You're really cute but I can't understand you.

So the fact of the matter is that I have NOT been slacking off blogging. Really truly. The case is that this past week I have had only two chances to be on the internet. This is the second time. Therefore, I just did not have time to type out something long and amazing.

For those of you who care to know. I have been working in a school for preschoolers and kindergarden students the past week. I can already tell that my comprehension of Spanish has improved a whole lot. I surprised my Mami yesterday when I understood exactly what she said the first time through and the fact that I trusted that I knew what she said. I do a lot of second guessing when in a conversation with a Spanish speaker. Often, I understand what has been said the first time but I just didn't believe that I had understood completely.

Anyways, my classroom is of four and five year olds. This week, I learned the alphabet right along with them. I never learned the Spanish alphabet so this was a good thing. The best part was when I tried to help teach them the alphabet and I didn't even really know it myself. cool, huh?

The children adore their teacher. She walks into the classroom and the children start to tell her how beautiful she is and they reach out to touch her as she walks by. They are soooooo sweet. They love saying my name over and over again because it rolls of the tongue. I love kids.

Spanish Skills

Life Words

Where does a story begin? When is that perfect moment of beginning? Is there a moment that is more perfect for a beginning than any other minute?

I always wonder when my story is going to begin. Isn’t that a silly thought? I’m just chilling in my room in the small island country of the Dominican Republic wondering when my story is going to begin. If I forever spend my life wondering when my story is going to begin, will I ever get past the beginning or will I one day wake up and realize that all along I was living a story filled with more adventures than I could have imagined? The definition of life might as well be a string of adventures or a story in the process of being told.

Here, I think that my story has yet to begin. Truly, it was begun long ago before I even set my little baby foot onto this planet and before I was even created in the womb. My story is just a small sentence or word within the greater story of the God who created the universe. I worry about my story, though. I ought to be worrying about what my one word in God’s story will be. Correct, God is writing my life story or at least I desire Him to do so. Yet, if my life is only one word within in His grand story, what is that word going to be?

I’m certain that I could be content with being a measly word article such as “a” or “the.” I kind of want more than that, though. I’m thinking more along the lines of a ‘ten cent word’ as my mother likes to say. I’d love to have my life defined by one stellar word. I’m not certain what it would be, though. I once used the word ‘peculiar’ to describe me as an overall person. I do think it still holds yet for my life word I want more.

Of course, in the grand story with God as the grand author, I don’t get much say in the word that He would choose to describe my life. I do know that it would be a great honor to be called “faithful” by God. I desire to join the Hebrews 11 Hall of Fame. My life word shall forever be a mystery, but I will strive to be a person who lives her life as “by faith.”

Queen of Darkness

I’m a creeper of the night.

The night is mysterious. It envelopes the world in a darkness that is both welcoming and dangerous. It is both comforting and scary. In the hours of dark, grievous things are said to occur and they sometimes do. Yet, in the cover of darkness, other things of beauty happen as well.

In the night hours, one can wander through deserted streets. One can wonder many a thing in these wandering moments. In those dark moments, one can peep up at the sky and see a world completely other than our own world of normal goings-on. In this world of other, points of light cut through the darkness that so completely and utterly encircles this present location. These points of light whisper of something more beautiful and exciting than what one experiences in one’s own world.

I’m a creeper of the night. I feel most comforted in the circle of darkness. It’s a place of security where no one sees me except when I desire them to do so. I am comfortable here only peeking at those points of light. I admire their beauty but have no desire to see more of their strong light that barely reaches me through my circle of security.

In the dark, I have stolen a kiss when in the morning light I would have died to do so. Everything is simpler in the night. It is a neutral being – the darkness. We make it both comforting and menacing. Whether friend or foe, the dark is and will never stop just being.

The darkness is my friend because in the shadow of the darkness, I can flee the drama of life and hide from those who would seek me out. I walk in the dark. No one can see my tears in the dark or see my dance in dark. I’m alone and I’m happy.

Depth in life is to be sought. Perhaps that is why night is so entirely inviting.
Everything deepens. Night darkens the shadows and hides the scars of day. Although morning brings a fresh beginning, night is the time for pensive thought and melancholy wishful dreams.

I’m a creeper of the night and I like it.

Dedicated to a pair of Blue Eyes

Have you ever seen a pair of eyes that stop you in your tracks? Then, there is that moment of choice where you could continue walking or gaze with adoration into those ocean blue orbs of wonder. Do you stop or do you keep walking? I stop.

Recently, or not so recently, I found such a pair of eyes in a dear friend of mine. She invited me to gaze into her eyes and so I did. I was drawn to them. In those blue eyes, I saw silver and gold stars. When I looked deeper, I could not contain my awe in the creator who made those gorgeous blue eyes. Words bubbled out of my mouth. Those eyes were full of fireworks - fireworks in full bloom of that moment of excited explosion. When I looked at the intricacies of this lovely woman’s eyes, I saw the distant whisper and the echo of those explosions of fireworks. In the lighter blue of her eyes, I saw the whisper of the sparkle in her eyes. It seemed to hint at the mystery and depth of the woman sitting before me.

