Hands

Your hands capture my attention
as they contain a world in and of themselves.
Old, cracked, wrinkly –
they tell a story of a life of hard work…
Cooking, cleaning, washing
from sun up
to sun down
these hands have given themselves
in the service and care of others
The muscles store memory
of how to chop the vegetables
how to stir the soup
how to wash the dishes, the clothes, the floors
how to sweep the dirt outside
that will inevitably find its way back in tomorrow.

Perhaps these hands have served with love,
or maybe from a sense of duty,
or maybe as a simple way to survive,
doing what needs to be done
day in and day out;
the work that everyone needs
but refuses to do –
your hands are strong
because they know what it takes to survive.

And now I sit amazed,
staring at these old hands
that are learning new tricks,
proving that it is never too late
to do something for yourself,
to empower yourself,
to take back a little control.

Hands that have held
babies, brushes, brooms,
forks, knives, and spoons
now learn how to hold
a pencil.
Such a simple instrument,
smaller than many you have worked with,
yet so foreign to one denied
the opportunity of education.
This small piece of wood and lead
is a key
to a whole new world
of words and power
knowledge and freedom.

Hands that have
chopped, stirred, washed, and swept
now learn how
to write.
A seemingly simple task,
but difficult for hands
that have been formed by years
of hard manual work.

So we start slowly.
I hold the pencil
and show you how,
then you try yourself.
Baby steps, back to the basics;
but you know patience and endurance
as it is imbedded in the very skin
that now surrounds your newest tool,
your newest challenge….
and so we breathe
and take another slow step.
Practicing writing
starting with simple shapes –
circles, arrows, triangles
to get used to connecting
the led to the paper
with the motions of the hand.

My hand over yours –
young and old have so much to absorb
from one another,
and I am profoundly and painfully
aware of my privilege –
the privilege of having smooth hands
that have been prevented from knowing
days full of cooking, cleaning, caring for others;
the privilege of having hands
that know how to hold a pencil,
and how to use that instrument
to write down
my own thoughts, desires,
hopes, fears…
All I can do is humbly offer
my own hands now
for the service of yours,
and hope that a few of your wrinkles
transfer to me,
so that I never forget
the pain or the privilege.

Two hands now
working together
we practice the strokes of the pencil.
And then you fill a page
of exercises by yourself,
often stopping to relax your hand
which is not accustomed
to this new task called writing.
Stretch the fingers
wiggle them around
in and out, in and out
roll your wrists
slow and stiff movements
working against years and years
of muscle memory.

And we continue on
to the vowels –
Aa Aa Aa Aa
capital and lower case
first you trace
a line that has been written
and then continue to fill
a page all your own.

What are you thinking
as you learn to write
one letter at a time,
to recognize and read
one letter at a time?
Do you think of the day
you will finally be able
to sign your name?
Do you imagine
being able to help your children
with their school work?
Do you think of all those thoughts
you would love to share
and have recorded?
Or maybe it’s the simple anticipation
of the freedom gained
in the power to write if you so desire.
With each letter
you learn to write
and to read.
Little by little,
you are opening the world
and yourself.

Ee Ee Ee Ee Ee
As our time comes to and end
and you finish your exercises for the day,
I stand in wonder and awe of your hands –
hands that today
have filled 3 pages with exercises,
hands that are learning
and finally serving you,
hands that refuse
to give up and give in,
but instead seek to add
a few more lines,
a few more wrinkles,
in new spots
from new tasks.

Today I saw the hands of God
using the most simple and basic of tools
in the early stages of creation,
the dawn just about to break over the horizon,
and offered gratitude
for the opportunity to be here
In the beginning…
and it was good.

El Mercado

So I wrote this after my first visit to the market. I have now been three times and each time is a little better, a little less overwhelming. It's very stream of thought and an attempt to give a taste of the confusion and chaos which is the market place.

El Mercado

Market place
or zoo
full of animals
vivos y muertos
overload of senses
de colores
every shade
and some I’ve never seen
spices I’ve never tasted
whose odors tantalize and tingle
my nose
then suddenly a sharp turn
and smells of fish
pescado
mariscos
anchovetas
every shape
and size
and smell
vivos y muertos
fresh fish
probably caught today
fresh meat
recently slaughtered
before your eyes
if you happen to look
hanging on hooks
chickens
cow lungs, hearts, livers
heads
animal heads
that stare forever
until I look away
abuelos y abuelitas
small and wrinkled
outstretched hands
bonita amiga
buy our food
triente por un sole
sólo un sole
y los ninos juegan
in the dirt
at the feet of
las madres who trabajan
se venden
cositas de varias tipas
clothes we’ve got
beautiful new shoes
toilet paper
purses
movies still in the theater
boxes and of course
food
so many new names
to learn
so little money
to burn
como se llama
y cuanto cuesta
are the frases del día
at el Mercado
at least for the ginga
who wanders aimlessly
lost in the maze
of the never ending
sights and smells
amiga amiga
my friend, my friend
fresh fish
fresh fruit
fresh vegetables
fresh meat
and spices to add that
extra kick
to any plate you prepare
where to begin
maneuvering the rows and crowds
of this whole new world
open your eyes
not big enough
need 100 more pairs
to takes it all in

Ode to my Sandals

So I wrote a little ode to my sandals the other day while journaling and felt like sharing it since my blog is called se hace camino al andar and these are the sandals that have been making the roads. I would also like to give a shout out to my mom who bought me these wonderful sandals before I left for El Salvador in 2007. enjoy :)

Oh Sandals,
you have seen many lands
and much dirt,
collected now
as a kind of testimony
to the roads
made by walking.
Walking lightly
with love –
I hope.
But I know
many steps
have been heavy
under the weight
of the cross
of the people
and my own burdens
of privilege and pain.

Oh Sandals,
you –
you have seen
many places.
You have climbed
volcanoes and mountains.
You have gone swimming
in rivers and caves.
You have trekked
the jungle forests
and university campuses.
Red clay,
rich soil,
gray dirt,
and small stones
all have become
part of your façade.
Once white,
now a khaki brown
to match the
dirt roads
you continue
to walk
in search of
love, community, and peace.
A thousands and one
smells
you emit from
a thousands and one
places,
blended together.

Oh Sandals –
You are
everything sandals,
everywhere sandals,
taking me
where the Spirit calls.
Tan lines
permanently mark
my feet,
giving witness
to our oneness.
Protector and guide,
where you go I go,
and make
new paths
with each
step.

Inspirational Poem

So I thought it would be good to include the poem that inspired the blog title and mentality for the posts that will come. Below is Antonio Machado's poem: Caminante no hay camino.


Caminante no hay camino
por Antonio Machado

Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre el mar.

Nunca persequí la gloria,
ni dejar en la memoria
de los hombres mi canción;
yo amo los mundos sutiles,
ingrávidos y gentiles,
como pompas de jabón.

Me gusta verlos pintarse
de sol y grana, volar
bajo el cielo azul, temblar
súbitamente y quebrarse...

Nunca perseguí la gloria.

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar...

Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar..."

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...

Murió el poeta lejos del hogar.
Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino.
Al alejarse le vieron llorar.
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar..."

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...

Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar.
Cuando el poeta es un peregrino,
cuando de nada nos sirve rezar.
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar..."

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso.