Eleven Years

As I have every year on July 3rd since 2010, the anniversary of my first full year abroad, I like to take some time to reflect on the year behind and look ahead to the upcoming year.

What a year this has been.  When I last wrote a year ago, we were considering buying a house here in France.  We decided we definitely wanted to shortly after that and I started looking at listings, but we hadn't gotten any further than that.  Then one day as Cristian was walking home from the train station he ran into one of the men who works at the agency we rented through and he asked if we'd be interested in looking at a house.  A couple of weekends later we looked at two houses, and loved the 2nd one.  We were a little worried we were rushing things to jump into buying a house we saw on the first day, but it fit almost perfectly with our wish list, so we put in an offer.  Buying a house is a slow process in France, so it took around 3 months from then until we finally bought the house and we moved in on January 25th. 


Then, somewhere around 6 weeks later, just about when we were feeling settled and ready to host a house warming party, the whole world ground to a halt.  We were on a strict lock down here in France for 2 months.  I left the house once a week (with a signed affidavit saying where I was going) to go grocery shopping and Cristian didn't leave at all.  School was shut down and we had 3 days to figure out how to do distance learning. I'd never imagined trying to teach elementary school online and the first couple of weeks were a challenge, but I soon found some sort of rhythm, spending mornings conducting small group video calls and afternoons making video lessons and recording audio for powerpoints. 

Having a new house with a yard and garden was such a lifesaver for me.  Weathering lockdown is easier when you have a green space.  I started vegetables from seeds I got from the grocery store and despite my less than ideal growing conditions, eventually nurtured them to the point I could move them outside.  I'm still waiting on my tomatoes, but we enjoyed a harvest of sugar snap peas.  There's a mature cherry tree in our backyard and we had an amazing cherry harvest and tried canning for the first time, making jars of jam as well as chutney, barbecue sauce and cherries in syrup.

On May 11, we ended our super strict lockdown and things gradually started opening, including schools.  I was extremely anxious about wearing a mask all day, and nervous about reopening too soon and all of the measures we'd need to follow, but starting back to normal life really helped me mentally and emotionally.  And masks, while certainly not my favorite, turned out to be not as horrible as I'd feared.

School finally ended on June 30, and despite the nearly 3 months that I didn't teach in person during the school year, I'm still so ready for a break.  I have a long to do list to tackle this summer, getting ready for going back to the classroom again next year, perfecting my French, and doing some not-so-fun administrative tasks I've been putting off.

It's funny writing this 1 year update now that I feel so settled.  Presumably I'll be in the same country and same house for years now that we've bought a home.  But I still like the time for reflection- changing countries and jobs aren't the only changes in life! I'm hoping that the next big change I'll get to experience will be becoming a mother.  After all, we have this big house with bedrooms to fill now. 😉

One decade later

It's funny how this random day not infrequently marks endings and beginnings for me.  Ten years ago today I left the US for Costa Rica never imagining I'd still be living abroad a decade later.

Yesterday was my last day of teaching for the year and today I walked in to what will be my new classroom next year.  I'm facing this change with mixed emotions.  This year was tough.  I had a really difficult group of second graders (and a delightful group of third graders) who made me question my career move on a daily basis.  I hated my job and felt like I wasn't even good at it, two things that are definite exceptions to my normal approach to work. There were so many moments where I literally wanted to quit and walk out immediately, the only things stopping me were that I kept telling myself "I'm not a quitter" and the question without an answer- what would I do next?  I finally tamed my little monsters (or they matured enough on their own, I'm not really sure) somewhere around Easter and since then, despite continued headaches, there have been enough positives that I'm back to enjoying my job most of my time (though, I am ecstatic to have summer vacation).   and feeling like I am good at what I do after all.


So, back to today.  We're changing buildings and along with that change, I'm changing grade levels.  So today I walked into my nearly empty classroom from this year, loaded some straggler boxes into my car, and drove in circles through the forest until I finally found where I'll be working next year.  My  French co-teacher and I walked back and forth between the 2 classrooms that will be ours trying to picture next year and made a decision- I get the room on the right, she gets the room on the left. I know next year should be easier; the second year at the same job always is, but changing grade levels will add new challenges.

My new school building.  My class is the right half of what you can see.

Inside my new classroom

The classy exterior- we're sharing the school with a special needs school and our classes aren't in this building at all, just in the out buildings in the back.

On other levels, my French keeps coming along. I usually understand almost everything and while I still feel really awkward when I speak, I can always get by and can even manage to conduct (basic) parent-teacher conferences in French.  I'm hoping to brush up on some verb tenses I don't know at all during the summer vacation and hopefully by next year I'll feel more confident and be pausing mid sentence less often.

My paperwork battle in France is mostly over and now that Cristian and I are feeling settled, it's hard to imagine uprooting ourselves and starting this whole residency/insurance/drivers license/language learning marathon again, so we're thinking of putting down roots.  We're talking about buying a house, so I'm hopeful by this time next year we'll be homeowners.  It's an unfamiliar idea for me, after so much country hopping, and I still can't quite wrap by head around the fact that we sort of accidentally ended up in France, but life is good here, despite the challenges, so why not?

Immigrant or Expat?

While still in Guatemala, a post about about expats versus immigrants was making the rounds among my very international group of friends.  I felt vaguely guilty as I read the article, which accused everyone who used the term "expat" (myself included) of abusing white privilege at the best, and racism at the worst.  After all, the article argued, why use one term to talk about mostly white people living abroad, and another term to talk about mostly non-white people living abroad?  It was a good point, I admitted, and I certainly never thought of myself as an immigrant, and yet, I still wasn't convinced I was WRONG to call myself an expat-there seemed to be a distinction in the two terms. 

Now, over a year later, and an ocean away, I feel more convinced I'm right because I no longer feel like an expat.  My life here is more settled, more (possibly) permanent, more locally administered.

For the first time ever, my salary is in the local currency. I earn euros instead of dollars, and they're direct deposited to my French bank account. My mother is probably glad that her days of depositing paychecks and making international transfers for me are drawing to an end. 

I own a car and I no longer have an American license (I actually don't have any license at all, just a very fancy temporary permit, but that's another story...). 

I have a residence visa here which eventually gives me the right to apply for citizenship if I meet the other requirements.  In every other country I've lived in I haven't had resident/immigrant status, even when I had multi-year visas. 

We purchased every piece of furniture in our apartment, which is such a difference from the pre-furnished and partially furnished apartments and houses I've had until now.

I have a French tax id number, and while I honestly know nothing about the paperwork since Cristian filed for us jointly, I'm paying into the French tax system.

It's hard (crazy? ridiculous?) to call yourself an immigrant when your employer, main bank account, driver's license, health insurance, and taxes are all in your home country.  But now that all of that is here (or moving here... health insurance is still a work in progress and the real driver's license might take a few more months) calling myself an immigrant seems much more apt than before, and calling myself an expat seems, well, mostly like white privilege- like I don't want to cast myself in the role of an immigrant, leaving my home country in search of better opportunities elsewhere.  I'm still not fully embracing the term immigrant (the word "permanent" is in the definition of immigrant, and we're not ready to commit to permanent, yet...), but in some ways, I am in search of better opportunities.  Five weeks paid vacation as a norm, universal (free) pre-school starting at 3, inexpensive college education, universal health care, and mandatory paid maternity leave (and even some limited paternity leave) are all things we consider as we think about whether to stay or not, and where we can envision eventually raising a family.  Also, the cheese.  Have I mentioned the cheese? 

What about you?  Do you consider yourself an immigrant or an expat? Or are you living in your home country, and never needed to consider how you define yourself on that level?

Another year, another country

July third- my 9 year anniversary abroad.  A day I like to stop and reflect on the past year and look forward to the next.

A year ago today, I was living in Guatemala, counting down the days to my wedding.   Yesterday, I sat in a car dealership office in France, signing paperwork with my husband to buy a car to commute to my new teaching job that starts the end of August.  A lot has changed in a year.

This year was full of joy.  Marriage is good.  It's really good.  I think especially after 2+ years of long distance I really appreciate the little things- meals together every day, lazy Saturday afternoons, chatting while we both do chores in the kitchen.  I find it deeply satisfying to share life with each other.

This year was rewarding as far as language growth goes.  I've gone from deer-in-the-headlights stage (French person: (how it sounds to me) "sgsodjfkjadjsaoijgsjglk" Me (in my head) "how many words was that? Do I have to respond? Was that a question, or were they maybe just commenting on the weather? Oh no, they're still looking at me. Maybe try the smile and nod trick) to buying vegetables at the market stage ("one kilo of tomatoes and a green lettuce please. Thank you")  to  writing my first essay in French (a one page piece on the pros and cons of television that probably sounds like it was written by a middle-schooler, but hey, that's better than a 3 year old, which is where I was a few months ago). I'm amazed at how far I've come in one year.

This year wasn't without its frustrations though.  What looked, on paper, like a simple, straight forward process for me to get residency here turned into a 6 month long paperwork marathon with piles of documents needed from the US, Romania and France.  While that's done now, more paperwork still looms ahead of me since even simple things like opening a bank account are less straight forward when you're an American living in France.

