This morning I woke up to no alarm, this is the first true Sabbath I have had in a very long time. Usually my "sabbaths" are tainted with boredom and a mild depression because I feel useless, worthless – I'm not being productive.

I resonate so deeply with this quote from Rob Bell's life:

"I realized that my life was all about keeping the adrenaline buzz going and that I was only really happy when I was going all the time. When I stopped to spend a day to remember that I am loved just because I exist, I found out how much of my efforts were about something I already have." (p.117)

"Jesus wants to heal our souls, wants to give us the shalom of God. And so we have to stop. We have to slow down. We have to sit still and stare out the window and let the engine come to an idle. We have to listen to what our inner voice is saying." (p.118)

So here I am, stopped or at leasing rolling to one. Today God has illuminated to me my unhealthy addiction to chaos. I crave being needed in a hectic work environment until I realize that I have overcommitted and that I am over my head. I have spun myself with so much work I realize that there is little of value and substance inside me. I have been afraid of introspection for some time with good reason – there's not much to examine.

I praise God for this glorious breeze and this messy room that I might just leave until tomorrow, I thank him for no agendas and commitments today – for this breath of fresh air amidst a crazy schedule. I love you Lord.

"I'm learning that very few people actually live from their heart. Very few live connected with their soul...They are so different; they're coming from such a different place that their voices inevitably get heard above the others. They are pursuing wholeness and shalom, and it's contagious. They inspire me to keep going. (p.120)

[note: Bell describes Shalom as "the presence of the goodness of God. It's the presence of wholeness, completeness."]

Learning to Laugh

The Dominican Republic has taught me to laugh.

Let's face it, I'm weird. I look weird, I talk funny and I all around stick out. Reddish-blonde curls, red cheeks the second I step outside in the sweltering heat, this hint of gringa accent and my lack of hip-hugging rhinestone studded Gucci knock-off jeans...you can tell I'm different.

But one thing I do damn well is laugh and this is my common denominator.

Working abroad in a culture that points with its lips and is extremely offended if you walk between two people having a conversation, I sometimes find myself having more "American days" than I'd like. I am slow to recognize the social cues being played out (or I recognize them fine, know what I should do, and am just reluctant to comply). But there is always laughter.

As I consider being able to prep, execute and land a joke in foreign language to be a relative measure of your proficiency in that language (and sometimes I am just NOT) I am thankful that most of my Dominican friends have humorous leanings. They do the difficult work of joking and I get to simply laugh along. I cannot tell you the friends I have made or the relationships I have reinforced with a good chuckle.

While before I lived abroad, I believe many would have said I was a funny person – the Dominican has taught me to open up and find the funny in near everything. Life here can be difficult. There is a common phrase used as a response to the questions "how are you?" cogiendo lucha – losely translated grabbing a fight. It has the sense of "struggling" or "pushing on" and I feel is indicative of the daily fight necessary to survive for many people here in the DR.

After being in the States for the holidays, I am amazed by how easy everything is. I'll often tell my friends that the weirdest part of being home is that "things just happen" – meaning that life seems to be ordered and running on its own. It seems as if life in the DR is powered by the visible sweat, blood and tears of so many, whereas life in the U.S. is shiny and automated.

I have learned to laugh during 30 hour power outages, through the seemingly constant struggle to be treated and charged fairly when dealing moto-taxis to street vendors and through blaring merengue music on long bus rides when all I want to do is sleep and the lady behind me and another 3 rows up are both singing along, NOT in harmony.

Laughter and a gentle touch on the shoulder has smoothed out more informal business deals, opened up more client's homes and hearts to share their stories with myself and groups I lead

So I carry my smile and my laugh with me wherever I go, for no matter how near or far I travel on this Earth, these are things that need no translation, open many doors and make me quite a number of friends.

Ears that hear things different than yours do

She starts off in a voice as small as winter, her usually cadence of muttering which often makes me brush her off like autumn's leaves – today makes me stop. Today makes me listen. The hush of her voice intensifies my effort; in her old Spanish, sentences aren't like the Wall Street tickers of my generation's Spanish; clean, fluid. Her's runs like the arroyito she told me she drank from as a little girl, I catch the bulk of her story but certain words that define her, splash in my face as they hit a rocks of my misunderstanding. I struggle to remain intently concentrated, not wanting to miss another word.

She tells me of her childhood, 13 brother and sisters she had, in the campo, on the hill she lived. She tells of when she was twelve and went out with her father on a caballito to collect viveres for her younger siblings to eat. She remembers drinking milk with coffee in it – no water, no boiling. She remembers being so hungry and the hidden gem of a bunch of bananas God placed in her path. How her father told her to eat, eat, eat my child. And how she ate, ate, ate until her barriga was out to here. And then, that arroyito trickling with fresh mountain water, she grabbed a green leaf and drank until she was full. THAT was the bandera, her version of rice, beans, salad and meat. THAT is so many dominican's reality. She smiles like Spring and I am refreshed and entranced by her honesty with me.

So often I walk around this country frustrated with people and wanting to lash out against the cultural insensitivety they've shown to me. I want to find just ONE Dominican that doesn't think I'm odd for not liking bachata, just one Dominican that doesn't think I look funny with my rosy cheeks, just one Dominican that I can sense home with.

But Diose's (my coworker's) somewhat odd entrance into my mental cubicle of "workday"… her sharing life with me spoke in it's subtext about our similarities through stories.

I may be VERY different then so many of my Dominican friends, but one thing is true, that sharing life together is a universal art. And the best part about sharing life together…it is even richer when your lives are so different. If you can find someone who will honestly contarte ("story you") about the seemingly mundane parts of their day – and you, them; the mundaness evaporates as your stories fall on ears that hear things different than yours do.

So, to this I raise my itty bitty cup of Dominican coffee, yes, I drink it amargo (bitter) in many Dominican's opinion but that's ok. It only makes for that much more interesting conversation.