Dominica, Part 2

Dominica, Dec. 1^st, Part 2

I run upstairs to my cabin on deck 5.  My memory of this is in stuttered glimpses, I think because my brain was stuttering in what I could take in.  I collapse in sobs first for Casey.  I get up and start to change out of my wet clothes.  I collapse again then for Casey’s parents.  I start to put on dry clothes.  I collapse again for us on the ship, for Casey’s friends and for our entire community.  I get water and Kleenex.  I collapse one more time in the cabin for everyone back in Charlottesville & UVA, for everyone who works for ISE and who sends us all of out into the big wide world time and time again.   This all happens in about five minutes.  In dry clothes, with Kleenex and water, I head up into the Union.  All around are students crying, holding each other, wrapped in blankets, and boxes of tissues—these last two signs of how much the crew cares and is trying to help in any way that they can.  Jacques and Emily and others (I’m sorry, I do not remember who) are standing in the center of the Union.  I go up to Jacques and I think I said, “Really?” and I think he said “Really”, and then he took me in his arms and I cried on his shoulder.  I know there are people all around crying, and I’m supposed to be offering what little comfort I can, I’m supposed to be offering my shoulder too, but first there are tears.  I try to gather myself, and I finally ask “How?”  And Jacques tells me.  And I collapse again into his shoulder, now knowing that the people crying around me are both grieving and traumatized.  I do not know how a vessel can hold so much pain.  I do know that I will be forever grateful for Jacques and Emily and Jonathan and Kierra and Renee and Brett and Kai and Kate and Isaiah and Annalyn and Chris and Gudrun and Dr. Greg and Dr. Ann and Mary and Damian and Pema and John and LaVohn and Randy and Shimim and Andrea and Darlene and Kathy and Matt B. and Mark P. and Bruce and Don and Lisa and Mikki and Keith and Joe and Jessa and Kim and Claire and Holly and Seth and Jack and Katie and Julie and Inez and Ian and Conrad and Danielle and Alex and Brandon and Jackson and Cathy and Shelby and Rebecca and Eddie and Jake and Jordan and Katie and Jennifer and Maritza and Cameron and Allie and Jess and Donovan and Andrew and everyone who offered their love and grace to one another as we pulled together to support one another as best we could. 

Later that night, John Tymitz calls everyone to the Union and tells people in person what happened.  Later that night, I sit with Dominican police officers for an hour as they take a statement from one of Casey’s friends who was there.  Later that night, Pema and Kate encourage me to eat something.  Pema brings me an apple.  Kate asks what I want, I don’t want anything, but I know that eating is fuel, and so I say I just want vegetables.  Jerry, from the deck 7 bar, finds me in Tymitz about ten minutes later and runs up with a handful of paper—“Here, here is the paper for you!”  Everyone trying to help.  Except I have no idea why it is so imperative for me to have paper right in that moment, and then we all figure out that Kate asked Jerry to get a pepper for me because I wanted vegetables, and there are green peppers for pizza on deck 7, and  peppers turned into the emergency paper.   Ten minutes late I do get a plate of sliced green peppers, which I do eat, and somehow they do help.

The next morning about 70 of us quietly walk to a church in Dominica at 7:30 in the morning.  It is hot and tropical and we are still stunned. The congregation there welcomes us with grace.

Other stuttered snapshots from that week:

Standing out in the rain during our last on-ship time.  All of the student life staff is there (so grateful for every one of them), welcoming students back on board, subdued energy, gentle hugs and some smiles and some tears.  Staying behind to be the last staff back on the ship, claiming that. Letting the rain fall on me, sharp sparks of coolness.  Knowing how different this leaving is from the 2007 voyage.  We are not all back on board, safe and sound.  We are leaving Casey behind.  No John on deck 5 to smile up to with thumbs up; this John was getting ready to lead a memorial service.  One knee on the ground, hands to my heart, rain and tears, I said goodbye to Casey, I got back on the ship, last staff member back on board.  Later that night we got a delivery of 200 flowers to throw overboard for a maritime mourning ritual.  Before the ship left, I got off one more time.  The security folks seemed to understand.  It was still raining.  I left a flower on the dock, and came back inside, last staff member back on board, again. Struggling with not bringing everyone home.

