If you ask me where I come from,

If you ask me where I come from, I have to converse with broken things

-Pablo Neruda

 A man, strongly resembling Shel Silverstein, demonstrates how to throw clay on a wheel as eager eyes look on and curious fingers reach forward. Small hands pound and shape clay; a bowl, a cup, a clay man, a spoon, a mortar and pestle. Practical hands belong to these children who have been formed in the midst of struggle. Clay is shaped and reshaped countless times before the promise of lunch is able to coax young artists into surrendering their sculptures. 

A young Yazidi girl with pale skin and thick hair, talks of her home and of the dog she used to have. As she chats, she unsubtly smuggles most of her lunch to the scraggly, stray dog under the table.  

"Do you think you were made in Heaven, that you are better than us?" An Afghan boy quickly crossing into manhood, shakes with impotent rage and wounded pride as he is called out for not wanting to stand next to a little black girl. 

A little boy from Congo cries silently, his eyes overflowing through every daily activity. He wants to be involved, he wants to come to each activity, but he just simply needs to cry. And perhaps one day, when he has cried the entire sea that he has crossed, his heart will be dry and finally safe. 

A young girl, all lanky arms and legs, with chalky knees and dusty feet, wraps her slender fingers around the neck of a violin for the first time, her smile is open and free. 

A hot container crammed with stinky staff and kids giggle through the chorus of "Shake it off," Taylor Swift sounding her best through the filter of multiple accents and laughter.

A pair of shoes is left behind, dusty and torn. There are plastic bags shoved into the toe of each shoe, enabling little feet to walk, falsely leaving the imprint of an adult. 

A little girl, perhaps 5 years, wanders the camp all day going from container to container. She has the wide eyes of a Dr. Seuss character and an innocent face, but this child is destruction personified. She listens to no one and breaks anything that she can get her hands on. She breaks much the same as she has been broken by a system that does not love her. She looks like me. Who will take her hand?

And then there is a night when the moon hides behind her hazy veil, children laugh and parents hush. In the relief of the cool evening air, the mournful wail of a child fighting against sleep echoes faintly. There is a makeshift table comprised of a cracked board on a bucket, set outside a tiny container, a minuscule home, one home in a row making up another row, forming a patchwork grid of community drawn together by desperation and hope.  Crooked chairs surround the humble table as chai is liberally sweetened and set before an unexpected wide-eyed American guest. Conversation floats comfortably over the smell of cinnamon and the sea. And as night eases into calm, the women begin to sing.

 

What you see depends on where you Stand.

Getting to Lesvos was hard. I endured Chicago traffic, an 8 hour flight to Dublin, a 20 hour layover, a 4 hour flight to Athens that left just before dawn, a 6 hour layover in Athens, a 50 minute flight on a teeny propeller plane, after of course getting off a previous plane with a broken engine and all of these little miseries, I endured while lugging around a massive suitcase crammed with 10 ukuleles, 30 music books, 15 egg shakers (which caused people to eye me strangely as I walked by..) and other countless items found in a typical music teacher's tools box. I arrived exhausted and poured myself into bed despite not having eaten dinner. Getting to Lesvos was hard.

Getting to Lesvos was hard. A refugee may have fled in the night, risking hypothermia and dehydration in the Sinjar mountains, a risk preferable to certain slaughter in the valley. A refugee may have fled a bombed city, finding the way on foot, with everything that can be carried or nothing at all. A refugee may have walked a thousand miles through hostile territory, broken up by months or years in a refugee camp. A refugee may have boarded an overflowing shameless excuse for a boat, perhaps alone or perhaps clutching tightly to a hand of a loved one. A refugee may have watched in terror as large waves crested over the sides of the boat. A refugee may have stumbled cold, hungry and exhausted onto the muddy shores of Lesvos, knees giving way in grateful relief. Getting to Lesvos was hard. 

The choice to come here was absolutely political. I sat fuming into the small hours of the night on January 27th, my husband out of the country and my president signing an executive order to ban the travel of those who needed our compassion the most. I was enraged and ashamed and my first defiant thought was "well if they can't come here, then I must go there." I scoured the internet for ways in which I might help, even if just a little bit and I stumbled on a tiny posting for a voice teacher in the Kara Tepe camp on the Island of Lesvos. I sent off a resume and within days, we were talking of potential dates. And now I am here, for what seems a frivolously short span of a month to try to organize, teach and share music to the best of my ability. 

This is where my part in the story ends and I begin to simply share the vignettes and pictures being gifted to me. It is a privilege to stand in a new place in order to see.

20 Hours, a Friend and Guiness

When one must endure a 20 hour layover in Dublin, one must be thankful for a willing friend and last minute host, a beautiful evening walk and a pint and a half of Guinness! I am ready for the 5 am flight to Athens! 

Song Cycle

I

Tell me a story

the warm wind ruffles 

the curtains of our calm.

weave your story in

the strands of my hair,

Of caravans and crackling fire,

of Druids swaying,

arms lifted balancing heaven,

of errant heroes

retrieving stars and swords,

Of God’s passion 

and Man’s taste.