I'm looking forward to the next year.  I'll be working at a bilingual school teaching second and third grade come September.  While both of us working from home (and me only working part time) was a really nice way to start married life together, it's also isolating in a new place where I don't know anyone.  So, I'm excited to have coworkers and routines and frequent authentic chances to use French. Hopefully my French improves even faster when I use it to talk to coworkers daily, and try to understand children who are too excited about something to remember to speak English.  I'm also excited about the possibilities that having a car opens up. There are so many beautiful places it's hard to reach without a car. 

I'm also a little nervous about next year- going back into the classroom full time after leaving it behind 8 years ago leaves me with a lot of mixed feelings.  I love teaching, and children. But I also loved being involved at a level beyond the classroom, at having leadership opportunities with adults, and a broader range of influence, and I'm sad to leave that behind, at least for now.  I also remember how exhausting teaching can be, and wonder how having a full time job will change the rhythms that Cristian and I have gotten used to in our life together.

I imagine next July 3rd will find me still in France, finishing up my first year of teaching at a new school, nearly fluent in French, and with all my paperwork wrapped up.  But I also have a feeling there might be surprises in store that I have no way of imagining now. 

Spring Soliloquy

I am a child of the forest and the field.
I grew, toes dipped in cold streams,
dandelion crown upon my head
black walnuts in my pocket.

My feet were not made for shoes.
I sought the hidden places,
knew the taste of lemon clover,
violet, mint, and bitter acorn

Grown, walls contain me.
In voluntary exile
I stare at walls and screens
But a sliver of blue seen through my window calls my name

I escape down dirt paths to nowhere.
Bathed is solitude
immersed in birdsong
I am renewed.

Adventures in French Cooking

Galette Complete 

Before moving to France, I'd been telling people that  I was excited about 3 things (besides the obvious of finally getting to be with Cristian daily)- wine, cheese, and baguettes, in no particular order.  My kitchen, once I was settled in, had much the same ingredients as before, except now with the addition of a rotating cast of cheeses, a couple of bottles of wine always on hand, and a few times a week a crunchy fresh baguette.  But slowly, surely, some more changes started to sneak in.

Poulet rôti épicé and Galettes de pomme de terre 

It all started with the artichoke.  I kept seeing them at the grocery store, looking for al the world like a normal vegetable nestled between the broccoli and the carrots.  Except, I was pretty sure I'd never eaten one other than as artichoke hearts from a jar.  On a whim, I picked one up and decided I would learn how to cook it.  As I paged through the French recipe book my Aunt gave me at my shower, I realized that this was maybe a bit more complicated than your average veggie, but finally figured something out and found the end result surprisingly satisfying.

Lapin a la moutarde

Next were the endives.  These intriguing, lettuce like veggies started appearing at the market in late fall and everyone seemed to be buying them.  I just had to know what made them special, so I did some digging and found a French cooking blog, in English, with an endive recipe.  Endives au gratin was added to our dinner menu for the week and I was hooked.

Now it's my newest hobby- experimenting with French cooking.  Sometimes the recipes are fast and simple like galette complete- a slice of ham, some shredded cheese, and an egg on store bought crepes. Others are more complex like lapin a la moutarde (rabbit in mustard sauce).  We've found some definite winners (mascarpone stuffed chicken breasts, anyone?) and some things we'll probably never repeat (celeriac- no matter how you slice it, dice it, and cook it, I'm just not a fan of this strange gnarly root vegetable), but I've really enjoyed expanding my culinary repertoire.  Now, the question is, what to put on the menu for next week, and who's coming over for dinner?

Tarte fine 

Crème de chou-fleur

Oh Christmas Tree!

As December inched nearer I had one overwhelming question- where could I buy a Christmas tree in France?

Out to do grocery shopping on one of the first days in December, I discovered an unexpected answer to my question: At the grocery store!  There they were, from baby trees to full ceiling height beauties, in a little shack built specially for them, nestled in amongst the carrots and onions.

I wanted to get one right then and there, but Cristian convinced me that walking home with all our groceries and a tree would be a little more than we could manage, so I reluctantly agreed to wait. 

Finally the day rolled around to choose a tree. It's not quite as exciting when they're already packaged in net bags and there's no comparing to be done, but it does make it a whole lot faster.  We carried it home across town, Cristian balancing the tree over his shoulder, and me hefting the half log with a hole drilled in it, its complimentary tree stand, on my hip. 

Despite my concern at the lack of water with a log instead of the tree stands I grew up with, our tree has held up just fine all season long.

