Yesterday, I experienced one of the hardest moments
yet, and it was a rare, quiet, and unforgettable moment that will live
with me forever. Although I have changed the setting for my own reasons, the setting is not important to the depth of this story which is very real, and that I will share in English.
After a few minutes with his head buried in his pulled-up knees, I approached a solitary little boy on a park bench. I had been watching as he sat alone. As someone who works with children on a daily basis, I decided to take the chance to speak with him. So I sat near him and asked him if he was alright. He simply shifted further away from me on the concrete bench. We sat in silence. After a bit, he looked up at me and I saw tears brimming in his sweet brown eyes. I gave him a smile, told him my name, and asked him how old he was. He responded with 5 fingers...wow...just 5-years-old...and seemingly so alone. I asked if something was upsetting him, and he buried his head back into its hiding place with no response. Again, we sat in silence. Finally, I asked if something had happened at his house...and he shook his head "yes." My heart dropped into my stomach. I began to have a sinking feeling that there was something this little 5-year-old boy did not want to share with me; possibly something dark, secretive, and hurtful.
I turned towards him, and he shifted further away. So, I asked the question that tickled the back of my mind and worried me the most: "are you hurt?" He shook his head "no", but his next words stunned me. He looked into my eyes and said "me duele mi corazon."..."My heart hurts."
Suddenly, the boy of so few words shocked me with his most honest secret...he continued to look up at me with tears in his eyes and said that "I don't want to be around people, I just want to go somewhere else, far, far away, where no one will yell at me, and I can't get in trouble, and where I'm not a bad boy."
Echoing in my head "bad boy, bad boy, bad boy, niño malo, niño malo, niño malo."
My heart shattered for him. At that moment, no matter the fact that I was twenty years older than he, I told him the following: "I feel the same way sometimes, and I cry too. I just want to have wings like a bird so I can fly away to a place where everything is beautiful and happy and all of my problems are gone. No one can yell at me, the sun shines every day, and my crying turns into smiles...and there is a lot of candy!"
He giggled. The most beautiful sound I could have heard and as his sad face turned into a smile, a single tear broke free and rolled down his cheek.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
A Life of Wonder and Imagination...Antigua Style
I’m beginning to believe that some of us have lost our
senses of wonder. As I have
reached the one-month point in my journey in Guatemala, I find it fantastic
that everyday I am still made to wonder
by something or someone. It isn’t
necessarily that my breath is suddenly taken away, I grow teary-eyed, or I have
to run and share the moment with another person; these moments just surprise
me, and I do believe it is because I have only recently opened my eyes.
For me, any experience with relics, archeology, or any object of antiquity excites a sense of wonder in me like no other, yet it also tends to stimulate my imagination. I recently traveled to Antigua, where I did not know what to expect, so I was joyously surprised throughout my entire experience...
...It is still early in Antigua as I begin my day of adventure. I walk down the center of a cobblestone street to get the feel of the uneven stones below my feet, imagining all of the souls who have walked and worn smooth these stones beneath me. Slowly, I veer to my left toward the crooked stone-slab sidewalk. The wall beside me seems around 100 feet tall and though I don’t know its purpose, I choose to take a leap of imagination. I simply close my eyes and block out the noise of the city, then slowly run my fingers over the crumbling brick and mortar wondering who molded this brick, whose hands laid each brick and layered it with mortar, then covered it with plaster and finally, when did this giant piece of architecture begin to crumble, becoming merely an eerie remnant of times past?
I was made to wonder.
