The Head and the Heart

The Head

Here's what I think is going on: I think I'm teaching English to grades 1-3 at the parish school. The schedule is all messed up, so we'll see what happens. For example, the second English teacher is scheduled to teach on days she has university classes and they have me teaching English to the first grade for three straight hours on Wednesday, but no other day the whole week. Does that make any sense pedagogically? The other question is what those kids are going to do when I leave at the end of March.

The second task I've taken upon myself is to create a book about the sponsorship program with a history, student bios and photos, and updates on students who made it through the program. Somewhere out there some people (Carmen and Ashley?) started this task, but being here gives me a little advantage in completing it.

The Heart

I had to go to the beach again yesterday. Sorry if this complaint comes off as ungrateful. The beach in El Salvador, for me, means the end. It means the trip is over. It means goodbyes. It means sadness. It also means I can taste home on the breeze. This time, just like on Tuesday with the bridal party, it meant that every gringo went home except me. The problem is that I'm conditioned to associate the beach with leaving and so going there makes me desire the joys of home in a very concrete way. Except this time I don't get on a plane to reunite with the familiar; instead, I say adios to all things familiar, chuck English conversation out the door, and begin the struggle of bartering my English for their Spanish. The beach, with this mixture of emotions, is more hurricane than paradise.

* * * * *

This all reminds me of a story:

"Excuse me," said an ocean fish.
"You are older than I, so
can you tell me where to find
this thing they call the ocean?"

"The ocean," said the older fish, "is the thing
you are in now."

"Oh, this? But this is water. What I'm seeking
is the ocean," said the disappointed fish
as he swam away to search elsewhere.

Anthony de Mello adds:
Stop searching little fish.
There isn't anything to look for.
All you have to do is look.

* * * * *

I grudgingly did ocean things - swam, sun bathed, ate fruit, drank some beer. But then the sun started to set and, with two of the cutest girls who have ever mistaken me for their tio (uncle), I marched - their hands in mine - to the seashore. Their shorts-shirts-hair-sandals-faces-laughter-smiles-hearts soaked in the joy of comfort in place and time finally broke me. I began to look and to see. My ego receded and the moment interceded. For half an hour we tested our fate (read: were chased by the smallest waves you've ever seen until we fell and got wet) until darkness and dinner descended upon us. Applications, jobs, pen pals, parents, fear, insecurity - all that is elsewhere - dropped to the background, while the incoming tide of laughter and joy brought in with it awareness of God in the present. Moments like this when we look, feel, and be to the present are what I long for, what God longs for us all.

We're created to experience the joy of creation in the present, not to have a heart attack about things past and things future. This is all: see the ocean you're in, look at it, smell it, taste it, laugh with it, breathe it in, and receive it wholly. If you're a praying person, I'd ask that you pray we may all be able to do this more often.