Draw near

Once, a perfect snowflake caught on mittened hands. Breath held to stop its melting. Wonder. Marvel. Joy.

I find myself caught off guard by  beauty this time of year- my town transformed by twinkling lights, the smell of cloves and ginger, the words to a carol, ringing truer than ever.

And the wonder invites me to be still.  To come close and look carefully. To let awe and joy sink into my soul until I've memorized the moment.





And in a time where faith and hope can be buried under the grey contradictions life brings, I'm glad for these little moments of beauty, reminding me that this heart, this quiet, awestruck, admiration of beauty, is the heart I should bring to the center of Christmas, the heart that Mary had.

"But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." Luke 2:19

So this Christmas, I'm letting cookies and lights and snowflakes remind me what faith can feel like.  I want to draw near to the one in the manger, wonder at the Word become flesh, marvel at the beauty of God with us.

The new ordinary

My windows have shutters.  Not the ornamental kinds I'm used to on American houses, but real, functioning wooden shutters.  I open them each morning, shuffling out in slippers stuck into sandals, or, on wet and cold days, just reaching out the window as far as I can, trying to push the shutter flat against the wall.  When I do go outside, the latches still make me smile, diminutive soldiers who hold our shutters open all day long.

Happy Anniversary to me

July third- a day for looking back, and looking ahead.  For the past 8 years, I've chosen this day, the one I originally left the States, to reflect on this international journey I've been taking.

And it seems even more appropriate than usual to pause and reflect, since this July 3rd finds me on the threshold- today, more than any year before, I'm poised for a momentous life change.   I'm excited and impatient to start my new life, alongside my new husband, in a new country (and to learn yet another new language).  I'm counting down the moments: forty eight more days until I marry my best friend.

But at the same time, I am deeply thankful for my experiences here the past year, and finding the leaving bitter sweet. I'm treasuring the moments: twelve more days in this country I've called home for the past 2 years.

This has been such a fulfilling year: I got engaged, saw work projects more successful than I could have imagined, finally developed a sense of community in Pana, deepening friendships and making new friends.  I hosted Thanksgiving and Easter dinner here in Pana, spent Christmas in Romania with Cristian and my soon to be in-laws, visited Tikal with a friend, went camping with family back home, and spent 2 months with my Aunt and Uncle as neighbors.

As I look forward to the next year, I'm full of anticipation.  I imagine next July will find us in France, and I hope it finds me gainfully employed and chattering away in French.  But whatever I'm doing, and wherever I happen to be next July, I expect to have grown in new ways, and I expect to be happy.

Teaching French politics in Guatemala

A move to France just over the horizon, I'd clicked on a link about French presidential elections- I should know what's going on there, after all.  After wading through an article with references to people I'd never heard of who belonged to parties I wasn't familiar with, I felt pretty much as clueless as before.

And that's when it hit me- this would be a perfect article to use with staff.  I'd been wanting to do a professional development session modeling how we, as teachers, can make difficult text easier for students to comprehend by pre-teaching key concepts and aiding them in strategy use.

A few weeks later, we all clustered around our conference table as I passed out the article, letting them struggle through it on their own, just as I had, to start.  I asked them to rate their own comprehension, which was low, just as I'd intended.

And that's when things got fun.  I pulled out my photos of the 5 key candidates and arranged them on the board in a spectrum from left to right. I gave a mini intro to French elections, and then outlined the shared reading process we would do, filling out a concept map as they discussed with a partner.  There was a buzz of conversation all through the room, people laughing about Hamon (calling him jamón which is the Spanish word for ham) and slowly picking out the connections between candidates and how they benefited and disadvantaged one another.

Apologies to anyone who actually knows French politics
for any over-simplifications or outright errors

I walked between partners, helping them pick out key phrases in the article to answer questions, and loved seeing as light bulbs went off, and people summarized connections in their own words.  We wrapped up rating comprehension levels again, and, just as I'd hoped, this time almost everyone gave themselves a substantially higher score.  They'd seen the hard work that can go into both comprehension, and creating the right supports to aid comprehension.

It wasn't really my intention to teach French politics, just to use it as a platform for teaching how to support comprehension, but it struck me as funny, a room full of Guatemalans, heads bowed over their article, taking the hard work of comprehending French presidential elections seriously.  And then, to my delight a few days later, one of my coworkers mentioned "we were talking about a corrupt politician here in Guatemala who paid his family for work they didn't do and I thought, 'just like Fillon in France."  Hopefully they understood the subtext, but at the very least, my comprehension activity worked.