Later, a friend and I stepped into what still stands of the original cathedral of Antigua. The blue sky shines through missing domes hundreds of feet above us and archways sweep across the sky seeming like optical illusions. I look up, and imagine those who worked to build the massive cathedral that was shattered by earthquakes and abandoned only 100 years after it’s construction. The grandeur of such artistic talent, strength, detail, sculpture work, script work, tile work, masonry, etc., broken into rubble, left for those of us today to merely piece together in our minds. We walk through what seems like every inch of the gargantuan property that is overgrown with vines and grass, and I hear the laughter of children on a field trip. I am curious, on a market day hundreds of years ago, would there have been the same sounds of laughter as a mother and father visited the cathedral market, their children scurrying around their feet? Would this grass be clipped short, be worn dirt paths, or stone walkways? Were monks, priests, nuns, and other clergy about the cathedral practicing their duties? These pieces of stone are not ruins; these are pieces of a story that will never fully be told...
Again, I was made to wonder.
So much wonder is around us. Yes, I am fortunate enough to travel to such beautiful places while in Guatemala, but the location is not important, for that which we tend to miss is that which is right in front of our eyes; that which we can still run our fingers over and about which we can still pose questions. Working with children every day, I am relearning to open my eyes to the wonder around me, and see how a spark of imagination creates an entire world of adventure. However, let me clarify: it is NOT childish or whimsical to let your imagination soar. Wonder and imagination are gifts that were given to the human mind, you simply must open your eyes.
For me, any experience with relics, archeology, or any object of antiquity excites a sense of wonder in me like no other, yet it also tends to stimulate my imagination. I recently traveled to Antigua, where I did not know what to expect, so I was joyously surprised throughout my entire experience...
...It is still early in Antigua as I begin my day of adventure. I walk down the center of a cobblestone street to get the feel of the uneven stones below my feet, imagining all of the souls who have walked and worn smooth these stones beneath me. Slowly, I veer to my left toward the crooked stone-slab sidewalk. The wall beside me seems around 100 feet tall and though I don’t know its purpose, I choose to take a leap of imagination. I simply close my eyes and block out the noise of the city, then slowly run my fingers over the crumbling brick and mortar wondering who molded this brick, whose hands laid each brick and layered it with mortar, then covered it with plaster and finally, when did this giant piece of architecture begin to crumble, becoming merely an eerie remnant of times past?
I was made to wonder.
Later, a friend and I stepped into what still stands of the original cathedral of Antigua. The blue sky shines through missing domes hundreds of feet above us and archways sweep across the sky seeming like optical illusions. I look up, and imagine those who worked to build the massive cathedral that was shattered by earthquakes and abandoned only 100 years after it’s construction. The grandeur of such artistic talent, strength, detail, sculpture work, script work, tile work, masonry, etc., broken into rubble, left for those of us today to merely piece together in our minds. We walk through what seems like every inch of the gargantuan property that is overgrown with vines and grass, and I hear the laughter of children on a field trip. I am curious, on a market day hundreds of years ago, would there have been the same sounds of laughter as a mother and father visited the cathedral market, their children scurrying around their feet? Would this grass be clipped short, be worn dirt paths, or stone walkways? Were monks, priests, nuns, and other clergy about the cathedral practicing their duties? These pieces of stone are not ruins; these are pieces of a story that will never fully be told...
Again, I was made to wonder.
So much wonder is around us. Yes, I am fortunate enough to travel to such beautiful places while in Guatemala, but the location is not important, for that which we tend to miss is that which is right in front of our eyes; that which we can still run our fingers over and about which we can still pose questions. Working with children every day, I am relearning to open my eyes to the wonder around me, and see how a spark of imagination creates an entire world of adventure. However, let me clarify: it is NOT childish or whimsical to let your imagination soar. Wonder and imagination are gifts that were given to the human mind, you simply must open your eyes.
 |
| Original Cathedral, Antigua, Guatemala |
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
To Say Something is Difficult...
It is a challenge for me to blog about my own difficulties in Guatemala as I am surrounded here by the universally experienced pain and suffering of humanity, but for this post, I will share my own struggles over the last few weeks.
How can one really define "difficult" as it is quite subjective to each person's definition of the term. For me, "difficult," is a woman in labor, a single mother who works grueling hours just to feed her children, women and men who have fought in battle, those who struggle with loss, emotional strife, depression, self-loathing, and my list goes on. So, for me to describe my experience here and use the word "difficult" is quite something.
