I'll post one this week, but for now....

Check out our group update if you haven't already! @ http://www.princeton.edu/bridgeyear/updates/archives/?id=11806

Here's what I had to say:
As we turned onto a small street leading to a beach, a wooden fence draped with vines came into view. Through the cracks, we could see a cozy house nestled behind a small garden. The slightly-slanted gravel driveway crunched as we came to a halt at the gate. Ninety minutes ago, we’d departed from Madre Teresa, the service site where I work that cares primarily for disabled women and malnourished children. The women and I transitioned from chanting the rosaries the nuns inspired in the kombi (van) to enjoying the fresh air. One of the liveliest inhabitants of Madre Teresa appeared to be the most anxious. She lowered herself into her wheelchair and proceeded to head for the water while the others waited by the gate. I caught up and slowed her as we descended towards the beach and crossed a cobblestone road. When we reached the sand, she looked at me inquisitively and paused. She knew it would be tough to take the wheelchair to the water, so she grinned, nodded her head, and enthusiastically declared, “Eu vou caminhar” (I will walk).

Next thing I knew, the kombi driver and I were on either side of the giggling woman as we stumbled toward the sea. A nun, particularly amused at the situation, grabbed the empty wheelchair and walked down with us. “Nossa, é um milagre!” (Wow, it’s a miracle!) she joked. I couldn’t help but smile and laugh along with everyone else. We sat the tenacious woman down on the sand and took everything in. The other women were now arriving, having crossed the fine white sand. The less adventurous ones took cover under a large tree across the street. One woman screamed and laughed uncontrollably as the cook dumped water on her. A girl from the neighborhood who had tagged along swam out with the Mother Superior's family. They sang, splashed, joked, and relaxed. A cool breeze mitigated the sun’s relentless heat. After spending three months with these individuals, I felt as though I couldn’t have been spending my time more purposefully.

While there is a constant focus on God at Madre Teresa, the members of the community also highly cherish one another’s company. Thus integrating ourselves into their community on almost a daily basis speaks to them, allowing us to establish deeper relationships. It wasn’t until last week that a particularly troubled woman even let me touch or talk to her; she does not take to those who come and go.

Many of the people of the Madre Teresa community are not given much. I often see empty pockets, stomachs, and stares. The emphasis on “nossa,” when taken as our, takes on a greater significance in the context of their environment. They have each other when they do not have much else. The community’s problems are those of Madre Teresa and vice versa. Plenty of people help regularly, others do infrequent odd-jobs, while a few have worked there as long as twenty years.

What is it, if not beauty, to see these individuals as they interact at the beach, at meals, or while helping out? It can be easy to wallow in all that they lack or struggle with, but their responses inspire me. I  am blessed to have witnessed such phenomenal examples at my work placement. I’ve watched a woman confined to a wheelchair walk; received a “How are you?” from someone who usually mutters criticism; and seen residents of the surrounding favela stop and help each other out of genuine goodwill.

In trying to find meaning in these experiences and observations, I am finding we create our own. From nossa! to sunsets, I sought understanding when I should have been looking within. These experiences only matter insofar as we are willing to imbue them with value. In valuing them, we appreciate; in appreciating, we are grateful. Gratefulness generates desire to cultivate what we have chosen to value. Such peace of mind and practicality is seldom so simple, though. Our many values clearly influence our state of being and mindset. Our wanting to incorporate service, home-stay, culture, learning, and language all in one experience can lead to contradictions and overlap in our interests. Every day we have a different context and must adapt.

For example, if the beach day had been our first day together, then I probably would not have felt nearly as fulfilled as I did after three months of work. I would have struggled to communicate, figure out my role, and navigate each specific relationship. The joy I felt as I relished every mannerism, saying, and outburst was a culmination of all our actions and interactions prior that set the stage for greater impact. Though it felt momentous, small steps were what paved the way, steps akin to those of the woman at the beach. My time here so far has taught me how much the little, consistent acts can affect the present moment and increase nossa potential, allowing us to lead meaningful, interconnected lives.

