The Mighty Mohawk

Hurricane Irene has come and gone, but she has left her mark. As I watch the news coverage of the damage, I am lost in the images of my old neighborhood, the Stockade District of Schenectady. My heart goes out to the families, renters and owners, whose homes and lives have been uprooted by the flooding of the Mohawk River.

June 28th, 2011

My hands still have the faint smell of pomegranate and current, from the room freshener I just sprayed through every inch of my apartment on Ingersoll Avenue in the Stockade. Will it make a difference for the latest visitor, a prospective tenant after I leave this weekend?

Will she be overwhelmed by the scent? Or will it be so inviting, that and the fresh flower arrangement on the kitchen table, the she decides, “Yes, this will do just fine.”

That is exactly what I experienced two years ago. After entering just about every available apartment between Front and Ferry Streets, it was obvious. Listed as the “Stockade Sweetheart,” the denim blue exterior with cream trim and green ivy billowing from the second floor balcony - surely this was a place to settle for a while.

Since moving in that summer, my seasons have been captured and framed by the desolate stretch of the Mohawk River. Just four door fronts from my own, the river makes itself known with a quiet yet enduring presence.

In late June, where I find myself now, the river's surface weaves back and forth with the afterthoughts of boat waves and water skis. The bank opposite me hosts a miniature rain forest of ballooned tree branches and outstretched vegetation – casting a grey green reflection across the width of the divide.

On my last night on Ingersoll Avenue, I’ll share this backyard with a handful of locals - families and old-timers who know that the best view of the Fourth of July fireworks is not down the river at Jumpin’ Jacks. People will walk from the side streets of downtown Schenectady, with ice-filled coolers and collapsible lawn chairs, which are just starting to fray at the edges.

Others will drive, lining the narrow streets of the Stockade, many of which will be illegally parked. But on such a special night, maybe the Schenectady Police will lock up their ticket machines in their glove compartments and stand in the back of the crowd, relieved to witness a peaceful gathering and not another reckless teenage shooting.

At the end of the summer, I’ll be waiting for the leaves to change in Kentucky, not far enough south to short change autumn. Unphased by my absence, the Mohawk corridor that informed me of the seasons, will put on its burnt colored cloak and wring out the last hues of the spectrum.

And enjoy them, one must, as the winter won’t shed any sympathy for four long months. What was once a gladly rolling playground for fishing poles and kayaks will become a thick unmovable tundra. The only species brave enough to cross the sheet of ice are fur-lined foxes, who skidder from one side to another, desperate for food.

I still walk down to the green bench at the end of my street, even when a burgeoning mound of plowed-out snow stands as a body guard against the shore. I look out and wonder how one corner of the earth can exhibit such drastic sweeps of change. It’s simply unrecognizable from the fresh air water-color postcard of spring.

But the ice does break, shatters really, with cave-like groans that announce the force of nature that is the melting of the Mohawk. With an early thaw, the ice upriver will break and ride up over the stubborn solid mass in its way.

With enough build up, out from the level surface appears a crystallized beast, jagged and insurmountable. The mounts of ice coalesce and create an even more severe barrier for the newly released river to flow.

The water level rises behind the ice damn and here in the Stockade we wait. We wait for a high enough rise in temperature, which will lure the frigid water to build energy and momentum.

Eventually, the ice loses its grip and starts sailing downstream with a build-up of water at its back. Held captive for long enough, the rush of water barrels downstream, carrying iceberg-sized sheets, if they were feathers.

A few neighbors and I stand back from the water’s edge, now flush with the shore line. We are helpless and in awe. Many are used to this and bring thermoses of coffee and hot chocolate, seated front row at the annual spectacle. My landlord stands ready with a water pump and knee-high rubber boots, prepared to clear out tenants’ basements when the river finally overflows.

At the end of the day, one can't help but surrender. At once beautiful and destructive, the Mohawk calls us to accept its might, and we are remiss to think, even for a moment, that we can control this body of water, this ever flowing, always changing force of nature.