Volunteering in Xela is possibly the most difficult thing I have ever done. Both emotionally and physically.
Emotionally: Mainly because of the pain of others. For those who know me, I tend to take on the pain of the world and have for many years. I don't often watch news programs for that exact reason. Therefore, as I approach my 1-month point here, my heart has become heavy with all that I have seen and experienced. This heaviness has turned to exhaustion, and sometimes a sobbing international phone call home to mom and dad. For me, the best way to describe this heaviness is in the eyes of those I have observed.
Much can be understood simply from looking into a person's eyes. I am constantly in awe of the strength of the impoverished persons I encounter daily, yet, the sadness in their eyes keeps a secret of years of hurt and that hurt slips into the crack in my heart leaving it with more and more pain each day. At work, my kids have many behavioral issues. There are four adults working with the 31 children, ages 2-7, and I adore my project, yet can't help but see the need in the eyes of these children. Their eyes tell a story of literal hunger, and also a hunger for attention, hugs, and someone to simply affirm them. There are those persons whose smiles never meet their eyes when they greet you as they carry their goods to market, and you can only wonder why or when their smile stopped creasing the corners of their beautiful brown eyes. Or, the young 16-year-old Mayan mother and wife with a baby on her back and a toddler at her side who climbs on the bus, eyes glazed with tears, and I can only wonder, and wonder, and wonder how I could possibly assist her, so I simply put my hand on her shoulder and she begins to sob. No words were needed.
THIS is difficulty, and not my own, yet I am experiencing its heaviness in my own heart. I am here to help, and yet I realize how tiny my impact is in the scheme of the world's issues. I can only hope that by being here, and providing hugs, smiles, and a touch on a young Mayan woman's shoulder, I can provide a ripple effect that maybe, just maybe takes the hurt out of someone's day.
Physically: I am a human toy. Being 5'11...to kids, I am a jungle gym solely there for their enjoyment. 5 days a week for 7 hours straight I run, jump, hop, get trampled, punched, strangled, pinched, smacked, and even peed on!! Haha, my days are exciting to say the least. I also have a sprained ankle that is too swollen for my shoe! However, physically, nothing compares to the difficulty of exhaustion. I'm certainly pushing my body to its limits with this volunteer work, but for me, nothing has ever been more worth the difficulty.
How can one really define "difficult" as it is quite subjective to each person's definition of the term. For me, "difficult," is a woman in labor, a single mother who works grueling hours just to feed her children, women and men who have fought in battle, those who struggle with loss, emotional strife, depression, self-loathing, and my list goes on. So, for me to describe my experience here and use the word "difficult" is quite something.
Volunteering in Xela is possibly the most difficult thing I have ever done. Both emotionally and physically.
Emotionally: Mainly because of the pain of others. For those who know me, I tend to take on the pain of the world and have for many years. I don't often watch news programs for that exact reason. Therefore, as I approach my 1-month point here, my heart has become heavy with all that I have seen and experienced. This heaviness has turned to exhaustion, and sometimes a sobbing international phone call home to mom and dad. For me, the best way to describe this heaviness is in the eyes of those I have observed.
Much can be understood simply from looking into a person's eyes. I am constantly in awe of the strength of the impoverished persons I encounter daily, yet, the sadness in their eyes keeps a secret of years of hurt and that hurt slips into the crack in my heart leaving it with more and more pain each day. At work, my kids have many behavioral issues. There are four adults working with the 31 children, ages 2-7, and I adore my project, yet can't help but see the need in the eyes of these children. Their eyes tell a story of literal hunger, and also a hunger for attention, hugs, and someone to simply affirm them. There are those persons whose smiles never meet their eyes when they greet you as they carry their goods to market, and you can only wonder why or when their smile stopped creasing the corners of their beautiful brown eyes. Or, the young 16-year-old Mayan mother and wife with a baby on her back and a toddler at her side who climbs on the bus, eyes glazed with tears, and I can only wonder, and wonder, and wonder how I could possibly assist her, so I simply put my hand on her shoulder and she begins to sob. No words were needed.
