It's A Girl!

She is my new niece.

Haden Rhea Serres

Borne November 2'nd 2008

The weekly events had become something close to routine.My job had been labled Project Facilitator and I had become satisfyed with doing just that, facilitating.The desire to participate had gone away. It departed soon after I learned of my father's diagnosis of Non-Hodgkin's Follicular Lymphoma.
It was the last Wednesday I would spend in Matamoros, the last team I would lead, and my last trip to the dump.
*
The dump, you may wonder what type of place this was or what types of things were found there. It is a place of filth and death. A terrain that streches out for miles, covered with trash and vile waste. What was I doing there, breathing smoke and surounded by swarms of flyes. Well, I was bringing hope or atleast trying. The stench seemed to smack me in the face, I stopped and what I saw was painful.
There was a girl around twelve digging through rubbish looking for her type of gold. I worked along side of her for about an hour. As we pushed through, I noticed she didn't hesitate the way I did. Her hands weren't afraid of what they might touch. Maybe they had befor or maybe they never had. I looked down at my feet and saw a decomposing cow, I shuttered.
*
Later I ran to get something I had left, not forgot, but rather left. It was a brick, the word MEXICO imprinted on the front. There I was running. A moment later I was on the ground, covered in dust from my feet up. The fall was unexpected, shocking, and sudden. There was no stumble or trip, but simply a fall, flat on my face.
I took a quick look around to be sure no one had seen my fall and then stould up. Thoughts disoriented and struggling to regain dirrection, I walked forward. My hands and knees were bleeding and my eyes choking back tears.
*
He was walking toward me. I hadn't seen him before, but now I did.He was pushing a cart and it was filled with trash he intended to sell. There were words coming from his mouth, but my brain had not recovered from the fall so I couldn't understand them.Perhaps if they were in English i would have been ready, but they weren't. As he came closer I could hear the words "queres agua?" "queres agua?" No words were leaving my mouth because my brain was thinking to hard. "Why is he offering me his water he knows I am a gringa. He knows we don't drink from the same place." I replyed "no gracias, muchos gracias." As I walked past him he followed me. I was a little uneasy. Then he said "pour sous manos" Quickly I tried to reply with a no, but thank you very much, but before my words were finished, he had pulled my hands into his and begun to pour water over them.The blood and dirt didn't stop him and neither did my words. Un poquito, un poquito. He kept on washing my hands until all of his water was gone. After he had finished he reached in the cart and pulled out a wrag, wiped the left over dirt and blood from my hands and turned to go. I fumbled through my spanish to try and find words worth saying. All I could find was "gracias, muchas gracias"
*
My walls began to fall. The ones I had built so carefully.

Green

The green reached the top of the mountain today. Slowly, it has been climbing up the slope, its progress stunted by a few frosts along the way. The birds are chirping, screaming the arrival of summer and of the long anticipated break, Summer break.

Funny?

Life is a funny thing or at least we like to say it is.

At times I find my life to be lacking in humorous situations or perhaps I just have a hard time seeing the humor in them. What is funny about life (funny=odd intriguing or contradictory) is the up and down of it all.

Last Saturday I found out my Uncle Tim had passed away after years of battling leukemia.

A truly fascinating man. He would have you think of a million things the minute you began a conversation together. Not ordinary things that you think of every day, but the things one avoids thinking of or things that have never entered your mind.

He was a brilliant Jazz guitarist who played with some of the worlds top artists. Tim Haden I will see him again.

Monday night Jenn yells my name from the bottom of the stairs. Ugh I am in bed. Come on its important.... Ok then (thinking it better be).

She and Jason had perched themselves on the kitchen table. We (Dad, Mom, Heather, JT, And I) leaned against the counter waiting to be amused, waiting for her to justify pulling us away from our various activities and especially waking me from a perfectly lovely place.

"We're gonna have a baby"

We all jumped from our lazy leaning positions with shrieks of laughter.

That is the up and down of it all.

Funny?

Create

They want me to create something pretty, something sweet. Ringing melodies to fill their rooms.A clean, clear stroke, one bow, and all these strings.Pushing, prying, and pulling on me.They want me to create,But it's not in me. This solumn sound these pure clean things.

Coffee Cups and Conversations

Do they seem to you to go hand in hand? For me there seems to be a strong tie between the two. If I were to ask you to coffee, I would certainly be seeking a conversation to accompany us. The coffee would simply be a means to an end. I would agree there are times when a good cup of coffee drank alone or in silence can be an end of it's own. I suppose these same thoughts could be transfered to a beer, cigar, or even an ocassional joint ( just kidding hope that made you smile), but tonight coffee is on my mind.



My favorite cup of coffee would not be based on it's flavore, but rather the conversation or atmosphere it was accompanied by. My earliest memories of coffee are not based upon taste either. I have strong memories of this liquid and they are from a time when I had never tasted coffee.



As a little girl I would wake up and go to mom and dad's room, pulling myself up and over the edge of their bed, I would make my way inbetween them and rest my head on Dad's shoulder. The smell of His steaming black coffee was unmistakable. Mom would have some creamer in her's, but Dad's was always a pure undiluted brew.



There was something I respected about that, but I couldn't bring myself to drink it down. Even to this day I find a black cup of coffee more honest than the creamy sweet cup I am drinking now.

Spinnin, Laughin, Dancin

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXiRuSIXbns



Wonder who she is.



There once was a small girl in my life and she happened to be seven. I had hoped to have her as my sister one day, but she was taken some where else. I remember listening to this song with my mom, as she cried. You see her name was Alicia (the small girl) and she was startling to see. Something in the way she moved. Always a prance never a walk. She would make her way from place to place on her tip toes and then suddenly turn on her heals.



When I first met Alicia, her teeth were black and her hair was a few inches long. What would startle you is not the unusual appearance, but rather her beauty, her hunger for life, and her desire to love and be loved.

It was not something she had always had. Love had been stolen from her and she was robbed at a young age.

When the social workers found her, she was starving to death. In the literal sense, not the one that bratty little kids use " I'm starving to death Mom can we get some McDonald's?" It's simply not our reality, but it was hers. For many years she lived in this reality, so different from the one she sees now.

She was scripted into my life when my grandparents (Mimi and Papa) took her in as their foster child. She began to love she began to receive love. Love began to bear the burden of this small girl. She began see the world with eyes wide open.


Spinning, Laughing, Dancing......

Maybe we should try.

Are you starving to death?

1 COR. 7 "Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things"