Lights Out Louisville

Sometimes I just need a good old-fashioned power outage. Not an endless deprivation of light or refrigeration, and certainly not the type caused by a dangerous storm that leaves homes damaged. But the kind of electric shortage that creates no harm and provides unasked for peace.

The kind that comes at dusk, when I have enough time to scamper through cupboards for extra candles. The kind that is long enough that somebody’s got to eat the ice cream, and it might as well be me. The kind that comes when there seem to be so many tasks piled up to be done and the lack of electricity is reason enough to delay their completion.

And I further welcome a late summer black out because of the good it does for my soul to shut off, retreat from, lay low and quiet down.

It seems appropriate that this unplugged state occurred during my first week at Lousiville Seminary. Having driven for two days through the heartland of Kentucky with the welcome company of my mom and slightly sedated cat, I was ready for some stillness. But there were boxes to unload, groceries to buy, orientation to complete and a new life to adjust to.

I quickly learned that coming to seminary doesn’t mean one instantly enters a tranquil bubble of spiritual awareness. I may come to know the Hebrew roots of certain Bible verses, but there are still bills to pay, dishes to wash and a liter box to empty.

It was important to remind myself that seminary is not meant for saints or angels or otherwise perfect souls. Instead, it has quickly become clear that seminary, at least Louisville Seminary, hosts regular human beigns who are rough and tender around the edges, at times quirky, and most often, we are simply ourselves.

Some have an affinity for reality television, while others are content walking their large dogs (or ferrets) on campus. Some are outgoing and self-described comedians, while others are more reserved, having grown up in a small tight-knit community on a rural farm.

To be in seminary doesn’t mean one is removed from the daily tasks of life. In fact it seems that in this particular seminary community everyday life is profoundly visible.

A pavilion loaded with bikes and children’s tricycles is visible from my room in Seminary Hall. A community garden with a giant rubber pig as its mascot grows proudly in the courtyard behind my apartment.

A basement closet has been converted into a food pantry to supplement students’ groceries and provide emergency rations for such instances as the recent two-day power outage.

As my “Beach Walk” scented Yankee Candle continues to glow on my desk, I imagine what early travelers, scholars, soldiers and nurses must’ve felt when they relocated out of necessity. I envision a small wood-floor room with a straw bed, a crooked corner table bearing nothing but a tattered journal and a single candle stick.

The new arrival would be carrying little more than a briefcase or a carpet bag, and his or her new life would begin without a welcoming committee. And surely, there would not be an arrangement of food items (a box of spaghetti, can of tomato sauce and cornbread mix) placed on the countertop with a friendly prayer of dedication.

While such weary travelers may have had less material resources, I would bet that they may have been more prepared for their coming journey than some of today’s college-bound students, with our laptops, four-door sedans and bank accounts.

While part of me feels guilty of my level of comfort “for a seminary student,” I also know that spiritual development doesn’t always require complete deprivation or removal from mainstream society.

I noticed this while traveling in Italy this summer. Having chosen the destination for the purpose of a pilgrimage of sorts, my travels exposed me to new people and ancient pathways, revealing a certain cosmic energy that has sustained me into this new chapter.

It was in Assisi that the contrast between spiritual formation and contemporary culture blended seamlessly. While standing in the Piazza del Comun, I observed a gathering of Franciscan monks in their traditional brown hooded robes.

Their presence seemed to blanket the cobblestone city with a sense of serenity. The town seemed to radiate a gentle hum, a collective vibration of hundreds of humble prayers. Having just arrived on a sweaty overcrowded train from Rome, I felt far from the apparent centeredness of the monks and nuns, breezing through the street archways.

However, I soon felt a certain solidarity with the pious visitors in canvas robes, for they too were disoriented. I observed a group of monks huddled around an ATM machine, slipping cash beneath their folds of fabric. One spoke hurriedly on a cell phone, while another flipped a crumpled map from side to side.

If that wasn’t enough to shatter stereotypes of ever-placid holiness, I was delighted to see two more laid-back monks, with dusty sneakers, baseball caps and trendy sunglasses.

Somehow, that encounter gave me permission to simply enter Assisi as I was, without presupposition of how to be more holy or sanctified.