THIS is difficulty, and not my own, yet I am experiencing its heaviness in my own heart. I am here to help, and yet I realize how tiny my impact is in the scheme of the world's issues. I can only hope that by being here, and providing hugs, smiles, and a touch on a young Mayan woman's shoulder, I can provide a ripple effect that maybe, just maybe takes the hurt out of someone's day.
Physically: I am a human toy. Being 5'11...to kids, I am a jungle gym solely there for their enjoyment. 5 days a week for 7 hours straight I run, jump, hop, get trampled, punched, strangled, pinched, smacked, and even peed on!! Haha, my days are exciting to say the least. I also have a sprained ankle that is too swollen for my shoe! However, physically, nothing compares to the difficulty of exhaustion. I'm certainly pushing my body to its limits with this volunteer work, but for me, nothing has ever been more worth the difficulty.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
A Morning of Sights, Smells, Sounds, and Getting Lost
Tomorrow I will have the honor of taking the amazing women who started and run Hogar Comunitario to the natural hot springs of Las Georginas near Xela. After watching how intensely the commit to their work each day, I thought it only right to treat them to a day of relaxation that they would certainly never give to themselves. It shall surely be an adventure to write about!
So, this morning, I wanted to put together a gift bag for each of the four women, Felipa, Angelica, Sandra, and Noelia. Little did I know, this would turn in to quite the trek.
I caught a microbus (little van and nicknamed "micro" like "meecrow") went to el Mercado Terminal on the opposite side of town. Putting it frankly, markets on Saturdays are wild. From every direction are prices and product names being yelled, children running around your feet, piles upon piles of colorful vegetables and fruits, woven garments, American garments, CDs, loud music, live music, fresh food stands, woven baskets, Mayan garments, and much, much, more. I walk with a permanent smile. Today I only purchased a traditional Mayan woven basket from a women making them in the market. I stood and watched her practiced hands for a while wondering how many generations have used this exact style of weaving to create such strong and durable baskets needed for grueling Mayan work.
When I emerged from el Mercado Terminal, I'll admit, I was a bit disoriented. Stepping into a traditional Guatemalan market, for me, is quite like stepping into another dimension, and I cherish that feeling every time...especially because my next stop was Xela's Wal Mart! Haha! I stopped here to purchase bathing gifts for the women as well as fun portable water gifts (2 blow-up pool balls, and a pair of arm floaties) for their children who will be joining our adventure to the springs.
I used my new woven handbag to carry my purchases and began my trip home, catching a micro to take me back...however...he took me to the middle of another Zone in the city where I was completely lost! "Lost" for me, though, is like opening a gift on Christmas morning. I began walking and after a few questions to lovely Guatemalans on the street, I wiggled my way through Xela and arrived home an hour later. Yes, I'll admit I was hot and covered in a layer of dust, but seeing the streets of Xela and finding my way through a foreign city made my day. I even made it home in time for an awesome lunch!
An ENORMOUS thank you to everyone who has sent me words of support. I was sick for a bit, but am back to my strong, fast-walking and talking self and am adoring my project and the children that give me hundreds of hugs each day. This is where I am meant to be, called to serve, and where I can spread my love and yours to many each and every day.
So, this morning, I wanted to put together a gift bag for each of the four women, Felipa, Angelica, Sandra, and Noelia. Little did I know, this would turn in to quite the trek.