Endings and Beginnings

My central work project all last year revolved around updating Child Aid's teacher training curriculum.  I observed in our workshops and Guatemalan classrooms to see what we were doing well and what needs teachers still had.  I lead staff professional development sessions to teach new concepts and teaching methods that I wanted to try implementing in workshops.  And I spent a really lot of hours staring at my computer screen trying to figure out how to make all the moving pieces fit together in a logical way.

In October, I finally had it "done", or so I thought, and spent the next 7 weeks modeling and discussing changes with our leadership team.  Their feedback of course lead to another round of revisions and I was finally ready to share the nearly final product with our entire staff in December.  Having them work in small groups to discuss content and map changes between the old and new curriculum was beyond rewarding.  Then, I left for Christmas vacation, trusting my curriculum to the hands of a graphic designer and hoping it would be ready when I got back.

January rolled around, workshops were just around the corner and suddenly we had a crisis- the graphic designer we'd been working with left without telling us, and there were still 30 pages that needed to be finalized.  One of my amazing coworkers took over from there, stopping by the office in person and making sure we got it done on time.  And finally, just in time to get them out to workshops, we got the finished product from the copy shop.  To say I'm delighted would be an understatement. 

Reading for Life, Child Aid's four-year teacher training curriculum,
being used by over 600 teachers in nearly 70 schools. I feel pretty proud of my work :)

So, one project ended, and now we start a new phase- rolling out the curriculum for use by our teacher trainers and the teachers we work with. I'm so excited! 

On the second day of Christmas

We drove through the grey streets of Sibiu, looking for our guesthouse.  Rain glistened in the glare from the street lamps on the wet roads. We piled from the car, stretching our cramped legs from hours of riding, and headed indoors to our rooms.  After settling in, we met in the common area- Diana and Petter, Cristian and I- with a quandary.  Where do we go to eat, here on the outskirts of town?  We did what any person of our generation would do, pulled out our smart phones and started looking for options. 

Sibiu as seen the next day in the daylight

We were all in agreement that we didn't feel like walking the whole way to the city center in the cold damp night, so we settled on a place just a few blocks away with good reviews.  We walked down the mainly residential street, anything that wasn't a house already shuttered for the night.  When we reached the block where the restaurant we were looking for was, there wasn't a light in sight.  I spotted the door, walked up to it, and even with my rudimentary Romanian skills knew it wasn't good news.  They were closed for the Christmas holidays.

Cell phones back out again, we huddled under a street light, looking for other options.  What would our parents have done a generation ago, we pondered, and then realized the obvious- they would have asked a real live human being at the guesthouse before venturing out in the cold.  And probably would have found out the restaurant was closed before getting there.  Oh well.

There really only seemed to be one place likely to be open nearby, and though none of us were really pleased by the option, we didn't feel like walking the whole way downtown, so we set off down the deserted city streets. The sidewalk came to an abrupt end and we climbed some steps to a grassy section with a path worn into it by all the other people who have come to the same place and decided to keep forging on.  Cars whizzed by beneath me, and as I stepped gingerly, trying not to slip on the icy patches, I imagined slipping off the edge, run over by the oncoming traffic below.  The path we were on veered uphill and we suddenly realized why the sidewalk ended.  We'd reached a railroad that crosses over the road here.  We looked at each other, the road below us (an obvious pedestrian path going under the railroad bridge on the other side of the street), and the tracks.  We decided to risk it.  We scrambled over the tracks, no last minute encounter with an oncoming train to make us regret our decision, and back down the hill to street level. 

There, in the distance, we saw our destination, golden arches beckoning to us to come in out of the cold.  And that, my friends, is how we ended up eating dinner at McDonalds on the second day of Christmas in Romania.  Apparently we weren't the only ones stuck with no choice of open restaurants on a holiday, because the place was packed.  It was, as expected, a mediocre meal (also, they don't put ice in your soda at McDonald's in Romania, and as the only American there, I was the only one who found that really weird. Also, the chicken nuggets tasted different), but hey, we didn't have to walk forever, it was open, and we weren't hungry anymore, and after all, that's the most important thing about food.

The Pana Town Fair

Later that evening we headed up to check out the fair. "You want to risk the ferris wheel?" I asked, knowing what we were in for after my visit to the Sololá fair the year before. But, he'd apparently forgotten my story and we jumped on, slowly spinning as they loaded and unloaded people. We were stuck at the top for awhile, no takers coming to fill the empty seats. We hung there, swaying in the breeze, admiring the town from above, a view I'd never seen before. We tried to spot where my house would be, and looked down on the band playing live music on the stage in front of the church.