Ainda Se Ajustando

I apologize for not keeping up with my blog as often as I had hoped I would, but it has been quite a month. Probably all the more reason I should have been blogging though. Anyway, here is what I have been up to:

            As the last children file out of the dining room of Madre Teresa towards their mattresses, I begin rearranging upside-down chairs, pushed tables, thrown toys, and other miscellaneous objects left scattered about. It looks as though a tornado of rice and beans has just wrought havoc. Barbara’s raspy soulful voice quells their rambunctious spirits and washes away the various wrongdoings and scuffles of the day with nursery rhymes and prayers. All that remains is her voice and the fond memories that are drawn to it, accompanied by the “swishes” and “chises” of wet towel on plastic or straw bristles on tile. I have my routine set. I begin by wiping down the tables and chairs, wiping solid foods onto the ground and dissolving oil and grime with the potent mixture of bleach, soup, and water the nuns have concocted. After stacking the chairs on the tables, I move on to the food, which by now has begun to dry and cement itself to the floor. I work my way around in such a way that I end up with one big pile of dusty food by the door. I dump it and begin the mop in a similar fashion.

            I have begun to get lost in it. I switch into autopilot as I reflect about this or that. A thorough resolve to get every grain of rice and every skin of a bean smashed by a toddler’s heel has developed. I sometimes only snap out of it once a nun comes by to tell me Ivan has arrived or a nun doing dishes asks me about my day. Other times, a child wanders past to use the bathroom or delay naptime. The first couple of days it seemed like something I might get tired of. Instead, I have begun to enjoy the time I have to reflect and cleanse. Also, the daycare would be pretty gross if we didn’t. That practicality makes it all the easier to do.

            I mentioned this month has been especially eventful though. I have felt as though I have had less time to process given the amount of input I have been receiving in various circumstances. Among other things, we have been working on a means to better utilize our weekly university class at Relio Rocha, adjusting to host families, navigating Salvador’s safety concerns, and, mixed into all of that, working on communication. Obviously Portuguese plays a huge role in aiding our communication. We have been consistently working on that for the past two and a half months. A lot of the more complicated observations, thoughts, feelings, and experiences end up being harder to relay in Portuguese though. We are lucky to have Vini and Grace, who do wonders with English I can only hope to learn in my acquiring of Portuguese as a second language. Beyond that, whether we are dealing with Portuguese or English, we have this foreign culture and environment that presents as much an obstacle as anything else to communication.

            This interaction between two people or groups also has an important context, life. Given the unknown nature of the future and the unpredictability of almost anything, especially in a polarized developing community, we have to overcome obstacles we have no control over. Damiana passed away about three weeks ago in her sleep. I found out on a Monday after asking a nun how the weekend went. I had an eventful weekend with my host family that very weekend. That is to say, I had some concerns about my host family situation based on my first weekend with them. Given that that should be a place where I recharge batteries and reflect in a relaxing environment, it imposed on other situations. There was not any progress in Relio Hocha despite my speaking with our teacher in Portuguese and English the Friday before. We began approaching that more critically as a group. I also felt as though I was having trouble relaying some of my concerns with Vini and Grace. In addition to that, I was mugged in Pelourinho, the historical district of Salvador, that Tuesday. So I had just been having more to process than usual that week in particular.

            In a lot of ways, it reminds me of my first days at Madre Teresa. I spoke very little Portuguese (communication difficulties), there was a lot going on, and I did not know where to start. There were a lot of fresh new opportunities for growth and I tackled them as they came, reflecting and adjusting as I went. As I compare my experiences as a whole to my experiences in Madre Teresa, I now understand it probably had something to do with my mindset. I went into Madre Teresa with the understanding that I knew nothing and no one there. I made it my duty to do the best I could with what I had and to be okay with whatever that meant. I knew it would be messy and bumpy. It is much harder to have that mindset once you have gotten into the routine of things though. I felt comfortable in a way that set me up for surprise when a lot of things were simultaneously made harder.