I caught a microbus (little van and nicknamed "micro" like "meecrow") went to el Mercado Terminal on the opposite side of town. Putting it frankly, markets on Saturdays are wild. From every direction are prices and product names being yelled, children running around your feet, piles upon piles of colorful vegetables and fruits, woven garments, American garments, CDs, loud music, live music, fresh food stands, woven baskets, Mayan garments, and much, much, more. I walk with a permanent smile. Today I only purchased a traditional Mayan woven basket from a women making them in the market. I stood and watched her practiced hands for a while wondering how many generations have used this exact style of weaving to create such strong and durable baskets needed for grueling Mayan work.
When I emerged from el Mercado Terminal, I'll admit, I was a bit disoriented. Stepping into a traditional Guatemalan market, for me, is quite like stepping into another dimension, and I cherish that feeling every time...especially because my next stop was Xela's Wal Mart! Haha! I stopped here to purchase bathing gifts for the women as well as fun portable water gifts (2 blow-up pool balls, and a pair of arm floaties) for their children who will be joining our adventure to the springs.
I used my new woven handbag to carry my purchases and began my trip home, catching a micro to take me back...however...he took me to the middle of another Zone in the city where I was completely lost! "Lost" for me, though, is like opening a gift on Christmas morning. I began walking and after a few questions to lovely Guatemalans on the street, I wiggled my way through Xela and arrived home an hour later. Yes, I'll admit I was hot and covered in a layer of dust, but seeing the streets of Xela and finding my way through a foreign city made my day. I even made it home in time for an awesome lunch!
An ENORMOUS thank you to everyone who has sent me words of support. I was sick for a bit, but am back to my strong, fast-walking and talking self and am adoring my project and the children that give me hundreds of hugs each day. This is where I am meant to be, called to serve, and where I can spread my love and yours to many each and every day.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
A Day in the Life
At some points in this blog I would like to provide you, the blog-reader, the experience of actually walking in my shoes and seeing the sights I see. Here I will take you through to highlights of leaving a city and entering rural Mayan territory!
It is 8:00am and I sit on the cold steps of El Calvario with a scarf around my nose and mouth as plumes of dust and smoke encompass my body and make breathing increasingly difficult. Motorbikes, motorcycles, bicycles, cars, and mainly buses whizz by honking their horns hoping to get their next client from one of many just like me.
To stop a bus, I hold up my hand and ask if the bus is going to La Cuchilla del Pinal, Sector Doce. I then find a seat on the old imported yellow school bus. As I look around, I see many decals signifying the strong Catholicism of the bus owner, I hear the sounds of women chattering, children giggling, and the radio playing Celin Dion.
Surrounding me are colors. Every bright color is incorporated into these Mayan womens' garments creating a stunning tapestry of art against their sun-browned, naturally bronzed skin. These women are works of art and are speaking of how their day might go with their goods at the market. Once off the bus, they wait for their goods to be dropped down from the top of the bus, then hoist the packages onto their heads and begin walking; using no hands to steady the goods on their heads. What strength.
We have passed two markets and now there are only 4 people as opposed to 40 on the bus to La Cuchilla. The ride out of Xela begins and my heart leaps as I catch my first glimpse of Volcano Santa Maria in the distance. She churns with power, fire, and danger, and yet today she is a tranquil mountain of peace, calm, and glory in the morning sun. As we continue, the streets are no longer pavement, but volcanic ash, remnants of the last explosion 100 years ago.
Bump, bump, bump, it is difficult to think on the bus in La Cuchilla due to major erosion of dirt/ash roads. I see a sadness in the eyes of those I pass, yet so much joy in the eyes of children I see. What hardens a Mayan throughout their lifespan?
I get off the bus to a dirt path. I feel at home. The volcanoes are to my left, I pull up my scarf, and begin walking. Soon I see the tall white-washed building with its swept dirt yard, outdoor toilet, and giant rusting doors, and I know on the other side of those doors are children who need me. I knock, the doors open, and 40 voices yell "Mary, Mary, Mary" in an almost chant-like fashion.