As we got back down to the bottom Cristian was ready to get off, thinking we'd done a complete rotation and the ride was over. "Oh no, it's just getting started!" I informed him as the ride finally lurched to life. We spun up into the clouds, circling vertiginously, the lightweight car swinging as it turned. Every time we reached the edge of the wheel, about to drop back down again, the seat tipped and we'd be looking down, nothing but what looked like a straight drop down before us. After a few rounds of that, it ponderously started spinning backwards, picking up speed as it went until we were being hurtled into the unknown behind us. Feeling grateful we'd decided NOT to eat before hand as it came to a stop we stumbled off, happy to be back on solid ground, but smiling from the adrenaline rush.

I'd missed it the year before, off in Finland visiting Cristian, but this year, same dates, he was visiting me. A week beforehand traffic started getting funny as vendors set up their stalls all along the roads near the church. The night before the official town holiday (the day of the patron saint of the town, in this case St. Francis), there were fireworks all evening long, and they didn't stop as we got ready for bed. At 3 o'clock in the morning I woke to hear the church bell tolling. Non-stop. For 45 minutes. I could hear a brass band playing, music floating down from the plaza. Fireworks continued to go off, and when we woke up in the morning they were still going on. Suddenly it made sense to me why Guatemalan's get the day of their town fair off. After being up setting off fireworks, playing music, and tolling church bells literally all night they'd need a day off!

The fair crept further into town, street by street, until there were vendors set up along the street I walk to work on. Some days, the child in me just can't resist, and walking back from work one day, I just couldn't resist the cotton candy. I stopped to see if they sold smaller sizes, but the vendor just shook his head no. Take it or leave it. I decided that at 60 cents it was worth it, even if Cristian and I together didn't need that much sugar, and home I went to share the biggest cotton candy ever with Cristian (it was too much even for both of us).

The Proposal

Cristian had just gotten in the night before and after a long, tiring journey, a late night, and jetlag, watching a movie together seemed like the perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon. So we cuddled up on the couch and he started About Time, a movie he said he thought sounded good and he had on his computer.  Fifteen minutes in or so, he turned to me and said, "Wait, this takes place in England?" Bemused, I asked him if he hadn't noticed their accents. It was a charming, sweet love story with a time travel twist and I was soon caught up in the story.  Boy meets girl, they fall in love, and a song I know started playing. 

Not just any song. I looked up at him, "Hey! It's our song!" I smiled, then kissed him, happy in the moment.  I had a tiny little suspicion that maybe he wasn't as clueless about this movie as his "This takes place in England?" remark made him seem.  "Did you know our song was in this movie?" I asked. "What do you think?" he responded.  The obvious answer was, "Yes"

"Now I have a question for you." he said.  And in the second before he continued, my stomach did a million acrobatic flips and my heart started racing.  "This is it. He's really going to ask me to marry him." I thought. "Will you marry me?" he asked, and out of nowhere, he had the ring box open in his hand. And once again, the obvious answer was "YES!". I clung to him, tears hovering at the edges of my eyes, feeling like my heart would burst with so much love and joy. He slipped the ring on my finger as the movie played on in the background, the two of us completely oblivious to it anymore.  He finally asked if I was going to look at the ring, which I'd really overlooked in the significance of the moment.  It was gorgeous.  I watched it sparkle and tried to wrap my mind around the fact that we were actually getting married. 

Eventually we came down from the clouds, got to call and tell my parents, and even eventually finished the movie.  Turned out he'd actually watched it 7 times, figuring out the timing so he'd know when to slip the ring out, unseen by me and be ready to propose.  And it worked. The tenderness of being proposed to with our song playing in the background, the element of surprise, the privacy to be delighted together afterwards-I couldn't have imagined a more perfect moment. 

Sunrise over Tikal

We trudge down the path in the dark, the humidity already startlingly heavy so early in the morning.  Our flashlights bob, lighting the path in front of us.  Suddenly, our guide stops short, a giant tarantula caught in the pool of light from his flashlight.  We gather around to look, me hanging back at the edges of the crowd, glad for my closed toed shoes. It skitters down the path, back the way we came and I breathe a sigh of relief that I won't have to worry about it following us, running over my feet, or crawling up my leg.

Finally we make it to the base of the pyramid.  We're one of the first groups there, and our guide reminds us to be silent at the top.  At the very top Deborah urges me to climb the last steep stairs as high as we can go to watch the sunrise.  They're terrifyingly steep, and I'm afraid I'll tumble all the way off and down to the jungle floor, but I inch up them til I sit with my back against the wall.  More groups join us, but we're all mostly silent, shifting, rustling, and occasional whispers all we can hear.

