THE SILENCE

Jodi and Connor

 

By Jodi Hawkins                                                                    

Mark 3:1-6

Now He entered the synagogue again, and a man was there who had a paralyzed hand.  In order to accuse Him, they were watching him closely to see whether He would heal him on the Sabbath.  He told the man with the paralyzed hand, “Stand before us.”  Then He said to them, “Is it lawful on the Sabbath to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?”  But they were SILENT.  After looking around at them with anger and sorrow at the hardness of their hearts, He told the man, “Stretch out your hand.”  So he stretched out it out, and his hand was restored.  Immediately the Pharisees went out and started plotting with the Herodians against Him, how they might destroy Him.

OK. So once again I stand on the threshold of mind-blowingness at the Holy Word of God.  I know that mind-blowingness is not a word, but there isn’t a word in the language currently that describes this indescribable overwhelming realization of how very big God is, how amazingly the Holy Spirit opens up eyes and ears to read pages printed on a piece of paper and then your whole world can become the highest supersonic high-def you could ever dare to envision.

Thankfully as disturbing as it is to my perceived human reality, He chooses to still blow up these pages for me…and by the way, there is nothing special about me.  If you ask, He will do the same for you.  He is mind-blowing like that.

So, this morning as I read these –literally– six sentences, I realized the irony of some things.  Like, why would you even need to ask someone which is better, to kill or to save, let alone, men of God?  Is this for real? These guys Jesus is speaking to are not just some people hanging out at the synagogue. They are keepers of the law; they know it inside and out. They eat, live and breathe the LAW.  Ah, but you see, here’s where it gets tricky.  They know the books, they know the statutes, they know what’s acceptable in that particular church society.  I mean, it was handed down to them from God. 

Adherence to Law over Love.  Sound familiar?

So, why can’t they answer a question that my son could at 10?  Good question. 

Note their silence.  Do you suppose they are quiet because it is one of the laws not to heal on the Sabbath?  Maybe they are posing the word heal instead of work at their discretion.  And since when did healing someone or helping someone –if you have the means and the power– become work?  Put the brakes on. Maybe they just don’t like the fact that this guy, Jesus, is doing things they could never dream of doing (side note:  He is not reaping the benefits of the human affluence and opulence that these men of God are) and so they are intimidated. Of course, we know this is what Jesus came for, to bring truth to earth so that we might be put back into right standing with our heavenly Father since the fall in the garden –but mind you, people still make their own decisions, and many up to this very moment are dangerously wielding the freedom that Jesus died to give them. I pray we wield it carefully.

So they are indignant and silent.  This angers and sorrows Jesus.  Remember these are the same people for whom he’s going to suffer much anguish, mental, physical and spiritual pain.  Because He suffered for ALL people to have the same opportunity of freedom from death, if they accept it (that’s the important part).  Okay, so Jesus heals the man and IMMEDIATELY the Pharisees head out to start plotting his demise.

Do you see the hardness of their hearts and why Jesus is so angered and sorrowful?  They follow the law but have no love.  They can recite the whole Law from memory, yet they have no compassion for those who are hurting.  They are hypocrites.  They are misrepresenting God and for Jesus this is a HUGE problem. As it should be for us today.

So as I am digesting these verses this morning, I had earlier read a post on Facebook on some stats of the “church”:

Why does the church in the West retain 90+% of God's resources for itself?

Why does the church in the West share only the leftovers with the Nations?

Why do the unengaged and unreached people groups today still lack even minimal access to the gospel?

Why is the bulk of sacrificial offerings directed toward buildings, staff salaries, and educational materials for those already in the Kingdom?

These stats are taken from a book, The Insanity of Obedience by Nik Ripken.  A book I would highly recommend to anyone who is interested in understanding what we as Christians need to be focused on (not just a few chosen by the way, this is a mandate to anyone who claims to follow Jesus).  It’s the same thing Jesus was and is focused on, the commission to go to the Nations and spread the gospel to the ends of the earth. Whether in your own neighborhood or across the world, in some way.

Okay, so with that Facebook post reeling in my head as I am reading this scripture, this one thing kept popping up in my mind: “Are we any different, us Christians?” Are we all bound up in the law so much, church traditions, and our own ideals of what it means to be “Christian,” that we forget to love?  Well, then if we are it’s no wonder the world doesn’t notice us, no wonder they can’t tell us apart from everyone else, no wonder they don’t see us as different, no wonder all this time has passed since Jesus suffered and died on that cross and there are still people who haven’t even heard his name in our neighborhood, let alone in the Nations.

I don’t know if what I am trying to say is getting through.  I pray it does.  I don’t have any theological training, as you can tell, but I do have the Holy Spirit. It doesn’t make me an expert in conveying this. It makes me a sinner like anyone who is reading this, a sinner who is allowing God to work out her own salvation, as Paul puts it, with fear and trembling.  And I tell you this one is going to be important.  I’d say imperative.

So please, wake up Church –myself not excluded. Stop worrying about raising more money for a better sound system when there are people who have never heard the name of Jesus Christ or know the sole purpose of his life and death.  Stop planning church picnics and potlucks when people in your neighborhood are suffering physically for lack of resources and spiritually for need of the gospel.  Stop worrying about church rules and rhetoric and do the thing that Jesus wants us to do. To love, the rest will follow.

Please Father God I pray that we wake up.  I pray that we don’t stand silently by in our churchness while only a stone’s throw away people suffer for lack of the truth that Jesus lived and died to bring.  I pray when Jesus asks us if it’s lawful on the Sabbath to save life or to kill, we respond with the right answer, the right action. If you’re not sure what that right action or word is, just look at the cross again. As a matter of fact, don’t take your eyes off it, church.   

Too much is at stake.

I pray that those who have eyes would see and those who have ears would hear. 

Jodi Hawkins is: Wife and mother

                              Follower of Jesus Christ

                              Intercessor

                              Missionary

 

 

CELEBRATING TODAY

By Ms. Dinorah

I’m going to celebrate my day! There is so much to be thankful for, extraordinary simple things that nourish our souls. Nobody, except God himself, has the power to keep us from experiencing the joy of the Lord. People may take away other things but never the joy of having God in our lives. The joy of the Lord fills the living pictures of naughty squirrels I look at near the Menil Collection. It fills the music I love to listen to. It fills my students’ faces and the classroom atmosphere when I show up. It fills the sky when I feel tired of sitting in front of the computer screen. It fills my dream.

Even disappointments can bring occasions for us to experience the joy of the Lord, if we are willing, if we focus on the good, if we have confidence in the good that is larger and more significant than any kind of disappointments one may go through. When the joy of the Lord is the ocean we bathe in –and all credit goes to Jesus-, customary disappointments may even bring us to laughter instead of tears.

I am going to praise God for all the good I have in my life, plenty of good. What can I say? I don’t have any good excuse to be unhappy because: 

• I have received massive measures of good for all the wrong directly or indirectly done to me by others, myself, or the devil.
• I  have received mercy and learned good lessons from all the wrong that I directly or indirectly have done to other people.
• I am confident I will always enjoy an abundant life for all the wrong I have brought to the devil by directly or indirectly doing good and showing mercy to others.

I will celebrate today, with songs of love and Jesus overflowing my life. Storms may hit, but they can’t defeat us. Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning in so many forms: sunshine, a cup of coffee, especially if it’s Cuban, the blue skies, healing opportunities, books to read, real people personifying the love of God. (Unless we use misery to create artworks like Hamlet, or The Hamletmachine, or Roberto Zucco, or Charlotte Corday. Poema Dramático –a masterpiece by my friend and writer Nara Mansur, which I will publish on the blog shortly- I honestly think just being plain happy is more beautiful and meaningful).

I will enjoy dreaming

I will enjoy reading (...Great works of art, including those portraying the misery of humankind, can lead us to appreciate the abundance and healing power of God's love all the more!)

I will enjoy writing, taking pictures, loving, dancing, his presence everywhere, my family, breathing, seeing, feeling, building castles on the clouds, and knowing that I am alive today.

WONDERS OF BEING A WOMAN...

Unconditionally Loved

         I’ve noticed that after having said “Yes, yes, yes…” to God, it is difficult for me not to receive his healing love. God’s love heals my humanity. It makes the grown-up ape inside me evolve into a child-like being. When we are loved so unconditionally, we feel safe to do audacious things, like wanting to learn to love without strings attached.

Being loved unconditionally, one dares to dream in every situation, when we have too much or when we have too little, whether we are asleep or awake. Even if we don’t physically have all the people whom we care about near us, we appreciate that we do have some, and to the best of our abilities, blindly, deafly, stubbornly, imaginarily, we love and let ourselves be loved by those who are far away, trusting that God will take care of the rest.

This story is not about me, what I want, what I need, what I feel, what I think, whom I miss. But it could be about a dream. It could be about something greater than purely statistical procedures, expert explanations, the book of Mars, the space of Venus, winning, or losing. For the truth is, we can’t escape from unconditional love once it is born into us, no matter how creepy, I wish I could think of a different word, it may all seem from this side of the fence.

I have discovered that I am stronger than I think, really. (See wild bear inside). So I am going to be infatuated with an imagined perfection, as David Whyte says. I’ll not only let my hoped-for intuitions be true, but I will also receive a bunch of stars as bonuses:

STAR ELENA

STAR MINAL

                                                   

STAR MAKOTO

                                                                 

STAR ROSANGELICA

STAR ANNA

STAR MICHELL

That’s why I have imagination! What else will carry me through?  So, I say, “I am the woman whom Jesus loves.” (No offense, Martha, you’re still a success in the business world). I don’t have to be the most prettiest, the most immaculatest or the most perfectest…

I am the woman whom Jesus loves. 

FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE

One of Mami's Little Treasures

By Ms. Dinorah

People teach us the way they like to be treated. They put us in our place. I once had a high school student who clarified to me, “Lady, you ain’t my momma. You don’t pay my rent. You don’t pay my bills. You ain’t gonna tell me what to do. I don’t owe you respect just because you are a teacher. You’re nobody.” Well, I had asked him to do something that he didn’t want to do. I took him to the principal’s office. I myself didn’t know what to do. I had yelled and screamed, which I shouldn’t have done. He was right. Although I didn’t like the way it sounded, what he said was true.

Sometimes, we teachers judge our students’ reactions toward us inaccurately. Matthew Lipman says, “Seeing children as irrational rather than as resolute in protecting their own integrity is a misinterpretation of childhood experience.” The same happens with high school students and people, in general. It is so easy to judge others because they don’t engage. Maybe we are not engaging. Or, maybe they have engaged in more meaningful and rewarding activities. We are not perfect. There were occasions when I didn’t even want to go to this school. I know it sounds terrible. It is the truth. I never missed a work day. I had the confidence that working in that place would translate into something positive in the long run, like patient endurance, besides my standard certificate, but I wasn’t joyful there, and it showed. “You hate this job,” another student had told me earlier in the year. My heart whispered, “Yes, I do…” I didn’t admit it. I wanted so much to make a difference by becoming a classroom teacher. It didn’t work out.

I may be called to teach, but I am not a superhero. That’s what classroom teachers are. They are superheroes, having to deal not only with teaching, discipline, procedures but also with an avalanche of paperwork and external pressure. I have strengths and weaknesses. I enjoy crafting creative learning instances where students are invited to explore, to discover, but I dislike enforcing them upon those who choose to do otherwise. And I love teamwork. Teamwork enhances the quality of any experience in addition to providing opportunities for people to learn from one another. Each person brings his/her own strengths to the table and helps the other become stronger. Most of my former high school students were extremely generous with me. They saw me as a happy person and accepted me, despite my ineffectiveness as a standard classroom teacher and frequent screaming. Some produced wonderful work and, with their resilient attitudes, inspired me to never lose faith in the goodness of people. These, the Doctors of Creativity, were mostly from my junior class, along with a few bright committed sophomores. Others, like a freshman I will call Mr. Unreachable, and to whom nothing I did or said was worth his full presence in the classroom, were given the chance to practice at least for a little while how to put up with someone who hadn’t been called to be their typical teacher.

Interestingly, after the student from paragraph 1 made it clear to me that I wasn’t his mother, he began working even harder than he previously had had. He was always among the first ones in turning in assignments and following directions that often I didn’t even have to give. Not that the whole situation became ideal because we suddenly started to behave impeccably either as a classroom teacher or a student. My best memories still come from the moments when we worked as a team, in peace and harmony, respecting each other’s views, differences, and experiences. I made many more mistakes, and they forgave me. And they also made mistakes, and I forgave them. From time to time, I still use my student’s words to rebuke negative, faultfinding voices screaming in my head. After all, these voices ain’t my momma. They don’t pay my rent (my little brother does). They don’t pay my bills. And they definitely ain’t no teacher. 

HEAVEN

By Ms. Dinorah

I love the song Stairway to Heaven. Anytime I hear it, the sound of the music brings me back to God. For, as the apostle Paul would say, “He raised us from the dead along with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms.” Heaven is going to be breathtaking, a place for pure love, pure joy, pure life, with Led Zeppelin, and the Beatles, and Pearl Jam, and many others playing songs in the background. No more barriers in Heaven. No more physical, mental, emotional imperfections. No more fear of the unknown. He will be there! And I am going to be so pretty that he will love to look at me. In Heaven, I may even be the right person for him, or the right angel. One never knows. For now, it is what it is. Sometimes we make progress in one area, say the fruit of the spirit, and yet struggle to cope with the standards of the world. On this side of the lake, or the pond, or the door, or the sea, you will have tribulations but take heart because Jesus (in his love for us) has overcome them all.

So since Heaven awaits us, we can hold on to our faith and enjoy the journey, living with great anticipation. Oh, the power, the beauty of Heaven is so beyond belief that, while climbing our God-given stairway, we have the ability to find endless motivations to “sing for the laughter and for the tear” as our lives unfold. Yes, I am confident we will also have the best of Aerosmith in Heaven –for free. And true, we won’t deserve it. As a matter of fact, we don’t deserve any of the gifts God has freely given us, not his love, not our hopes, not the faculty to sense what is beyond belief, not the people who care about us, not the opportunity to learn from our mistakes and start all over again, to dream again. Could that be one of the ways we intuit that we have been truly blessed? Oftentimes I think how in the world did I have this incredible person as my professor, or my friend, or my brother? How did I get to be in the same family line as my grandparents?

 “God is so rich in mercy, and he loved us so much, that even though we were dead because of our sins, he gave us life,” the apostle Paul said. I say, thank you, Jesus! Thank you for not giving up on me when I thought that having people’s approval was more important than discovering my true self. Thank you for carrying me through the tough times, skin breakouts, physical and soul pains, excessive weight loss, solitude, low self-esteem, pride, despair, resentment, and into the person I will become. Thank you for all the tastes of Heaven, especially the musical ones, that consistently energize me to climb the stairway with you.

THE MESSAGE

By Ms. Dinorah

A friend of mine told me the other day I should at least write one blog a week. “Your site needs you,” my friend said. The question is…What am I going to write? Sometimes ideas come easily. Sometimes they don’t. Or, sometimes the ideas that do come are not the ones you would enjoy writing. As Joel Osteen says, “Be positive or be quiet.” Quietude may be very appropriate when you yourself recognize it as a vehicle for positivity. Assuming that positive ideas will come my way, I can make an effort and write down a few words. The question again is… What am I going to write?

There is more to writing than the message we wish to convey through words, like the sound of it, for example. What does your message sound like? What do your words sound like? I have discovered that sometimes it is a sound –I would call it a sound because It need not occur as a legible combination of words- what captures my heart. I could write about the song that has been playing in my head since yesterday. It made me smile and cry a little too. I could write about the book I am forcing myself to read, thus to imagine what its message sounds like. I could write about the peaceful view out my window, create a story, build two metaphors (his voice is my refuge, his love is my strength), express my feelings –sensations, awareness-, or wish him well.

I have no idea what to write. I guess I will try to write a sound, not a pretty one, a roar. When you have really nothing to say you start either roaring like a hungry animal or speaking in tongues through the Holy Spirit, or both. There were times, during trainings of physical theater in college, when you thought your body couldn’t resist training any longer, the professor said, “There, that is a moment of creation!” (And you just want to evaporate! But there is more to you than what you want). Your body starts acting on its own accord, or so you think, speaking in tongues through the Holy Spirit, or, again, both. This post is about producing a sound (imagine it with a strong Cuban accent if you can, almost incoherent), rather than a word, a combination of words, let alone making sense. Sometimes it’s just a bare sound what you need, a sound surpassing our own understanding, a flesh and blood feeling (I wonder if this could be possible to feel), a touch, a taste. The question is…What am I going to write?

ON MOTIVES

A few days ago, as I was listening to one of my favorite Bible teachers preach a sermon, I started thinking of the motives behind my actions. She was talking about the importance of doing good things for the right reasons. I sincerely agreed with what she said. It would be great if we all did whatever it is we are doing with the full conviction that we are doing it for the right reasons. But, I have noted that sometimes thinking too much about the “whys” –why did I do that, why will I do that, why would I want to do that, why should I do that…-makes me not want to do absolutely anything because I feel afraid that my motives could be wrong. It has the opposite effect. In trying to discern my reasons, and the reasons behind my reasons –which, lately, I have come to believe will never be totally well-defined to me for a good reason- I grow so weary, bewildered, that I even begin doubting any of my deeds can have any positive influence at all.

I will not question my motives anymore. God, not I, is in charge of judging me, myself, my reasons, and my actions. The fact that sometimes I may not be fully aware of the nature of my reasons will not prevent God from doing the good that he wants to do through me. I pray that my motives are genuinely right, but judging myself again and again for doing this or that, or neither, is not my business. There is nothing more wonderful than to enter the rest of God and to have the confidence that He will indeed judge us rightfully. So we can do what we believe to be right. In this respect, I honestly think that, if the reasons behind our so-called good actions are wrong, cloudy, still unclear, God will make sure that we keep learning and growing until our motivations fall into the realm of the right. As the Bible says, “Whatever is good and perfect comes down to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens. He never changes or casts a shifting shadow.”

GARABATO No. 23

     

Por Eduardo Rodríguez Solís

      Ahí está. Arriba del Popocatépetl, justamente en la esquina suroeste del cráter. Ahí, a pocos pasos de la vieja polea que subía y bajaba al malacate o canastilla, donde se llevaba azufre para los arcabuces y pistolas, en aquellos tiempos de Hernán Cortés, el Gran Capitán. Ahí está, listo para caer, para no levantarse, para caer por esa pendiente pronunciada.

      Y se decide, y empieza a deslizarse, dando vueltas como un artista de circo, que maromea, cayendo siempre, por la pendiente, aumentando la velocidad en esa caída natural y obligada.

      Y va dando tumbos, como un barril cargado de tierra, viendo hacia arriba y hacia abajo, sin perder la conciencia en ese tobogán que es la vida, cayendo en las eternidades, en lo oscuro de la existencia, moviéndose uno a la velocidad del rayo, sin poder parar, porque en la vida si se cae uno no se detiene, porque la inercia es infinita.

      Al caer, como se está experimentando, uno ve instantáneas de cosas que han pasado, porque los recuerdos van saltando, como si brincaran de un sombrero de copa. Porque entonces uno se convierte en un mago que fabrica ilusiones.

      Y la caída prosigue por las faldas de ese volcán, que está pegado a la Mujer Dormida, otro accidente topográfico de ese valle que siempre nos ha rodeado.

      Y de pronto, entre maroma y maroma, vamos detrás de nuestra madre, pellizcando con fuerza su vestido, para no perdernos, en este valle de lágrimas que nos ha tocado, y vamos por el mercado, comprando y mercando jitomates y cebollas, y pechugas de pollo, y huevo fresco de rancho lejano. Y brincamos los charcos del piso de cemento, y nos mojamos las rodillas… Porque la rueda de la fortuna sigue adelante…

      Giros y más giros, y vamos creando vientos y aires. Y aunque a veces tragamos polvos de los caminos, vamos contentos porque ahora la existencia depende del azar, de la fortuna. Y la felicidad, con tanta maroma, se vuelve una rutina feliz, placentera.

      Y ahí vamos, resbalando la vida, saboreando los peligros… Hasta que caemos en un hoyo que se sospecha profundo…

      Ahora, la trayectoria ha dejado de ser inclinada y se ha tornado vertical. Ya no se toca el terreno, y ahora todo, absolutamente todo, se vuelve oscuridad… Pero las imágenes de cosas pasadas se siguen sucediendo, como si fueran una película vieja, rayada, silenciosa. Y vemos a amigos y a enemigos, y vemos sonrisas y llantos, carcajadas y gestos de dolor.

      Y ahí vamos como un proyectil que nunca para, aumentando velocidades, evitando riesgos y peligros.

      Caemos como un proyectil militar y no sabemos a dónde vamos a llegar… El principio fue la boca del cráter, la boca del volcán Popocatépetl… El final, no lo conocemos. Se sabe el primer paso, y se desconoce el punto final.

      Pero de pronto, después de dos largas jornadas, vemos la luz. El paisaje es extraño, lleno de pagodas y jardines floridos. Estamos del otro lado de planeta. Todo huele a Oriente, a paz y tranquilidad.

      Empezamos a pisar el nuevo destino. La vida nuestra está cambiando. El sol –dicen-- aquí es distinto.

      Camina uno por pisos blandos y uno llega a una casa con paredes de papel transparente. Hay que sentarse en el suelo, sin cojines abajo. Hay arroz blanco con pescado crudo, todo salpicado con una salsa muy picante. Con una cuchara de cerámica hay que comer en absoluto silencio.

      Hay recuerdos de la boca del volcán y casi uno se olvida del nombre… Popocatépetl, palabra mágica, llena de misterio mexicano…

      Y hay nostalgia aguda por haber dejado aquel mundo surrealista, aquel universo azteca. Pero hay una esperanza viva en el otro lado del planeta, donde hay un nuevo sol, que quizás cambie el sino de cada quien.

      Y se ve, a lo largo del horizonte, una larga fila de creyentes de los dioses viejos o nuevos. Por sus ademanes, se puede creer que rezan o ruegan a media voz. Y todo esto lo hacen en las alturas, muy cerca de las nubes, como si estuvieran en la boca del cráter del eternamente amado Popocatépetl.

Eduardo Rodríguez Solís (D.F.) ha publicado libros de teatro, cuento y novela. Fue el primer editor de la revista Mester, del Taller de Juan José Arreola. Ha recibido reconocimientos nacionales por Banderitas de papel picado, Sobre los orígenes del hombre, Doncella vestida de blanco y El señor que vestía pulgas. Su cuento San Simón de los Magueyes ha sido premiado y llevado al cine por Alejandro Galindo, con guión de Carlos Bracho. Su obra de teatro Las ondas de la Catrina ha sido representada en muchos países, así como en Broadway, New York. Actualmente vive y trabaja en Houston, Texas. (erivera1456@yahoo.com)

GARABATO No. 9

     

     

 Por Eduardo Rodríguez Solís

      Hoy en la mañana me fui a Walmart a comprar algunas chácharas (esta palabra del lenguaje coloquial de la ciudad de México quiere decir “cosas, cachivaches, baratijas”). Al final, busqué un CD de un grupo llamado Il Volo. Me ayudó una dependienta muy linda. Me fijé bien que el CD contuviera “Historia de un amor”, canción que alguna vez grabó Antonio Prieto.

      Il Volo es un trío de muchachos que está teniendo mucho éxito. La agradable dependienta me dijo “esos muchachos son preciosos”. En el grupo está un jovenzazo que estaba muy gordo y que parecía luchador japonés de Sumo. Este joven bajó ya muchas libras y ahora tiene perfil de bailarín de ballet.

      Cuando me salí del supermercado y ya casi me subía a mi truck rojo, observé a un hombre que fumaba un cigarillo. Disfrutaba profundamente del tabaco. Luego vino el final de ese deleite y puso la colilla del cigarillo entre su pulgar y el tercer dedo de su mano derecha. Y estando la catapulta lista, pum, arrojó el proyectil hacia la calle.

      Yo me puse a pensar en la montaña de colillas de cigarillo que se hace con la basura de los fumadores de la ciudad de Houston. (En un mes se puede levantar un volcán.)

      Luego pensé en un proyecto sabatino que hicieron los miembros de una asociación de colonos de esta ciudad. Todos con chaleco amarillo, se pusieron a recoger basura a lo largo de una avenida. Juntaron botes vacíos de refrescos, envolturas de dulces y otras chácharas. Laboraron varias horas y terminaron muy cansados, pero con la sonrisa plena por la labor realizada.

      Pensé también que primero se debe persuadir a la gente para no tirar basura.

      Y recordé bien que en California, si un policía te ve tirar a la calle la envoltura de unos dulces, o de lo que sea, te ponen una multa.

      Cuando llegué a la casa escuché el CD de esos jóvenes cantantes. Son muy buenos. Son como un oasis en un desierto inmenso donde los sonidos destrozan tímpanos.

      Mientras escuchaba esta bella música, imaginé que muchos fumadores de cigarillos del planeta entero, hacen muchas veces sus catapultas con sus dedos para arrojar los despojos de su vicio adorado.

      ¿Por qué no se los comen?

      Pero es difícil enseñar buenas maneras a estos amantes del tabaco. Mientras manejan, sus autos se consumen en el cigarrillo, y cuando la ceniza ha ocupado todo el espacio, abren la ventanilla para arrojarla. No la echan en el cenicero de su carro, porque el auto hay que cuidarlo, porque el auto es la vida, y la vida tiene que estar limpia.

      La ceniza hay que arrojarla a las calles. Dicen que es poquita basura, que apenas se nota en la contaminada ciudad. Bueno, eso dicen ellos.

Eduardo Rodríguez Solís (D.F.) ha publicado libros de teatro, cuento y novela. Fue el primer editor de la revista Mester, del Taller de Juan José Arreola. Ha recibido reconocimientos nacionales por Banderitas de papel picado, Sobre los orígenes del hombre, Doncella vestida de blanco y El señor que vestía pulgas. Su cuento San Simón de los Magueyes ha sido premiado y llevado al cine por Alejandro Galindo, con guión de Carlos Bracho. Su obra de teatro Las ondas de la Catrina ha sido representada en muchos países, así como en Broadway, New York. Actualmente vive y trabaja en Houston, Texas. (erivera1456@yahoo.com)

MEANINGFUL WEIRDNESS

We all have acted weirdly sometimes, haven’t we? The good news is that it’s never too late to rectify mistakes and make better choices. What happens, however, with our supposed “weirdness” later on in life? Does it simply disappear? I don’t think so. In fact, I believe it always stays with us. Could it be that that assumed “weirdness” is actually what makes us special, different from other people? If so, what can we do with it? I think one can use that weirdness to help, to hurt, or to hide. Out of their very exclusive and unique weirdness people may develop desires to either love, crush or be indifferent to those around them. But, who could really witness the pains, fears, other deeper issues bursting in their minds and hearts?

As a wonderfully weird singer says, “we all do what we can.” We are not to judge but to love. Very often, in my writing class, my students and I divide the whole group into four teams to debate a particular topic. So, each team gets to propose an argument, providing at least two good reasons in support of what they believe in relation to the given theme. I love that they don’t feel they have to think like I do. Because they are respected, not manipulated, they can flourish. Yes, sadly, my students, as each and every single person on the planet, will have to deal with tricky people, random individuals who will be willing to mislead them into believing what they want. Some may grow cold. Others, mad. But, many will remember where their true value comes from, as well as the priceless, exceptional meaning of their “weirdness.” I am sure these will have no need to defraud anybody, not even for the sake of Love.

HALLELUJAH

Jean Dubuffet: Monument Au Fantome
Discovery Green, Houston

I have the love I always wanted. It gives me strength and freedom to offer who I am. I am glad I did not have a pet -although it might have been helpful- to distract me when I felt so hopeless and sad back in 2008. I am grateful that nothing (not even my grandmother’s voice on the phone) could fill the void in my heart. I am grateful that the fear of being “alone” was definitely much, much less than the fear of dying inside. I am grateful I did not believe in Karma. I am grateful that practicing yoga or talking to a friend still left me hungry, sometimes even emptier than before. I am grateful that God used not just anybody but a man who walked on water in the most ordinary city in the world, to inspire me to expect the unexpected in life.

Elegant, polished, spotless, unreachable, he certainly looked as if he had never broken a sweat. Perhaps, that’s the reason I never went back to see him again, for looking at him deeply hurt my soul. I am grateful, however, I did not conform to the idea of hiding my wounds as I openly cried out to God; thus, he healed me and granted me the privilege to be totally free from relying too much on people’s (including my own) perceptions. Mainly, he healed me so that I could live out who I am and enjoy myself. I am grateful for being who I am. I am grateful that I can say I am in love with Jesus, regardless of what people may think of me, because I am loved by him. Love frees me to hear his tender voice in my heart, to stay open to learn from a second grader’s poem as much as from Dostoyevsky, to know that not having a tattoo makes me neither any better nor any less cool than those who do have one, to understand that, even if I tried to, I could never be a successful “businessman”: I truly like being a happy woman.

 Hallelujah!

LETTER FROM THE PRACTICE

I waited for you in the lobby and entered the auditorium five minutes before the service began. I really missed you there. I would’ve loved for you to have experienced what trusting someone must have been like and how fulfilling it still could be, regardless of momentary reactions of disillusionment or distress. Walking with God is somewhat of “an art and a science that takes willingness, time and understanding,” as a witty preacher says. I think it is nearly the same as walking with people. In order to trust a human being, plenty of insight and practice are needed.

I can understand when people don’t trust me because I myself trust neither everything nor everybody. Trust is a delicate matter, and each person on the surface of the Earth has been given the opportunity to choose whom to trust. When I decide to trust someone, for example, I am also very conscious that I may be disappointed. However, I don’t make “disappointment” an excuse to become distrustful. (I would much rather excuse people from “pleasing” or “doing” something for me if they show no sign of enthusiasm.)  No, I have God in my life. As God will ever fulfill my trust, I can risk loving, believing, and even being disappointed. In other words, I am able to risk living. For the truth is that I am not exempt from letting others down, including those who’ve kindly chosen to believe in me.

There will always be papers to write, calls to make, visits to arrange, ideas to crystallize, “goals” to accomplish. Publishing a book, for instance, could almost be as rewarding as are falling in love with someone and adopting a child. But, once again, one has been given the possibility to choose whom to trust. I, in particular, have willingly chosen to trust God with what produces the fruit of hope in me, for, despite any disappointments I may face now or in the future, hope will always cause me to be alive.

It is my wish you are in good health, physically, mentally, and spiritually.

With sympathy,

               Ms. Dinorah

GARABATO No. 1

Isabel Pérez: Sister Cat

 

Por Eduardo Rodríguez Solís

 

      Nosotros vivimos en casitas blandengues, que tienen una plancha delgada de cemento, que viene a ser el piso, que está casi a raíz de los pastos. Con el tiempo, el piso se ladea o se fractura. Entonces hay que llamar a los especialistas que inyectan algo abajo, para recuperar “lo plano original”.

      Teniendo esa placa de cemento, empieza la construcción de la vivienda y se hace una especie de esqueleto de madera, señalándose bien los huecos de puertas y ventanas.

      Luego, se hace un techo, generalmente de dos aguas.

      Después, se forran paredes y techo. Las paredes, con unas placas de yeso y cemento, y los techos con láminas hechizas de madera.

      Las paredes tienen recubrimiento de los dos lados.

      Ah, y los techos se recubren con unas láminas de material que tiene algo de arena mezclada con chapopote.

      Cuando hay ventiscas que a veces se vuelven tormentas horribles, los techos salen volando porque las estructuras y el todo de éstos se fijan estúpidamente con clavos, en lugar de tornillos con tuercas.

      Hay que ver a un explorador que anda por las montañas con su sombrero. Si su “hat” va nomás puesto, y llega un vientazo, pues su sombrero se lo lleva el tren. Pero si su “hat” va agarrado a la barbilla con una cinta, no pasa nada.

      (Y cuando hay incendios, todo se quema de lo lindo, porque nuestras casas tienen esqueletos de madera.)

      Cuando vienen los fríos, como el de ayer en la madrugada, se hace hielo en los techos, y se siente el frío en los interiores de las casas. Es ahí cuando el aire caliente entra en acción, y suben las cuentas del consumo de electricidad.

      Hoy, en la mañana, salí con el frío a alimentar los tres gatos que son nuestros y que viven afuera.

      En la bodega, que tiene puertita para gatos, estaba el gato vagabundo, grandulón, con cara de gángster. Éste dormitaba como Sheik, en tremendo colchón redondo, “hecho para gatos o perros”. En un rincón, aparte, estaba la hermana de este cabrón.

      Acaricié a los dos, y la maldita gatita me tiró una tarascada, y me hizo cuatro cortes en la palma de la mano derecha. El corte de la extrema derecha fue profundo, y hubo que chupar varias veces la herida. (La sangre no estaba dulce.)

      Al frente de la casa, protegida por el techo del garaje, estaba la mamá de los felinos. Ésta es una alma buena. No tira tarascadas.

      Cuando me metí a la casa, me apliqué alcohol en mis heridas y vi en un rincón a la otra gata, que se llama “Mole”. Dormía placenteramente, con su bonito aspecto de “plato de arroz con mole” (porque su pelambre es blanco en un 60%, con manchas negras y anaranjadas).

      Me llené de energía al escuchar el Concierto para (¿dos?) mandolinas de Antonio Vivaldi.

      Miré el cielo y no pasó ningún Boeing 787.

      Todos estos aviones están ya parados. Ya no vuelan. Les van a revisar una batería que se calienta y puede producir incendios. Es una batería como las de las computadoras, pero grande. En las computadoras, hay un ventilador que previene los posibles desastres. En los 787 no hay ni un abanico.

      Estos 787 no tienen estructura y recubrimientos de metal, como las naves anteriores. Son puro plástico de juguetería para ricos (material ideal para los incendios).