            Not to say that the caliber of what I was dealing with was not different. When it comes to life and death, things are less clear for me and guidelines are very much different. I have created an instinct towards keeping a perspective that takes into account a bigger picture. I do not know how to incorporate these things yet, or if to so quickly. On one hand, this is a complex individual with a multitude of thoughts and emotions just waiting to be shared and expressed. Though this does not add to Damiana’s significance in any special way, I also just so happened to know this individual too. On the other hand, this literally happens all the time; it’s part of life. So as I sat in a meeting, not very concerned at having lost a watch or necklace the day before, being scolded about a failure to notify this or that person about the theft, I could not help but feel like it did not matter one bit. A wonderful group of women at Madre Teresa were suffering, in addition to family and friends of Damiana. And she is gone. Though I would hate to reduce her passing to some sort of objective occurrence, the net suffering that occurred surely justified my preoccupation, as opposed to most of the day to day little things I try not to let get to me. I just don’t know who or what this is all about, especially once you mix in day to day randomness.

            I am trying to find balance these days. I feel like a bit of a robot at times for reducing these experiences to objective analyses, especially considering emotions play such an integral role in life. I felt lost in that week, in how unclear things are, in where the emphases of those around me laid. The more I think about it, the more I feel as though there are no breaks or rests, only states of engagement and withdrawal. I used to think that withdrawal meant I was not doing something my best. Part of being human is being stumped though, humbled. And what better way to experience something than to be withdrawn to a certain extent. I had to let it take me where it would. I was so busy trying to do the best with what I had that I did not stop to let it tear me down. I don’t ever want to lose that sensitivity; it gives as much perspective as anything else. At least, not yet.

            That week in particular, though tough, has put me in a better spot with Vini and Grace (Probably our best means’ of support and tools for implementing positive change) and given me a lot to think about in terms of how I approached and should approach my time here. I am on the brink now, after having gotten through that week and others, of making decisions that will impact the next six months of my experience. In a lot of ways we are just getting started. I see a lot of potential in the things we are doing and planning, and we have learned a lot about confronting a number of scenarios. My suboptimal circumstances before now have only made me more excited for what is to come, successes and/or more opportunities for reflection and growth.

Saudade

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.

Po do sol

I accidentally deleted a similar post to this yesterday, so here is my second crack at it. Hopefully my getting copy and paste mixed up in Portuguese does not hinder my posting in the future. I certainly will not forget which is which now. Enjoy!:

A happenstance occurrence, Taísa's water leak at her house, presented us with two hours of free time before dinner on Tuesday. I had promised myself to see a sunset as soon as I could, but seeing as we have Portuguese class Monday through Friday while it occurs, we had not been as of yet. We began our descent towards the beach at 17:00 giving us about half an hour to spare before the sun completely disappeared over the edge of the Earth. As we descended a street parallel to a cliff overlooking the bay, a sight, the likes of which a picture could do no justice, took me by surprise. The sun bored down with an intensity that averted gazes. I could not even look at the reflection of the sun off of the sea without putting up a hand to block or squinting vigorously. The sun seemed to pierce our very plane of vision, spewing a dense celestial stew of amber rays and photon packets that ripped through subtle nuances of pink and purple. How dark the deep crystal blue of the ocean seemed in comparison. After receiving a sufficient amount of retinal damage, we continued on. The beach swarmed with people, at five o'clock on a Tuesday mind you. I jumped in as soon as we arrived. Swimming out a ways, I found a nice spot to float, soaking up all I could of the moment. The salinity of the water made me especially buoyant and prone to the whims of the sea. Though chilly, the warm collage of hues painted passionately across the sky more than compensated for the frigidity of the water. Spiced shrimp, salt, cigarettes, and fish tickled my nose. Various ball games, laughter, and  entreaties to buy this or that washed over me. I was a grain of salt suspended in a solution approaching supersaturation. People bobbed, and a father paddled his daughter out to get a better view. Almost in response to our collecting, it began. Everything merged at a single point in time and space, heaven and Earth collided. A lightning bolt of reflected energy weaved in and out of freighters and launches before hitting me square in the chest. The golden ember greeted the sea with a gentle touch, igniting a contagious amalgam of cheers, whistles, and claps. Our enormous life-giving speck of an energy provider grew a richer fuller vermilion as it sank, as if to compensate for its having to temporarily leave. And when only the sky remained, still stained the color of a traveler's whitewashed faded tie-dye, everyone seemed to snap out of their trance, resume normalcy. This happens every day here, and there is always a sunset somewhere, whether or not I watch, before I was here and after I go. How should I feel at any given time of day? Why not instead stare at the homeless men that line the walk down? How should I reconcile this sort of experience with having to diagnose and treat a number of open sores on a three year old's arms and legs, or hearing news that a particular woman you were clicking so well with is in particularly bad shape at the hospital, and just hours earlier at my work placement. I am not arguing to allocate more time or energy to thinking about one or the other, but rather questioning how to process the raw data, if filters or amplifiers of some sort would help? How different are these experiences? Should I see them so differently? An application on my phone allows me to change the background of different notes so as to better organize them. An unforeseen consequence of this was an altered mood of a poem I had been working on. A fellow bridge year student noted how aggressively advertised and saddening my portrayal of a tree appeared. I did not necessarily see it the same way. Though totally unrelated to the color of the background, our own past experiences and reflections had us approaching the same point from different angles. I search for the color, the proper lens or perspective, that will allow me to best react to and inform various efforts. I do not know if that involves a conglomerate or kaleidoscope of combinations. The question tends to be more pertinent than the answer. I could have just as easily named this post "indeterminable infection" or something. Was there some sort of awareness to potential readers who may have been deterred or would I just rather think about something so universally beautiful? What is not beautiful about the tree I describe? With every day that passes I become a little more a part of Madre Theresa; and boy do I already love those kids, women, nuns, and other staff so much. The beauty seems so on par with anything else I can imagine. Could I not have described the sun as insignificant? Here is the poem I mentioned.

