It has been raining since dinner yesterday. It is twenty-two degrees Celsius today and still pouring. So much so, in fact, that two of our work placements could not be reached on account of flooding and traffic. The third had only two children show up for daycare. This anomaly however has provided me with time to think and blog, so here goes my take on yesterday.
I groggily awake after dinner from a dream I cannot recall and stumble towards the porch. The piercing artificial light, coupled with a biting cold sputter of rain ricochet, quickly jolts me awake. I feel dazed and hazy, half befuddled from my nap and fully attempting to reach full thinking capacity. As I sway to and fro, the thick damp cloth of the hammock is strained, creating various folds and rolls, their roughened smoothness brushing my arms’ goose bumps. The tropical trees outside, straining under the pelting of the heavy rain, constantly oscillate in relation to the deep midnight purple and blue of the sky, bordering on black. The rocking does not help too much with my dopey state, but the rain transports me. I drift off easily to thoughts of this morning.
I showed up to the daycare where Barbara and the new sister from India were already straightening things up and getting the children changed. I entertained the fussy bunch, Samuel, Kaique, Rodrigo, and Nicholas, who collectively represent some of the youngest and most active children. We let them loose in the longer, but thinner, play area due to scattered showers. A section of the larger area had no roof and had begun to fill up with a bit of water, making it impractical for the day. Either the children were especially fussy that day (it happens sometimes) or the shape of the room made it hard to catch everything that happened, because a greater number of incidents than usual had accumulated over the course of half an hour. At one point, four children simultaneously approached the nun and me crying hysterically. None could pinpoint the source of their anguish, at which point we both sighed and smiled at the chaos of the situation. Each of us calming a pair of the distraught children, we rejoiced after Barbara opened up the once flooded area so that we could split the group in half. After about an hour more, the nun from Argentina came to take me on a field trip of sorts. A sister had passed, and the nuns asked if I could take some pictures of the grave with my phone so that we could send them to the mourning family.
A driver, two sisters, Maria (one of the women who lives at Madre Theresa), and I piled into an old Volkswagen van to take to the cemetery. We met a man at a synagogue who once remarked, “You need faith to drive in this city” on account of how crazily everyone drives. Though I trust Ivan with my life on these streets, especially after having seen him pull off some rather spectacular maneuvers, something about praying a rosary sandwiched between two nuns made me feel especially secure, making that man’s quote all the more relevant. After a bumpy ride (roads are not too great in that part of town) we arrived at a humble cemetery on a hill overlooking the ocean. The sisters and I proceeded to the grave, where a beautiful bush of flowers had been planted. A circle around the grave, as well as a path to it, had been mowed, but many of the graves appeared overgrown and in need of attention. We continued the rosary from the car ride.
I could not help but notice the demeanor of the nuns. They exude life and happiness at all hours of the day. They do not fear death or the dead. They resign themselves completely to His will, whether that be in relation to the length of their own lives or in the day-to-day work they put in for their whole lives. They jabber, question, and joke in the best of ways almost always. We showed up to the tombstone and immediately start weeding. They then attempted to find the best angle. I might have thought,
"I'm a nun too. This sister was only fifty years old. She is far away from family."
For one thing, it just seems like a very difficult thing to do. I am in awe at their persistence in conjunction with such wholesome values. I want to be more like them. We tidied the area, took some photographs, and spoke with the groundskeeper a bit. Religion is tough for me considering I am someone who questions things a lot, and though I do not think that a belief in God necessarily accounts for their actions and thoughts, it certainly plays a large role in their daily lives, practices, and meditations. This exposure to them definitely provides more fuel for these thoughts and I am glad to have been assigned to Madre Theresa.
I had the pleasure of visiting Dominaria and Joselita at the hospital as well. They lived at Madre Theresa and hopefully will return soon. Joselita loves to talk. Her nurses mentioned that they even had trouble putting her to bed on account of her wanting to speak so much. Maria and she immediately began filling each other in on the gossip of the hospital and Madre Theresa. As we attempted to go, she would grab one of our wrists and try to say one last thing. We eventually were able to leave with a host of messages and hugs to give to this or that person back at Madre Theresa, but not without a fight.