I’ve tried to describe the wonder that those brilliant eyes contained, but I find that words fail me. I could sit for years and never fully share the beauty that I saw in those dazzling happy blue eyes. If I were to spend every moment of my life following this pair of sapphire eyes, I could never find words to not only portray the eyes of this woman but to describe the excellence of this Godly woman.

Clouds

A cloud is a filmy white thing that floats in the sky. Sometimes it becomes ominously gray and then opens up and spits out rain. People claim that clouds are created by little particles of water. Yet, these celestial things seem to be so much more than just water. Clouds must be more.

What are clouds? Clouds are that little bit of heaven that seems to entrance the child staring out the window. When a person looks out a window wistfully and thinks of many different things, their eyes are generally caught on a cloud. Clouds are made up of the thoughts of people who are trapped in classrooms and wishing to be somewhere else. They throw their thoughts at the sky. Those thoughts become clouds.

In those thought clouds, those thoughts and wondering float around the world. They explore the things you cannot while stuck in a classroom. Then, when it rains, those thoughts come plummeting back to earth. They saturate the ground.

Those thoughts turn into ideas. They grow like plants and become action. Clouds are thoughts.

Disaster Hits!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The chickens were in uproar. From up in their tree, they screamed and yelled. Below their tree in the yard lay a dead sister. Its days of finding food among the filth of the yard were over. Its clucking had come to a brutal and abrupt end. In the shadows of the tree, there was a bit movement as something dark and menacing slowly and silently ate a killing. In the depth of the shadow, the lank body of a killer could be seen. Although a young dog, it was a big dog. It was made all the more menacing by the fact that from its collar hung a broken chain.

The dog moved with a slow confidence in his might. The barking of the dogs of the house caused him no extra worry. It did not even acknowledge their yaps or the outraged cries of the sisters of the chickens that had been murdered for sport. The puppy on the porch whimpered. The large dog heard and stepped almost with sleepy interest towards the porch. The dog suddenly became engrossed in his breakfast again. Momentarily, the yard had fallen silent while the dogs had barked the chickens had quieted. As soon as the dog returned to his breakfast, the chickens took up their mournful wail.

The girl human who had just come out of the house was met with the chorus of chickens. She looked into the tangle of greenery and barbed wire fence underneath the chicken tree and shuddered. The dog was huge and black. Bravely, she stepped towards it trying desperately to be threatening. It had no fear. This struck fear into the girl’s heart. When the dog came into the yard again, the girl ran and vaulted over the porch railing. It stood there declaring his morning reign upon the courtyard. All was in chaos and confusion.

Now, hours after the chicken massacre, four stiff corpses are piled on a cement block. Corn is still scattered on the ground because the chickens’ lost their appetite. The roosters have lost some of their pluck. The courtyard seems to be mourning the loss of four confused chickens who never knew when it was a good hour to start chattering about their coming eggs. The courtyard has become more hushed. Perhaps, I will sleep better tonight.

(If you would like a different perspective on this grand event, I have it on good authority that this blogger will be posting a similar story to mine – a more serious one. http://www.adriennesearer.blogspot.com/)

Mist of a Waterfall

In the morning sunlight, I scurried up a huge boulder and perched atop it. From my rock, I could see the waterfall and then follow the path of the water down the river a bit. The view was beautiful. All other sounds were muted by the music of the waterfall. The sunbeams danced across the mist of the waterfall and slithered along the boulders that bedecked the banks of the river. The gentle folk that reside along the river were clothed in their richest and deepest greens. They stood stoic except for an occasional whisper in this sparkling scene. Far above near the beginning of the waterfall a huge rock jutted from the earth majestically. If one looked close enough, you might catch a glimpse of a long ago warrior silhouetted against the waterfall.

I reveled in the scene around me. Finally, I relaxed against my boulder with my back against the cool stone. This place was paradise. Far above me was the blue sky and I could no longer fathom the gorgeous surrounding topped off with a serene blue sky. It was too much. In my mind’s eye, I grew wings. With those wings I soared as close to the waterfall as possible and then followed the trek of the water. Just as the wind caressed my hair, the wind would caress the feathers of my wings. Instead of tumbling from the top of my rock in a heap of legs and arms, I would just shoot up into the sky and dance in the room of the sky. I imagined that I could almost feel the growth of my wings. Yet, it was not to be.

Somewhat dejectedly, I rolled over on my side to take in the view of the waterfall again. I froze. For what met my eyes was not what I had expected. Simply walking from the depths of the base of the waterfall was a woman. The majestic strength of the waterfall held no sway over the maiden. It seemed to ease and make way for her. The water moved like a curtain. This waterfall nymph had honey brown hair that tumbled in wet curls down her back. In every movement, she was graceful and her body had sweet, gentle curves. These curves were masked by the thin film of a fabric that seemed to be made of thread as fine as spider’s web. The gown was unique in the fact that one could not tell where it began and where it ended. It just was. Even from so far away, I could tell that her eyes were the most riveting silver. I gazed in wonder. This beautiful creature glided towards me in the water. The depth of the water did not matter. The waterfall nymph always walked along the top.