A canção de Salvador:
Beats reverberate through me
Permeating every pore,
Every cavern of my being.
Inhaling rio acaraje and beleza vibes
Alongside salty sea blue dreams
Heavy infusions of dende and acai float.
As capoeira dancers, fighters, sweep
Somewhere, a coconut falls
The caxixi jumps and jingles
Children lack food, love
Vamos a jogar they chant
Violence is all some have
Baianos dance to pulsating samba
Aware of tomorrow, content with today
Gnarled, deprived, disproportionate trees
Contort to slim dim beams of
Speck filled insecurity filled security
Akin to unlit stain glass dullness.
Without illumination,
It's only a puzzle for toddlers
Oh sangue bom de Salvador

Samba

A certain tension exists between the values I have chosen to uphold and those that are imposed upon me. It reminds me of the tension I feel as I dance. On one hand, a traditional style, technique, and method set the foundation, while on the other, improvisation, impulse, and vision drive the movement. After a certain point, the vehicle, or rules if you will, bend or break under the pressure of competition. A new means of expression and action replaces the outdated form under new circumstances. Before long the dance becomes its own idea, essence, and meaning. It takes on a direction and stance. Dance creates art that lasts as long as a gaze, making it as ephemeral as a flash of lightning; the accumulation of my actions though ultimately defines the kind of dance I live. Of course these days pictures and videos are somewhat changing that, but the essence of that work being present only in the residue of ones muscle memory or visual and auditory stimuli make it an ideal way to live fully in the moment. That essentially embodies the rift in my moral compass. I am or at least was surrounded by people either encouraging or totally content with waiting. The issues affecting such a large number of people in the world seem to be put snuggly on the back burner. I completely recognize the importance of becoming educated. But to wait until I am twenty-two or three or older to get certified to do this or that and only then start a career, my initial participation probably falling far short and off the mark of what I thought necessary or possible, and most likely forgetting somewhere along the way what it was I want to do and value seems fake and indirect. Sitting around a fifty thousand dollar or so wooden Harkness table discussing the inequity inherent in various aspects of our societies seemed so backwards, as privileged I was to receive the education I did. I felt the need to be much more involved and productive than was deemed okay. As I was applying for this trip I remember having an argument with my mother about what would happen if I did not make the cut. I became rather upset, mostly out of fear, at the notion that she probably would not allow me to do a gap year by myself. I felt stuck, coddled, and ready for more. I could not imagine another four years in the same area doing the same kinds of things I had been doing without being utterly lost and unhappy. Maybe that is just indicative of certain preconceived notions about what my life would be like in the next four years. It could also be a big indicator that I should have seriously reconsidered the way I lived my life, not that I did not or anything though. At times such situations and opinions are difficult to address or resolve for a number of reasons. Things such as these have had a tendency to work out well in the end, so hopefully that has something to do with how I handle them. A samba class inspired today's blog post. Ricardo, our dance instructor (he puts you to shame bro), is as lively as he is passionate about the art. Samba plays an incredibly important role in our getting to know the people of Salvador. Samba has as many varieties as it has peoples and cultures that contributed to its creation and development. To be able to learn, share, and enjoy that with others leads to a completely fulfilling experience for me.