It is that same acceptance that I feel here at Louisville Seminary, a place that allows me to be myself. And maybe the power outage was a reminder that this place is still affected by life. In fact, it is the unapologetic infiltration of life that will make this experience most enriching.

Warmth of Stone

Tuesday, July 2nd, 2011
Assisi, Italy

This has been a delicate couple of hours, as I experience the creeping sense of loneliness. I’ve returned to the Basilica of St. Francis for a second time, to welcome the sunset and honor another day spent in Assisi.

This sanctuary is surprisingly welcoming, despite its size and droves of visitors. The space is inviting with its plane wooden pews and single aisle flanked by faded pastel frescos. The paintings are playful and childlike, whimsical, Dali-esque.

The center naive is spacious and alive, without the ominous presence of towering statues of saints or grotesque images of Christ. Even the painted images of St. Francis are understated.

Overhead, a sky blue ceiling with golden stars creates a dreamlike canopy. Oxidation has created pools of brilliant turquoise, as if the painter splashed a brighter shade at his leisure.

The floor seems newly renovated. Cream, brown and tan marble tiles are displayed in alternating geometric patterns. Their freshness is uplifting, unlike the smoothed-over stone surfaces inside the Convento San Damiano. There, the depression made on each slab step seem to harbor the weight and woes of millions of feet having trod upon them.

Outside the Basilica, a stone wall separates the cobblestone streets from the surrounding landscape of the Spoletine Valley. I sat alone and peeked through one of the openings in the wall to note the level of the sun – still hung significantly high in the horizon.

Within moments, I reached that point of sadness in which one gives into gravity, as hot tears rolled down my cheeks, stinging the sun burnt skin under my eyes. I felt far from, without and alone.

My heart was suddenly lightened when a priest, or monk, I’m unsure of the difference, walked purposely in front of me. I admired his intentionality and focus, his unwavering direction... and then, suddently, a crack in the stonework caused him to trip forward in an awkward lunge.

He instantly regained his balance, as if tripping was well within his plans. In his unmovable peacefulness, he was not phased and I admired him all the more.

The holy men and women who wander this city are so vibrant and genuine - like the priest from the Chiasa Santa Chiara who I saw in his more humble brown robe and white rope sash. Last night, as I listened to a brass band marching along in hot pink polo shirts, the priest sat on the side steps of the church, utterly attentive to the young woman sitting next to him.

Not overly consiliatory, but listening intently, he hunched over at her same level. The two were unlikely to be on the same walk of faith, yet there was nothing in the priests’ demeanor that spoke of superior spirituality.

I find that Catholicism is renewed here. It is made more human, more versatile, more lasting, more tolerant. This tradition, somehow purified in this new place, is worthy of pause and reflection as a credible means through which one can develop a relationship with the Divine.

There is space for the spiritual here.

The stones are still warm, having absorbed the heat of the Umbrian sun, causing their already luminous rose hue to glow all the more.

The crowds have left for the center of town in search of entertainment and company. The absence of noise has revealed the first evening’s birds and summer insects. Windows are being tied up for the night, store fronts shutting their trinkets away. A distant baby’s cry and her mother’s response can be heard from the entry way to the Basilica below.

Wooden door shut and locked, letting the holy space rest from the intensity of travelers, pilgrims and prayer seekers. How much that must ware on ground that is marked by the spiritual. All it asks is to be, not to be admired or revered.

The sun has hidden behind the elegant belfry, which just moments ago heralded the eight o’clock hour. Heavy resonant gongs echo beyond the hills, as if singing out to sister bells in India, Nepal or Peru.

Call it evening, Buena Sera, or call it the time of peacemaking, when gentle whispers and a quiet togetherness draws the day to an end.

Imperdible

On my last night in Huánuco, Peru, my host mother Elena and her daughter Carla surprised me with an unforgettable despedida. On that memorable Tuesday evening in mid-July, 2009, Elena and Carla had prepared a night of folkloric dancing in their living room. I couldn't have asked for a more special send off.

Elena and Carla retrieved a overstuffed plastic bag full of traditional Peruvian skirts and blouses and proceeded to dress me in layers of fabric and colored sashes. The first dress they presented me was for the Huayla dance of Huancayo, where I had traveled during Holy Week.