Until the howler monkeys start up.  It's otherworldly.  It sounds like jungle cats, lions of leopards or something equally terrifying, are fighting in the trees below us.  Their deep throaty roars and growls are fascinating and unsettling at the same time.

Slowly, the sky turns from black to grey. There's a tiny tinge of pink above us, but not the spectacular oranges and purples I was hoping for.  It doesn't matter, because slowly, out of the morning mists, we begin to make out shapes. More temple pyramids appear in the distance, their tops rising above the canopy of the trees, mist clinging to the edges.  Everything is still.  The howlers have stopped crying. It's the sort of moment that makes 3 am wake up times, and pitch dark walks through tarantula infested jungle totally worth it.

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What doesn't kill you makes a good story

It's 4:15 am and after an hour on the trail it's still pitch black.  I pick my way along the narrow path, coffee trees on either side of me.  The beam from my flashlight tenuously lights the next few steps, and I trudge on, one foot in front of another me while one line from Christina Perri's "A Thousand Years" runs in my head on repeat: "one step closer. one step closer. One step closer."

Suddenly, my foot slips in the loose earth. I start sliding off the trail, down the hill, the other foot following.  Before I can catch myself I've dropped off the trail, my body gaining speed as I fall down the steep slope. I try to brake with my feet, hoping I don't slide half way down this mountain, or worse, that there's a dangerous drop off before I can stop.  It's all over in a couple of seconds. I've managed to stop, lying in the dirt with my head just below the edge of the trail.  My cry as I went over the edge alerted everyone to my fall and they come over to check on me. "Can you help me?", I ask our guide, and he gives me a hand as I try to hoist myself up. It's harder than I expected, like trying to jump out of a swimming pool, except, my body doesn't have the weightlessness of water, and what would be the pool edge keeps collapsing under my hands.

I finally scramble back up, stop to catch my breath, and we keep going.  If we want to make it to the top in time for the sunrise, there's not much time for breaks. We walk a couple hundred more yards, the path becoming less distinguishable and more prone to crumbling beneath our feet as we go.  Finally, our guide stops us and tells us we have to go back and try the other path.  Disheartened at needing to retrace our steps, I carefully make my way past what momentarily felt like a near-death experience.

This section isn't so bad, and we stop to catch our breath and get a drink with a clear view of our destination ahead of us.  It still looks impossibly far away, but our guid assures us that it's only about 40 minutes.  We start back up hill, and not too much later 2 men pass us walking downhill.  "How close are we?", I ask.  "About 5 minutes" they respond.  "Thanks for lying!" I say cheerfully, knowing how often people have exaggerated while on hikes before just to keep up morale.  We think we still have 20-30 minutes left.  But then, wonder of wonders, we reach a steep wooden staircase, and a last uphill climb. Our guide stands smiling at the top. "You made it!"

We step out on the peak, collapse on the bench for a minute, then move out to the viewing platform.  Below us, the towns around the lake lie shining in the darkness.  Off to the east the sky is just slightly tinged with pink.  We drink in the beauty as the sky turns deeper pink and shades of orange.  The town below wakes up- someone starts setting off firecrackers right around 5 and the church bells start ringing at 5:30. "It's the early morning mass" our guide explains.

The sun well above the horizon, the cold at the top finally forces us back down.  We return to town a longer, gentler way, winding our way through fields of corn, and later coffee, towered over by mango trees.  The lake is gloriously beautiful every time we catch a glimpse of it, deep green volcanoes framed by the brilliant blue of the sky.  I don't think I'll ever tire of the beauty of this place I call home.

We finally arrive back at our hostel, ready to devour the free breakfast that came with the room. We bask in the comfort of sitting still and I wince at muscles I forgot I had reminding me of their existence as we get up to go.  A quick boat ride across the lake, and I'm back home again, right around 11.

7 years and counting

Sometime in the past six months, I seem to have lost my voice.  My blog's been lying neglected, and I've been asking myself, "what happened to the stories?"

But every year on this date, the day I left for Costa Rica seven years ago and started this international adventure, I like to blog and look back on the past year and forward to the next, so I'm pushing out of my blogging silence.

I think the reason I've been so quiet is that there have been 2 very big things in my life this past year, and neither of them are the best blog topics.  Learning to love more deeply, to communicate even about the hard things, and to bridge the physical distance between Cristian and I has been one of the main focuses of my year.  And I have loved the process, and feel so much more solid in our relationship than I did a year ago. But I'm a fairly private person- those moments aren't things to share with the world, so no stories there.

The other big thing in my life has been my job.  And again, this is something I love.  I feel so much more at home now at work, doing things I enjoy for something I believe in deeply.  I'm weeks, hopefully, from finishing my first major project at work (completely revising our curriculum) and I've had so many little successes along the way: starting monthly professional development sessions, introducing guided reading into our workshops, working with staff to understand and use more inferential questions.  But yet, somehow, those things don't inspire me to blog.  It's a lot of hard mental work, staring at a computer screen, long discussions with coworkers and observations in the field, before I go back and make some more adaptations.  No clear beginning, middle, and end.  Nothing dramatic to post about.  I don't find the stories in what I do.

I want to find the stories again, though.  If only for myself.  I like to look back on older blog posts, remember times in my life that were joyful and painful and frustrating and exhilarating.  And for the past 7 months, I have nothing but a blank, all the missed opportunities to look for the stories in my life that shape me into who I am.

So, in the next year, I'm hoping I'll find my voice again, see the stories that make up my day.  I think I have some big changes coming my way again.  Maybe not in the next year, but I think the decisions and plans will be in place by the time a year rolls around again. And I don't want this time here to go unrecorded.  I want to remember my triumphs and struggles, and the little every day things that make life in Pana so unique.  Here's to a year full of stories!

The Year of Two Easters

Joy: Panajachel Guatemala

8 am Easter morning.

The church is transformed; white banners, edged in gold, cascading from the ceiling and down the wall, the somber Lenten purple disappearing over night. In the quiet hush, we choose a seat near the back, hoping that our lack of familiarity with the Catholic service goes unnoticed there. We're not there long, however. To our confusion, the priest starts recruiting women to carry the statue of the risen Christ, and everyone starts filing out the door. 

We join the group, wondering over the lack of service and ceremony, and cross the plaza in front of the church to the street.  Realization sets in: "Easter mass and parade" is what the sign said when I stopped in to find the service time.  Apparently the parade is first. The women, representative of those to whom Jesus first appeared, lift the statue of the risen Christ and lead us down the street.  Next comes a dusty pickup truck, crowded with an entire band in the back. The music starts, joyful, celebratory. He is risen! We are saved! Chains are broken!

I'm beaming as I join in the songs, simple choruses that are easy to pick up on the spot. We parade down the street where all the bars and clubs are, dead at this hour on a Sunday morning, passing underneath pineapples, flowers, and other fruit swinging above us, decorating the street for Easter.  We reach the main intersection in town and swing back up toward the church, early morning shoppers stopping to watch, or join in. After our joyful procession through town, we file back into the church for a more traditional service, but I'm brimming with joy.  Can there be a better way to celebrate Easter than singing all through town my joy that my Lord lives?

Reverence: Ramnicu Valcea, Romania

11 pm Easter Saturday

The lawn around the church is already overflowing with people, but we push towards the door, Cristian assuring me there will still be some room inside.  We crowd in the back, standing together.  The lights are off, it's dark, solemn, we're all waiting in expectation, remembering the death of Christ, and anticipating the moment we celebrate His resurrection.

At midnight, the bells start pealing and a single candle is lit.  The light of the world has conquered the darkness.  The priest lights the candles of the other priests and they begin slowly processing out of the church, waving incense, and stopping to sing "Hristos a înviat din morți"- Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and to those in the tombs bestowing life!

I join in the first phrase, since Cristian taught it to me before we came, but my tongue gets lost in the unfamiliar sounds of the next phrases. As the priests get closer, Cristian's mother's caution to be before we left suddenly makes sense. Putting my hair up seemed unnecessary- I'm an adult, I thought- I won't catch my hair on fire with my candle. But now, with everyone pressing in around me, trying to light their candle directly from the priest, I realize it wasn't my own candle I should worry about, but everyone else's. My protestant Christmas Silent Night with candles mental image shatters, as instead we're crammed tight as sardines and lighting candles over one another's heads. I abandon any idea of lighting my candle from the priest- I'll just light it from Cristian instead.

The priests, long robes and beards flowing, leave the church and cross to a platform set up facing the church doors. We all stand on the lawn, candles glowing in the dark, as the priest speaks and Cristian occasionally whispers translations in my ear. Outside there are even more people than were crowded into the church. I'm filled with a sense of reverence and awe. This ceremony seems ancient to me, and I'm sure it is- the Orthodox Church has been around for a millennium.

There's something deeply rewarding about joining in both of these Easter traditions, so different than my own, but both so symbolic of the joy and reverence that the death and resurrection of our Savior should invoke. My faith is bigger than me, than the way I have lived it out, and I feel joined to something larger- the universal Church of all believers. It's another moment where I can almost envision heaven and the beauty of people of every tribe, nation, and tongue coming together to sing praise to the Lamb who is worthy.