Being pulled here isn't coincidence. I am needed here, and I too need their love and joy and I learn countless lessons from the children and the señoras every day. There may just be some magic in that old volcano, seeping through its pores and into my heart.
It is 8:00am and I sit on the cold steps of El Calvario with a scarf around my nose and mouth as plumes of dust and smoke encompass my body and make breathing increasingly difficult. Motorbikes, motorcycles, bicycles, cars, and mainly buses whizz by honking their horns hoping to get their next client from one of many just like me.
To stop a bus, I hold up my hand and ask if the bus is going to La Cuchilla del Pinal, Sector Doce. I then find a seat on the old imported yellow school bus. As I look around, I see many decals signifying the strong Catholicism of the bus owner, I hear the sounds of women chattering, children giggling, and the radio playing Celin Dion.
Surrounding me are colors. Every bright color is incorporated into these Mayan womens' garments creating a stunning tapestry of art against their sun-browned, naturally bronzed skin. These women are works of art and are speaking of how their day might go with their goods at the market. Once off the bus, they wait for their goods to be dropped down from the top of the bus, then hoist the packages onto their heads and begin walking; using no hands to steady the goods on their heads. What strength.
We have passed two markets and now there are only 4 people as opposed to 40 on the bus to La Cuchilla. The ride out of Xela begins and my heart leaps as I catch my first glimpse of Volcano Santa Maria in the distance. She churns with power, fire, and danger, and yet today she is a tranquil mountain of peace, calm, and glory in the morning sun. As we continue, the streets are no longer pavement, but volcanic ash, remnants of the last explosion 100 years ago.
Bump, bump, bump, it is difficult to think on the bus in La Cuchilla due to major erosion of dirt/ash roads. I see a sadness in the eyes of those I pass, yet so much joy in the eyes of children I see. What hardens a Mayan throughout their lifespan?
I get off the bus to a dirt path. I feel at home. The volcanoes are to my left, I pull up my scarf, and begin walking. Soon I see the tall white-washed building with its swept dirt yard, outdoor toilet, and giant rusting doors, and I know on the other side of those doors are children who need me. I knock, the doors open, and 40 voices yell "Mary, Mary, Mary" in an almost chant-like fashion.
Being pulled here isn't coincidence. I am needed here, and I too need their love and joy and I learn countless lessons from the children and the señoras every day. There may just be some magic in that old volcano, seeping through its pores and into my heart.
 |
| Hogar Comunitario |
Saturday, February 1, 2014
El Calvario...The Cemetery
In any culture there is a way of recognizing, praising, mourning, respecting, or celebrating a life that no longer walks this earth in human form. Anthropologically speaking, for me, there is no right or wrong method to present the death of a human life or the idea that comes with or without an afterlife.
However, I am a curious person, and today proved my curiosity correct.
Since I have arrived, I have seen and heard the words "El Calvario" thrown around as the location where I live, a bus stop, a market, and a meeting place; but it is SO much more. El Calvario is a Catholic church and beside it lies the ONE and ONLY cemetery in XELA.
LET ME REPEAT THIS.....THERE IS ONLY ONE CEMETERY IN THE ENTIRE CITY OF XELA. I estimate that it is about a mile long and one half mile wide. I have lived directly beside the entrance for a week now and have walked along the tall cement walls that line the outskirts, but have never been inside the cemetery itself. Today was the day.
I bought 2 flowers from one of the many vendors outside the cemetery and entered the gate. I chose not to take any photos out of respect, but simply soak in this memory as one of many I will only be able to capture through my own eyes while in Guatemala.
There are rows upon rows, almost like streets, of small structures dedicated to familial lineage. I have been told to stay in the central line of the cemetery as it is so large, so this is where I begin. As I walk, the loud horns and fumes of cars and buses seem to fade into the distance and I become absorbed into the memories, pain, mourning, and celebration of life that has occurred for centuries on this very path. To my left, the enormity of Volcano Santa Maria looms as if it has watched each ceremony and evaporated each tear with its magnificent heat. Headless statues and angels pepper the structures; possibly from age, or more likely from the rumbling earthquakes that tear through Xela so frequently.
