When I signed up to be a Jesuit Volunteer in 2012, I had
never imagined extending my two year commitment to three. Coming out of college
I was accustomed to following pre-set
schedules—college: four years, JVC application process: six months,
waiting period before October departure date: five months, service in Andahuaylillas,
Peru: two years. If time really is money then I was a living Mastercard
commercial—goodbye kisses and high fives from twenty screaming children: Priceless.
Yet entering into this experience, I knew that I would be “back” to life by
December 2014.
My steps on my pre-determined camino (path) guided me on airplanes and buses until I arrived with unsure footing to Andahuaylillas. I grew accustomed to speaking Spanish as my main language, to waking up at 6:30 am, to breathing at 10,000 ft., to walking on cobblestone, to hearing Quechua humming in the streets, to teaching a classroom full of hormonal 13 year olds , to playing soccer with 9 year olds, to feeling dorky, awkward, and stupid.
As I intended to walk my camino lightly, my footing grew courageous and I started to build relationships. These friendships are what have sustained me. This cultural exchange has opened my eyes to many profoundly beautiful and deeply heartbreaking dimensions of the Andean reality. My friends from Peru have taught me about the rise and the fall of the Incas marked by Pachacutec and Tupac Amaru, as well as a lasting resilience that permeates in the hearts of Andean men and women, the complexity of the three worlds of Andean cosmology (the heavens, Hanan Pacha; the world in which we live in, Kay Pacha; the underworld, Ukhu Pacha), the devotion to Pachamama (Mother Earth) and the lived syncretism of all of those dimensions with Catholicism. In turn, I have spent many conversations describing a snowy Christmas and bringing to life the “myths” of snowmen and marshmellows on hot cocoa.
During my journey, my camino has curved and lengthened in unexpected ways. I realized that treading lightly would not allow me to fully engage nor fully emotionally process my time. My relationships with my students, friends, and community-members have challenged me as much as they have held me. I have been moved by the words of a mother who stated that due to her illiteracy, she is unable to assist her children with their school work. I have been saddened by students’ stories of how abuse or alcoholism plagues their families. I have celebrated the life of four different babies and I have mourned the deaths of numbers of acquaintances, friend’s family members, and, specifically, my student Rosa. I have sat with the discomfort of listening to pain and heartache in full knowledge that I possess no “treatment” to heal the emotional or physical wounds of abuse, neglect, loneliness or poverty. And yet, in openly sharing my own heartbreak with those around me, I have also learned that often the need is not for the pain to be fixed. The need is simply for someone to listen.
My steps on my pre-determined camino (path) guided me on airplanes and buses until I arrived with unsure footing to Andahuaylillas. I grew accustomed to speaking Spanish as my main language, to waking up at 6:30 am, to breathing at 10,000 ft., to walking on cobblestone, to hearing Quechua humming in the streets, to teaching a classroom full of hormonal 13 year olds , to playing soccer with 9 year olds, to feeling dorky, awkward, and stupid.
As I intended to walk my camino lightly, my footing grew courageous and I started to build relationships. These friendships are what have sustained me. This cultural exchange has opened my eyes to many profoundly beautiful and deeply heartbreaking dimensions of the Andean reality. My friends from Peru have taught me about the rise and the fall of the Incas marked by Pachacutec and Tupac Amaru, as well as a lasting resilience that permeates in the hearts of Andean men and women, the complexity of the three worlds of Andean cosmology (the heavens, Hanan Pacha; the world in which we live in, Kay Pacha; the underworld, Ukhu Pacha), the devotion to Pachamama (Mother Earth) and the lived syncretism of all of those dimensions with Catholicism. In turn, I have spent many conversations describing a snowy Christmas and bringing to life the “myths” of snowmen and marshmellows on hot cocoa.
During my journey, my camino has curved and lengthened in unexpected ways. I realized that treading lightly would not allow me to fully engage nor fully emotionally process my time. My relationships with my students, friends, and community-members have challenged me as much as they have held me. I have been moved by the words of a mother who stated that due to her illiteracy, she is unable to assist her children with their school work. I have been saddened by students’ stories of how abuse or alcoholism plagues their families. I have celebrated the life of four different babies and I have mourned the deaths of numbers of acquaintances, friend’s family members, and, specifically, my student Rosa. I have sat with the discomfort of listening to pain and heartache in full knowledge that I possess no “treatment” to heal the emotional or physical wounds of abuse, neglect, loneliness or poverty. And yet, in openly sharing my own heartbreak with those around me, I have also learned that often the need is not for the pain to be fixed. The need is simply for someone to listen.
In the last year and nine months, I have come to realize
that I am not yet ready to go home: My once carefully laid path has transformed
into a new pathless landscape while I have been living. In no way am I running
away from life in the US. Quite differently, I have found a life here in Peru
--a life that has taught me more about who I am, helped me value more where I
come from, and dream new dreams about where I’m going. I am not yet prepared to
be uprooted from this richness. At the heart of my decision, I feel called to
stay to nurture my growing roots of kinship, spirituality, simplicity, and
social justice and to continue being grounded in my apprenticeship of learning
presence and intentionality for a little while longer.
Now, I look out onto the Andes whose base is higher than my hometown mountain, Mt.
Werner’s, summit, the landscape of fiery corn and quinoa fields, the white adobe
houses and terra cotta tiled roofs. I recognize that there was never a predetermined
trail, nor will there ever be. I am reminded of a phrase from a poem by Antonio Machado: Caminante, no hay camino, el
camino se hace al andar--traveler, there is no path, the path is made in
walking. Those back at home, thank you for walking this pathless journey with
me. Though my feet carry me ever further away, I keep you in my thoughts and
prayers in my camino.
