This week I read an essay from my first semester at Westmont for a intro to literature class with Dr. Delaney. I was delightfully embarrassed by how presumptuous I was. The essay was about my own story as seen through the lens of a character named Asher Lev from the book My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok. The essay reminded me of how brave I assumed to be when I entered college and how I had not yet learned to look at details; at the end of the essay I plainly stated that I wanted to be a missionary. A part of me has come to despise that word over the last "almost" four years. And so you ask, what does this have to do with the Galapagos Islands, since I just returned from a five day trip to these colorful and oddly beautiful pockets of land.
Well, I am not entirely sure either.
On Saturday our group of 24 hiked the Sierra Negra which is the tallest volcano on the main island of Isabella. It's not that tall, a little over a thousand feet from sea level, but it provides a perfect view of the other islets and their tip-tops. To arrive at la cumbre (peak), we walked through four completely different habitations (which I am sure J Borden would have enjoyed). Before entering the plain of oxidizing volcanic rock -our final destination- we wandered through what seemed liked the East African bush. My eyes kept looking for life among the red dirt and crispy, naked trees. At this point my feet were covered in blisters because the dust found a home within my Chacos and decided to dance with the delicate edges of mis pies (feet). The ironic part is that I know nothing of Africa or its turmoil, expect what I read from BBC news or Lisa's blog. And the fact that I have a pair of nice Chacos only highlights my naivety. My guess is that this terrain in the middle of the ocean only hours from the lush beach is nothing like Africa. Especially since two miles earlier we were picking ripe guavas and filling our stomachs with pink nectar. I walked though, and thought about Africa. I also thought about that silly essay. We are all youthful once and full of big dreams. I am still both of these things (grateful for this fleeting time), and as my senior year finds its way to a close I am increasingly aware that those uneducated and misinformed dreams found in my first semester writing are not going to leave me.
There is this grand tension, you know. I cannot read the news about Zimbabwe or Guatemala and not wonder what our responsibility is, and in that same instant I am reminded of my smallness. I am reminded of how I am learning we can only do small things with great love, thank you mama teresa. Sometimes I wonder about my conscious choice to pursue a future, in which I will never ganar plata (be rich), because it is real and raw and obvious that money provides basic life necessities, secures children's futures, and stabilizes families and societies. Oh but it is not everything, it is not even close and these green and privileged hands of mine search to show that life can be different. They search to hold orphans, to bless my closest friends and strangers, to live in a simple house with a simple job, to grow plants, to be quiet and in the ordinary, to travel far and long, to rest, to make food and share meals with my family, to just be caught up in this life. I am learning that to see change, people have to live differently in the places they are found. Where shall I be found? I don't think mama T would give me an answer. And so, roaming around these vibrant islets without anything to do except walk, breath, and observe highlighted this sweet tension that I am assuming I will find myself in until I have long passed on.
oh, and we laughed a whole lot while we enjoyed the playa (beach), el agua, and the volcanoes that are still fairly untouched in the galapagos. yes, we laughed until our bellies hurt and tears streamed down our faces.