Eduardo Rodríguez Solís (D.F.) ha publicado libros de teatro, cuento y novela. Fue el primer editor de la revista Mester, del Taller de Juan José Arreola. Ha recibido reconocimientos nacionales por Banderitas de papel picado, Sobre los orígenes del hombre, Doncella vestida de blanco y El señor que vestía pulgas. Su cuento San Simón de los Magueyes ha sido premiado y llevado al cine por Alejandro Galindo, con guión de Carlos Bracho. Su obra de teatro Las ondas de la Catrina ha sido representada en muchos países, así como en Broadway, New York. Actualmente vive y trabaja en Houston, Texas. (erivera1456@yahoo.com)

A THANK-YOU NOTE

 

Dear Preaching Angel,

 

Craig Brian Larson once wrote, “Going the extra mile doesn’t usually make good business sense, but it makes great spiritual sense.” What you do for your/our community is very valuable: you preach kindness. We must preach kindness, with our words and attitudes, to those around us at all times, regardless of what we are called to do for living. When I catch myself forgetting or refusing to act in kind ways, I think of a very special person who preaches goodness by simply being who he is. Goodness is so natural in him that people can’t help but love him. Any person would want to spend hours and hours near him. Like many others, my world became more beautiful and filled with hope because of him. Knowing he is alive and well is all that matters!

Your ongoing kindnesses are also dearly appreciated. “Unlikely” or not, you’re a good, resilient angel. But even angels sometimes may feel lonely, blue or misunderstood though they seem to have a million friends, put on pride every morning and keep preaching their hearts out. When I receive email newsletters, I automatically hit the Delete button, except for yours. I couldn’t say whether I am too childish, too spiritual, or too arrogant for, as strange as it may sound, I personally believe Jesus “preaches” to me that “it’s not always going to be this gray” through your writings. I have been refreshed and inspired by every story.

Thank you,

TGW

 

 

ERIKA RIVERA Y EL VAGONCITO VERDE

Por Eduardo Rodríguez Solís

 

      A Erika Rivera, que es Rivera por el apellido de su primer marido, le gustan mucho las flores, las plantas. A mí (que soy el segundo) me gustan también. Ella es alemana, pero cuando la guerra, la familia se tuvo que ir a Luxemburgo. Durante su niñez, corrió por campos y praderas, y pudo recoger zarzamoras para luego hacer mermelada. Era lo que se llama una amante de la naturaleza. Y esa pasión le ha seguido por todas partes.

      Le gustan tanto las actividades del jardín, que una nieta, recién le regaló un vagoncito para cargar cosas de un lado a otro. Ese obsequio llegó en una caja y había que armarlo. Siendo un producto chino, sus instrucciones venían en inglés y en español. Era un rompecabezas sensacional que casi se necesitaba un doctorado de la Universidad de Oxford para armarlo con éxito.

      Utilizando toda la capacidad de mi cerebro (ojo: uno usa muy poquito para las cosas de la vida), empecé con la tarea. Y ahí me fui, poco a poco, poniendo tornillos, fierros y tuercas… Pero tuve un accidente… Una tuerca se me fue rodando y cayó en la rendija que hay entre dos secciones del patio de cemento… Y me sentí perdido…

     Entonces me acordé que Johanna, la madre de Erika, tenía un anaquel con muchos cajoncitos, llenos de clavos, rondanas, tornillos y tuercas… Busqué y busqué, y lo encontré… Y en el segundo cajón encontré la tuerca que me faltaba… Grité varias veces “eureka”, y terminé de armar el vagoncito…

      Johanna Kohl, cuando se fue de este mundo, nos dejó su casita llena de recuerdos. Varias colecciones de revistas y catálogos que le llegaban de Alemania, muchos enanitos de plástico o de madera, de la buena suerte (vestidos a la usanza alemana), y muchos botes sin abrir de café muy bueno (cosa que nos duró varios años)… Y tantas y tantas cosas…

      Johanna Kohl, buena mujer alemana, mamá de Erika Geimer Rivera, me salvó la vida. Gracias a ese anaquel ordenado de clavos, rondanas, tornillos y tuercas, pude terminar de armar ese vagón verde…

      Algunos de los enanitos de la buena suerte se vinieron a nuestra casa. Son buenos compañeros y se puede –si uno tiene imaginación—platicar con ellos. Son como la gente de campo, sencillos y siempre están listos para ayudar… Sólo hay que gritarles… Y vienen luego luego…

      El vagoncito verde tiene su personalidad. ¿Por qué no?

Eduardo Rodríguez Solís (D.F.) ha publicado libros de teatro, cuento y novela. Fue el primer editor de la revista Mester, del Taller de Juan José Arreola. Ha recibido reconocimientos nacionales por Banderitas de papel picado, Sobre los orígenes del hombre, Doncella vestida de blanco y El señor que vestía pulgas. Su cuento San Simón de los Magueyes ha sido premiado y llevado al cine por Alejandro Galindo, con guión de Carlos Bracho. Su obra de teatro Las ondas de la Catrina ha sido representada en muchos países, así como en Broadway, New York. Actualmente vive y trabaja en Houston, Texas. (erivera1456@yahoo.com)