I stepped into two knee-length red and orange skirts, each with a wool border of giant hand-stitched flowers, tropical birds and even images of pumas from the surrounding jungle of the region. Elena pulled a black tunic over my head and adjusted the skirts. She then slipped my hands into two decorative sleeves, connected by a string behind my back like a pair of children’s winter mittens.

Over my shoulders Elena draped a heavy manta, or shawl, usually embellished with a flower-patterned square in the middle, but sometimes with more particular designs. And, of course, no look is complete without the typical hat of the region.

In the mountain town of Huancayo, the traditional hat is the simplest I’ve seen - a round top low-brimmed felt hat of tan or black, with a ribbon which gathers on one side in a delicate fan shape rather than a bow.

Hats are a bit of a status symbol in the more traditional regions of Peru, giving each woman a distinct look, without which their daily attire looks markedly similar. In Huánuco, women are seen wearing dark pleated skirts and pastel-colored knit sweaters with two black braided pigtails trailing down to their waists.

In the surrounding villages, women decorate their hats with a mix of brightly colored silk flowers, ribbons and even Christmas tree tinsel. Local shops near the market cater to this by hanging all the necessary hat accessories outside their doors, with women coming to refurbish or upgrade their otherwise bland cream-colored top hats.

At first glance the hats seem a bit excessive, but considering that these women have few possessions of their own, let alone freedoms in life, the hats represent a form of personal expression, identity and artistry.

As Elena continued to dress me in the outfit from Huancayo, Carla tried on a dress from the town of Huacaybamba, a small pueblo near Huánuco. She stepped into a longer black skirt, bordered with a vine of fuchsia flowers. The accompanying bodice was a pink and yellow satin button-up vest with longer panels laying over the sides of the skirt.

Carla then helped Elena put the finishing touches on my Hualya, including a multicolored woven sash wrapped around my waist to hold up the skirt and then a large safety pin to secure the heavy shawl across my back.

Elena asked Carla for an imperdible to pin the shawl and I remembered how much trouble I had had with this word. Sounding nothing like “safety pin,” I had to write it on a piece of scrap paper when heading into town for craft supplies. Carla, who had been my emergency language translater, offered a useful explaination.

Derived from the verb pedir, to lose, imperdible roughly means “unloseable.” What an absolutely sensible name for a safety pin!

While Elena secured the imperdible and rushed around me making final adjustments to my outfit, I pondered what it means to be “unloseable.” But as Carla raised the volume of the music and began dancing the zapateria across the living room, I left my reflection to the eight-hour bus ride I would take the following morning, returning to Lima and later back home to the U.S.

It was during that final journey over the crest of the Andean Mountains, that I came to see how my entire year spent in Peru was a demonstration of this newfound concept of being “unloseable.” To be held together, bonded to and constantly surrounded by loving and supportive people.

To work with survivors of sexual abuse who have surely been lost but have arrived at a human rights agency where the message is “You have been found.” To reinforce my faith and belief in G-d, which tells me that we are all found, already and every day without question.

As it says in Psalm 139, “Oh Lord, you know it [me] completely. You hem me in behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.”

I find this to be so absolutely reassuring, to know that no matter how lost I feel, no matter where I find myself, no matter what happens from here on out, I am unloseable. We are already found, already loved, already assured, already justified and already accepted in every way.

A safety pin, no larger than my pinky finger, held together my shawl so I wouldn’t lose it while dancing in the living room on my last night Huánuco. Just as an imperdible reconnects a shroud of material to its source, I too was reconnected. A safety pin, a seemingly fragile and ordinary object, held the mismatched pieces of my own fabric together, when I felt torn or detached, far from home and uncertain of what I could endure.

That simple object, at once trustful and resilient, has come to represent the faith that sustained me during a year of unpredictability and growth and embodies the strength of a community of people who displayed that faith so fully and honestly.

As this journey continues, I dedicate the contents of this blog to my friends in Huánuco and the Association Paz y Esperanza, who held together the fabric of my own heart when I needed it most.