The Age of my Heart

The Age of my Heart

            “Todo el mundo es la edad de su corazón: everyone is the age of their heart.” This Guatemalan proverb encompasses the revelations that dominated my thoughts on our final full day in a country abundant in both transformative strength and stagnant injustice. Although the trip was undoubtedly focused on service to others, I found that the lessons I learned throughout my experience taught me more about the role I personally play in the world around me more than I could have ever dared to dream. Unlike less consummate forms of introspection that can wrongly engender selfishness, the reflection I experienced on this day inspired a swelling sense of community. This was especially prevalent as we overcame many challenges of both physical and emotional nature as a team. We trekked to the precipice of an active volcano as the sun rose over the lush green landscape. We meandered through the bustling city of Antigua to absorb the rich history and culture of the country’s former capital. (Okay, so we mostly ate great food and tried our hand at bartering with vendors in the marketplace. I was awful.) We spent the evening mulling over our week of adventure and expressing how much we mean to one another. Ultimately, the time we spent together- listening, learning, and loving- brought me to an important realization about what it means to be the age of my heart. One particularly profound definition of the word age describes it as “one of the periods or stages of human life.” By this philosophy, age is not a number, but a complex state of existence. This state is comprised of a myriad of passionate ambitions and intricate stories- many of which are not even my own. They belong to the precious people of La Limonada, to the team with whom I have traveled, and to the beacons of light and love who have dedicated their lives to bridging the divide between privilege and poverty. And yet . . . they are inextricably a part of me and my ever-growing, ever-changing, ever-beating heart.

            It beats with the joyful laughter of dear baby Charlie, who is spending the first few months of her fragile life in a country that most Americans would deem unsafe for even a week of travel. Unaware of this prejudice, she smiles brightly at the strangers who inhabit her home and giggles loudly when they make silly faces- which is often. It aches for the fear-filled brown eyes of children in the daycare of La Limonada when yet another group of strangers darkens its doors. Only moments later, the radical grace and hospitality that permeates the community takes hold from a place deep within their youthful spirits, and they reach up for warm hugs and gentle kisses on the cheek. My heart overflows as it holds dear the dreams of La Limonada’s older children; these dreams radiate with the hope and ambition that is necessary for sustainable social change. It bleeds for the teenage girl on the street corner who has temporarily put her own future on hold so she can nurture a child even though she is still one herself. It swells with the memories I have made with my own peers, each of whom are too uniquely wonderful to describe. These beautiful individuals, although less experienced in years, teach me so much about trust, innocence, and humility. In this period of my human life, I am young.

            My heart gains wisdom and discernment from those whose years have brought with them truths worth internalizing. It is warmed by the strength and diligence of my chaperones/teachers, who have spent countless hours working through the logistics of bringing a diverse group of teenagers to a foreign country. It absorbs the warm light of Daniela and Lizza, the two Lemonade Team members with whom we have worked closely. The compassion they exude for the children of La Limonada is just as fierce as it is gentle- as if these children were their very own. They have high ambitions for this marginalized community and even higher ambitions for a world where this kind of marginalization is heartbreakingly commonplace. My heart is rejuvenated by the tireless efforts of Tita, who has worked in La Limonada for longer than I have been alive, who exemplifies the remarkable truth that perfect love casts out all fear. It lifts up the elderly residents of La Limonada- fathers, mothers, sons and daughters- who believe fervently in a better future for the next generation of Guatemala. Although I may not completely understand the perspective my elders have on the world, they give me hope for the kind of vision I hope to acquire. In this period of my human life, I am growing older.

            Each face, each story, each heart- adds a new dynamic to the heart I am still trying to comprehend- my own. It is young, and it is old. It is so weak, and yet it is so strong. Every vein, every vessel that belongs to me belongs a thousand times over to a world longing simply to love and be loved. So, as I cope with my departure from the land that has captured and transformed the core of my being, I choose to look to the ends of the earth that need to feel the rhythm of my beating heart the most. Because I know now that at this period in my human life, I need to feel theirs just as desperately. Then, and only then, will I be able to understand my identity as a citizen of this beautifully broken world that we all call home.

            Muchas gracias, Guatemala. Nos vemos.

 

 

Do You Consider Yourself a Masterpiece?

Slightly interesting fact about me: I really like to write poetry. I don't get to do it as often as I'd like, and I'm no Robert Frost, but there's just something about making words come together that gets me really excited. I especially like it when I feel like I've written something that will brighten someone's day and remind them of how ridiculously loved they are. One poem that reminds me of this is Psalm 139, which famously states: "For you created my inmost being, you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well" (Psalm 139:13-14). So, I figured I'd try to incorporate this truth into a poem of my own. It's intended to be more of a spoken word thing, but since no one wants to see a video of me yelling at them, the script itself is just going to have to work. I really hope it makes you smile!

Do you consider yourself a masterpiece?

Because you know,

We live in a world where it’s easy to feel like a stick figure scribbled on scrap paper

With stubby, broken crayons,

That not even a child will pick up because the colors just aren’t

“Pretty enough.”

 

Because somehow,

We’ve all fallen captive to the presupposition

That the “best art” has to be made out of the “best stuff,”

And that only an intricate physique painted delicately on a sterile white canvas

With paint so pungent, and so bright that its pigments have to be diluted with water

Is worthy of being plastered onto the walls that we build

To detain, to disdain, to disguise, and to deprive ourselves

Of the universe that lies beyond the interior

Because we’ve decided that no one out there in the vastness

Would stand up at an auction and scream over the hushed murmur of the other bidders

Just to hold us in their soft hands and whisper

“Mine.”

 

But then, I look at you,

And I realize,

We’re wrong.

 

Because you, my dear

Are the best art,

The kind of masterpiece that deserves to be on exhibition under the fluorescent lights of an uptown gallery,

To be admired by the glimmering gazes of passersby,

Who stand in awe of the way the colors run together in all the right places brushstroke by brilliant brushstroke,

And to finally be bought at a price of nothing less than a thousand gold coins

Of love and gentleness,

To be emblazoned above the crackling embers of a warm fireplace,

In a home with transparent walls

In a universe of your very own.

 

But yet somewhere in the blurred lines between

Beauty and brokenness,

I’ve lost sight of what the “best stuff”

Really is, and I’m honestly not sure that I know anymore,

But I do know that whatever you’re made of is pretty spectacular,

Like the shimmering dust of the earth that glistens on your bare feet,

And the splendid sunshine that brings out the streaks in your hair,

And the way your soft voice breaks the earsplitting silence,

And the music that exudes from your sympathetic soul.

 

And maybe you’re made of some things that you like to conceal,

To confine to the sketches crumpled up under your bed because you didn’t want to call them art,

Like the scar you got when you stepped on a rock while trying to dance in a thunderstorm,

And the icy rain that falls from your eyes and sometimes blurs your vision when you drive,

And the way you still wake up with cold sweat in the middle of the night because you could never quite kill the monsters in the closet, 

And the shards of glass, sitting in your soul, that the music couldn’t replace when the world handed you heartbreak.

 

But I don’t care if it isn’t always the “best stuff,” or the “brightest paint,”

Fight through the cobwebs festering under your bed, take out those sketches,

And tattoo those flaws on your sun-kissed skin,

Because you, my darling,

Are fearfully, and wonderfully made,

Knitted together with the silvery threads of

Beauty and brokenness,

Woven into the greatest mess of a masterpiece,

The kind that isn’t yet complete.

 

And so if you’re ever asked to draw a self-portrait

And you scribble a stick figure on scrap paper

With stubby, broken crayons

That come in colors you just don’t think are

"Pretty enough,”

Then I will proudly plaster it over the cracks in my crumbling walls,

But then I will sit down at my cluttered desk and write you a poem to say

“You are so much more.”

You are so much more than the person the world will make you out to be, and you better not forget it.