It begins.

I began work at Madre Theresa daycare and home for hindered women this Monday. I however was not the only newcomer this week. Tati of course began with me at this work site. Additionally an adorable baby boy who would not stop crying joined the others. So naturally they paired us up. Visceral urges to cry, scream, or shout our uneasiness at some thing or someone amidst unfamiliar environments often occur before anything else. I found myself at a loss to imagine the home, parents, and possibly siblings of this child the same way he struggled to cope with this loud new place without his mother. As the other children played on the other side of the fence, the baby and I strolled by the pictures and names of the others as I hummed songs I used to go to bed to. He was reluctant to calm down but could not resist glimpsing the faces of the other children. Fatigue from his crying fits started to chip away at his prejudices. His head bobbing and hand beginning to clench my shirt, he drifted off to sleep. I had been and still am in awe of and curious about the nuns who run the center. Day in and day out their loving, purposeful, and dogged consistency pervaded their demeanor. To choose to love the being you hold in your arms is one thing, quite tangible and rewarding. To give all you have to everyone and all with no expectations but your best effort in the name of the presence of an unprovable being is another. I will have to mull that over some more. Feeding, holding, cleaning, and playing certainly made it clear how pertinent such work is, as did my experiences with the older women this morning. I then wonder sometimes why there do not exist more people doing such work aside from any differences in belief.. More specifically, why I did not not do more work like it. I certainly should have. Hence my wish to do a gap year of this nature. My whole life I have thrived on the resources, time, and effort of others and to wait so long to do the same for others seemed to undermine the type of environment for others that catalyzed my growth. I had a one in a million mom who made more than I ever could have imagined out of what statistically was a recipe for a drop out student in and out of jail. The work I do here or did through my school or with my family reflected what I was taught to value most and accounts for my most fulfilling experiences. The stresses of grades, college, and SAT scores should fall far behind our yearning to make meaningful change possible in the real world. To think that I, or anyone else for that matter, might not have had experiences such as these scares me as much as it fosters a deep appreciation for them.

Yes, I'm going to church mom.

A wave of rainbow cloth bands that read, "Lembrança do Senhor de Bonfim da Bahia" completely submerged the surounding gates and any other surface available of the most well known and appreciated church in Bahia, Senhor do Bonfim. They fluttered much like the long green and tan grasses of the coast. The small swaths of cloth, innumerable and purposely placed, represent the hopes, dreams, and prayers of the citizens of Salvador. The same way these people gather to celebrate the independence of Brazil on Seite de Setembro, they congregate to peacably voice their opinions concerning current conditions in Brazil. While Olympic stadiums seemingly appear out of thin air in one or two years, public transportation, education, and health policies lack funding and or haste in their execution. Salvador specifically sits on top of an unused and inoperable subway system. Fred, a guest speaker at the home base, spoke to us just two days ago about huge endeavours recklessly undertaken by the government that resulted in large quantities of funds misappropriated and or undesired repercussions. From the hill where the church sits one can see a large portion of Salvador. The colina sagrada as they call it marks the end of a five kilometer trek beggining in Barra on Seite de Setembro. Shortly thereafter the march, as with many other celebrations and holidays, protestors will gather to ask for basic infrastructure and policy improvements. Brazil seems to be doing a splendid job of exercising their democratic rights and their government appears all the better for it with people like Joaquim Barbosa taking charge and fostering national progress.