The night wraps us 

in an indigo bedspread.

build cities to house doubt,

light a match, 

burn them down.

Fill oceans by touch,

Navigate cool forests of

comforting fear,

feet bare on the pine needle floor.

Tell me a story,

rest your dark head

against my chest,

your breath

damp prayers

whispered against my heart.

II

The light turns red

strong hands brake as her body curves into his.

The engine warm against 

bare legs cooled by night air.

She wraps her arms around him,

her hands pressed to his chest.
He reaches behind to tug her hair,
he lifts her visor, 
touching her face.
They turn to each other
knocking helmets 
but still, mouths meet 
dueling smiles curve lips.

The light turns green,
He shifts gears
they race away
her laughter trills
lingering desire on the wind.

                                     Lost in a memory and waiting to cross,
                                     I have missed my light
                                     missed my turn.

III

Please, let me borrow 

a teaspoon of your happiness

I seem to have misplaced mine.
Did I forget it in the pocket of my jeans 
and run it through the wash,
is it mixed in with the dust on my piano?
Perhaps it is under the seat in my car
mingling with sticky change and crumbs
or in the couch cushions
with much the same company.
Did I leave it folded 
in a stack of sheet music
or use it to mark the page of a book?
Did the cat lick it off my nose
in her midnight bid for food?
Did I use too much in the stew I made last week?
It WAS delicious.

Did I misplace it in my travels,
Is it currently hitchhiking across America 
or kayaking in the boundary waters?
Did I drink it as a shot of Pisco in the Andes,

or mix it with a morning cafe in Galicia?

Did I set it on a side table in a little house in Italy?
Has someone else picked it up yet,
Smiling and laughing?
I hope so. 

IV

I count breaths
late into the night,
When all is quiet
I count the breaths of the one near me.

When wind assails a settling house
and stars play tag 
with clouds
I count

When all with sanity
have long since slept 
and daily plans meld with dreams
I count

Stealing moments of time
existing to no one but myself
I count

Thousands of breaths

a millennium of moments

Desire, restlessness

sadness

love, hope, 

fear,

I count 

And The Sun Danced!

 On May 13 1917 three shepherd children met Mary; ten-year-old Lucia, nine-year-old Francisco and seven-year-old Jacinta. The children chatted away with Mary on the 13th of each month for six months, though interestingly only Lucia spoke or heard the responses. Mary appeared, promising a miracle on the sixth visit, and so people from near and far, skeptic and devotee alike, filled the valley awaiting this miracle. Lucia, in her later memoirs wrote the secrets that Mary had shared with her; that the war would soon end and the soldiers would return home (WWI) and that if people did not cease to offend God, a greater war would occur (WWII.) During her final visit, Mary made the sun dance as seen by the 70,000+ witnesses that day. Whether this was a miracle, a mass hallucination, or simple delirium from staring at the sun for too long, this event, though accepted by the church, is still being debated today. The city of Fatima has been built on the site of these apparitions and thousands walk across Portugal each year in search of their own miracles.

After returning to Tomar, I had planned to visit Fatima the following day by bus. However, upon hearing my plans, the endlessly hospitable Lígia and Juana stated, despite my protests, that they would pick me up the following morning at 10am to go together to Fatima. The next day, as I took a photo of a pigeon outside of my hotel, I heard the horn beep and looked up to see their laughing faces. I hopped into the car quickly and we three were off to meet our Lady of Fatima.

A half hours drive from Tomar, Fatima is home to a vast square with a modern church on one side and a more traditional church on the other. Both churches shone white against the deep blue sky, and stubbornly unmoving sun. We each bought candles, braving the fires of hell to set them in their place as prayers, and we watched as pilgrims made their way across the square on their knees.  Though beautiful, Fatima reeks of commercialism, selling rosaries, patches, jewelry, and miracles for those desperate for God's grace. After a quick coffee, we piled back into the car to find the house of Lucia, the saintly child ...or the skilled storyteller, depending on one's perspective. 

I cannot argue when accepting a ride and the driver decides on a detour. But I have no need to argue when that detour proves to be a beautiful beachside village with bright colors and fresh salty air. After our Fatima pilgrimage, Lígia brought me to her favorite place for a seaside lunch. We sat with bacalao and octopus in a small restaurant in the city of Nazaré, as we talked of our lives and homes and how they differ. Juana, a beautiful dark haired 29 year old gym teacher who studied in Coimbra, talked of her national pride.

"You have heard of Portuguese women and their moustaches, right?"
"What? no!"
"Well that's how the rest of Europe sees us."

Juana went on to describe the importance of Portugal winning the Euro and of Ronaldo's weight as a national hero. "The world can see that something is happening in our little country," she said, her posture straight and her smile bright.

"How do you feel after walking? Your body, I mean?"
"Surprisingly good, strong... But I think my boobs shrunk.."
Juana looked down at her athletic though slender form.
"Hmm, I should not walk the Camino then…"