I dared not move a muscle as I watched her progress towards me. I was not certain if I slept or if this was just a continuation of my daydreaming. She lifted a dainty foot over a rock and then looked up. Her gaze enveloped me. I felt no fear and she was bold in her look. Tentatively, I slowly smiled. A smile quickly danced across her face. In that moment, there was nothing else in the world except for this waterfall nymph and myself. Everything had silenced and grayed. I was held by that smile. Then, she was gone. I am not certain where she went. I had my eyes open and I did not blink. It was as though the laughing sun had just temporarily painted the waterfall nymph in the mist of the waterfall. Perhaps, that was the case. I could not be sure.

Without much grace, I tumbled off my boulder. I had to investigate. With rapid feet, I tripped over stones along the bank as I hurried to the place that I had last seen this beautiful mirage. In the midst of a more shallow section of the river was the rock that she had perched her dainty foot upon. Unlike the maiden, I splashed through the water. The rock glistened. Which is definitely normal for a rock sitting in the center of a river for it gets wet out there. I wanted more than that. As I drew near to the rock, my eyes were drawn to a curious thing on the rock. Upon the rock, there lay a most beautiful piece of jewelry. The beads seemed to be as pristine as raindrops. I picked it up and then slowly slipped it onto my ankle. It fit perfectly. A chill raced down my spine in excitement.

My mind played hopscotch with different ideas as to why I had seen the waterfall nymph and she had chosen to leave a piece of jewelry for me. Of course, I did not have to investigate her reality. Yet, I had. Finally, I slipped one of my favorite rings off my finger and placed it on the same rock that I had found the anklet. I did not know if she would return. Yet, I knew it was proper to exchange a gift if one is given to you.

I still wear the anklet on my right ankle. The beads have never dimmed and carry a whisper of the music of the waterfall. Unlike other pieces of jewelry, it has never broken or scratched. There is something odd about it. I have never had the opportunity to return to that specific waterfall because my travels have called me elsewhere. Yet, I have a feeling that somewhere there is a waterfall nymph with honey brown curly hair with a human ring adorning her hand. When I shut my eyes, I always find myself at that waterfall.

A Rude Awakening

One of the best and worst things about being in the Dominican Republic is the fact that I am almost entirely surrounded by Spanish speakers. Ever since I was a girl, I wanted to be dropped off in the middle of some country and left there to learn the language. In those wild dreams, I was always the heroine of some adventurous novel where I magically learned the language and somehow saved the day. I think my daydreams about the Dominican Republic subtly followed those same absurd dreams. Therefore, I was very ill prepared for the fact that I am not blessed with the amazing ability to wake up one morning speaking Spanish fluently. That morning began very rudely indeed.

I had just rolled out of my bed that was cocooned in a mint green mosquito net and fumbled around for my flip flops. Sleepily I wandered to the pink bathroom to relieve my bowels. Trying to ignore the overabundance of bugs that hummed near my head and hung in webs above my head, I pooped. Now, normally, I would shudder at the thought of being so frank with you, my readers, but in the D.R., one becomes intimately acquainted with the bowel movements of all their companions. Lack of pooping or diarrhea can both be very bad and up to this morning I had not pooped. Therefore, pooping was a great relief to me. After carefully depositing my soiled toilet paper in the waste basket beside the toilet, I yanked up my pants and turned to flush the toilet. The relief of pooping was still very with me and I wanted to proclaim to the world that I had done it. This strange joy was brought to an abrupt end when the toilet refused to swallow my lovingly bestowed gift. I peered into the toilet. In my head, I whispered, “Please, please…go down…” as I again tried to flush the toilet. Hoping against hope, I waited. Nothing happened. “Crap.” I whispered and then I chuckled to myself for indeed it was just that – crap.

As I washed my hands, I prepared to face my Dominican mother. In my head, I ran over what I would say to her in Spanish. I walked out of the bathroom with purpose yet with embarrassment following close behind. My mami was bustling about the kitchen. I approached her and with great eloquence said, “uh…..” She looked up at me with a sweet patience mixed with a tad bit of confusion. Suddenly, I realized that I had absolutely no idea how to say, “I plugged the toilet” in Spanish. I did not even know the world for toilet. I was in deep doo-doo, more so than I had originally thought. Through a smattering of hand motions and the word ‘baño’ repeated over and over, my Dominican mother soon became aware of the situation that I had caused. I was very embarrassed. Thankfully, I didn’t try to tell her that because I probably would have ended up telling her I was pregnant instead. Apparently, sleeping in a Spanish bed does not make one fluent in Spanish.

I’d like to report that I never plugged the toilet again after that first morning. Sadly, this is not the case. After the third time of telling my mami in Spanish, “La silla de el baño no me gusta. (The chair of the bathroom doesn’t like me)” I finally demanded to learn how to unplug the dumb toilet myself. I could not take the embarrassment. To the hoots of laughter coming from my roommate, mami informed us that the toilet often gets plugged and it’s not just me. I was glad to find that out.