Dominaria did not fair as well. Her right leg is still locked in a clenched position, though she noted that she did not have as much pain. I became close to Dominaria after I started to help feed her at meals. She has trouble speaking and moving even her arms very much. Part of the reason she went to the hospital was that she could not eat solid food anymore. I began to feel really badly feeding her because she used to say she was not hungry, try to spit out her pills, and generally resist whatever it was the nuns wanted done. The sisters assured me she had to eat and drink, so I continued on, though rather slowly. I began telling her more about myself in broken Portuguese so as not to make her feel too uncomfortable with a random stranger feeding her. When the nuns looked away she began trying to send me signals that she did not want to eat or drink. I had to gently refuse and continue though, as difficult as that was. After an especially slow meal and many signals one day, another nun eventually came over and somewhat forcefully, although completely in good will, showed me what I should do, essentially put more food in her mouth faster so that she had to swallow. As the nun demonstrated and explained Dominaria’s trying to guilt me into not feeding her, Dominaria gave me an overemphasized wink and a smile. I felt more pressure than usual from her that day as I pressed her hand and kissed both her cheeks, excited at the prospect of making even more progress with her. She left to the hospital before I could see her again at Madre Theresa though.
She did not recognize me or the other nuns for that matter during our visit. It did not stop her from taking my hand or looking straight into my eyes, as if she believed every ounce of what we told her though. I hoped she had not been lonely. Her hands had been loosely tied to her bed so that she would not take out her IV, her source of nutrients, anymore. She declared that she was hungry and that she would eat whatever they brought. She spoke well of the staff and mentioned she was feeling better. She told us confidently she would be back tomorrow. After speaking a bit with her, the Argentinean nun and I felt better knowing she was communicating, joking, and still being rebellious. As we walked down the hall to go, the sister let me know Dominaria would probably pass at the hospital.
A gust of wind sent an unexpectedly frigid mist my way. A number of things caught my attention about my day. My distance from home for one, highlighted by the thought that all of these nuns were relatively far from their families. In addition, how life went on, both where they were and where their families were. My general feeling of comfort and enjoyment I felt every day too at my workplace certainly passed through my mind. The state of the public, though religiously affiliated, hospital we visited very much caught my eye. Some other constant themes I have mentioned a couple of times too made their way into my head. I could not help but think of my great grandmother though, Buelita Kika, after hearing the rain and seeing Dominaria. And how could I think of all of them without missing my grandmother Amo?
Buelita Kika had a tin roof in the house where every room tilted in a different direction. My great grandfather, Buelito Kiko, added most of the rooms, plumbing, and electricity himself. He worked on the roof of the shed he built out back right up until a couple of days before he passed. We stayed over at their house now and then growing up. I recall the pale orange glow of street lamps passing through her white cloth window curtains. The sound of the rain pitter-pattering against the contoured tin roof, not unlike the contours of the hammock fabric, provided a backdrop for Buelita Kika’s rosary’s and occasional sighs between prayers. The train whose tracks passed just beyond their backyard fence never ceased to surprise us as it rattled by.
So many thoughts and memories travel this way and that, each taking me a different direction. Do the paths I follow now determine those I follow later? They certainly do, but is my brain deterministic? What mechanism allows for choice and randomness? Is the current consensus not that we consist of a series of unintelligent parallel processes? I left the zoo wondering how closely we resembled the almost robotic looking little monkeys. To what extent do they function independent of a system set in motion at birth? I jump from one place to another within seconds usually. If we become what we think how can I more deliberately meditate? I have seen so much every day, good and bad. I am beginning to wonder how I can call each day the same adjective, good. If it is just my deciding that from a specific perspective is that okay? If so, how much should my experience be my choice? It seems so arbitrary and potentially self-centered. It’s as freeing as it is scary, and as difficult as it is necessary, and I have no idea how it works. I’ll keep thinking about it.