As I continue on the path I begin to wonder how so many people could be buried here, and my question is answered. I come upon one of two pyramid-like structures, possibly two stories high. I look through its ornately grated and locked gates, and I see a large hole in the center of the room. There is a ladder sticking out of it, and I suddenly realize that there is most likely and entire cemetery under my feet. I continue to peer through grates and holes and about 20 feet down, there are passages, or catacombs. I must do more research on this subject.
The cemetery is covered in fresh flowers, as it is a regular practice for many citizens of Xela to visit the cemetery and place flowers at grave sites. At this point, I am still holding my 2 beautiful flowers. I suddenly feel a nagging sensation to turn left, and as I do, I see an old grave stone (amidst thousands) on a family's structure that is engraved with a woman's life from 1861-1911. It says "She gave the world color" and there is an artist's palet engraved on her stone. There are no flowers here; only dust. I brush off her stone, and leave her a brightly colored flower...may she have a color wherever she is.
Some say cemeteries are frightening places, but I say that El Calvario is a place of wonder, tradition, and respect. I left feeling peace in the midst of the largest piece of intact history and culture in my new bustling, modern, yet ancient city of Xela.
However, I am a curious person, and today proved my curiosity correct.
Since I have arrived, I have seen and heard the words "El Calvario" thrown around as the location where I live, a bus stop, a market, and a meeting place; but it is SO much more. El Calvario is a Catholic church and beside it lies the ONE and ONLY cemetery in XELA.
LET ME REPEAT THIS.....THERE IS ONLY ONE CEMETERY IN THE ENTIRE CITY OF XELA. I estimate that it is about a mile long and one half mile wide. I have lived directly beside the entrance for a week now and have walked along the tall cement walls that line the outskirts, but have never been inside the cemetery itself. Today was the day.
I bought 2 flowers from one of the many vendors outside the cemetery and entered the gate. I chose not to take any photos out of respect, but simply soak in this memory as one of many I will only be able to capture through my own eyes while in Guatemala.
There are rows upon rows, almost like streets, of small structures dedicated to familial lineage. I have been told to stay in the central line of the cemetery as it is so large, so this is where I begin. As I walk, the loud horns and fumes of cars and buses seem to fade into the distance and I become absorbed into the memories, pain, mourning, and celebration of life that has occurred for centuries on this very path. To my left, the enormity of Volcano Santa Maria looms as if it has watched each ceremony and evaporated each tear with its magnificent heat. Headless statues and angels pepper the structures; possibly from age, or more likely from the rumbling earthquakes that tear through Xela so frequently.
As I continue on the path I begin to wonder how so many people could be buried here, and my question is answered. I come upon one of two pyramid-like structures, possibly two stories high. I look through its ornately grated and locked gates, and I see a large hole in the center of the room. There is a ladder sticking out of it, and I suddenly realize that there is most likely and entire cemetery under my feet. I continue to peer through grates and holes and about 20 feet down, there are passages, or catacombs. I must do more research on this subject.
The cemetery is covered in fresh flowers, as it is a regular practice for many citizens of Xela to visit the cemetery and place flowers at grave sites. At this point, I am still holding my 2 beautiful flowers. I suddenly feel a nagging sensation to turn left, and as I do, I see an old grave stone (amidst thousands) on a family's structure that is engraved with a woman's life from 1861-1911. It says "She gave the world color" and there is an artist's palet engraved on her stone. There are no flowers here; only dust. I brush off her stone, and leave her a brightly colored flower...may she have a color wherever she is.
Some say cemeteries are frightening places, but I say that El Calvario is a place of wonder, tradition, and respect. I left feeling peace in the midst of the largest piece of intact history and culture in my new bustling, modern, yet ancient city of Xela.
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