That week I learned a new hug—one where I wrapped my left arm around someone and held the back of their head with my right arm, essentially channeling everyone’s mom or dad who couldn’t be there in that moment to hold their child in their grief.

At Casey’s memorial on board, only about 30 hours after she passed, I learned more grace and wisdom from her friends, who had beautiful reflections about her and who also managed to incorporate a touch of humor as well;  I learned how that little ripple of joy and laughter helped us hold the heavy grief.  On Sunday night on the ship, after Casey’s memorial service had ended, we all just sat there, over 500 of us.  Not moving, holding the space.

Getting words of wisdom from Mary, about how we can still claim the joy of our journey.  This translated into a line of my commencement speech—the joy doesn’t negate the pain, and the pain doesn’t negate the joy.

Writing the commencement speech—I think it was only 5 minutes long, if that, but it took me a solid day to write it.  I enclosed myself in the deans office, and wrote and cried and wrote and cried.  I wanted to be able to say it without breaking down.

And finally, two things, two reflections:

1.  I went back to work on Monday, Dec. 10^th, and one of the first things I did was go for a walk with my sweet and wise colleague, Marlene.  I told her much of what happened, and I also shared the insight of what else I was grieving—I was grieving (and still am) the fact that I couldn’t bring everyone home safely.  My biggest two goals of the voyage were to get everyone home safely and to help to build an amazing, caring community.  And I couldn’t bring everyone home safely.  Marlene’s words to me, with space for hope and for doubt and for wonder—not making it an easy remedy, but a true inquiry, were, “Lisa, how do you know that Casey isn’t ‘Home’?”  I’m grateful for her words, they reminded me that I don’t know, that as much as we work for something, some things are not in our control, and that I am but a small humble human on a big planet in a infinite universe.

2.  The other reflection, simply this:  We all matter.  Casey showed us how much she mattered, both alive with her presence and smiles, and in her absence. And in turn, we all showed each other how much we matter in our outpouring of grief and love and support.  The emails and notes and messages and hugs I got all helped, they really did make a difference. We all matter, every single one of us, all the time, we matter and we are connected and we do make a difference with our love and our simply being.  We all matter.

Much love,

Lisa

Dominca, Part 1

Dominica, Dec. 1^st, 2012

This is the entry I’ve been avoiding, and yet I feel like I can’t access writing about the rest of my trip without passing through this one first, and I can’t quite access life yet without writing about this.  It’s emotional.  I’m trying to do something by writing it down, I’m not sure what yet, but it’s emotional and heartbreaking.

Dawn over the mountains of Dominica—a gorgeously beautiful island arising out of the ocean after 6 days at sea and after passing islands to our left and right.  John Tymitz, Renee, Kate, Pema, Patrick, Chris, Kelly, Gudrun, Ian and other students, all gathered on the back of deck 7, bathing in the beauty of the dawn—everywhere we look are gorgeous mountains of fluffy clouds, catching the light and tossing it back and forth from purple to gold to pink.  We too are all bathed in this light—it is joyous on our faces.  On the port side of the ship the sun is flexing her rays across the mountain ranges, and on the starboard side the bright moon is still smiling down at us, and we drink in beauty from every side.  We pull closer to Roseau and wonder exactly where we will dock and then we see a T-shaped dock, a wide planked walkway out from the city to the top of the T where the ship will anchor and tie-up.  It is strongly reminiscent to me of the dock in Guatemala, our last port in the summer 2007 voyage.  On that voyage, that dock became an impromptu RD-facilitated threshold of leaving the port-part of the trip behind and pausing to think about what gifts you were taking with you as you crossed back to the vessel.  On that voyage, everyone was safe and sound on time, and it was a professional peak experience to know that the community we had built was caring and respectful of themselves and others to be back on time, and it was a professional peak experience to know that everyone was back safely at the end of so many adventures.  I spoke of this in my interview for the Fall 2012 voyage, that this ultimately was my goal—a caring community, and everyone back home safely.  On that voyage, I was the last staff member on the dock (besides the crew), smiling up at John Burkoff on deck 5 with a walkie talkie, shouting down “all back and on time!” with a couple of whoops and arms raised in the air, full of gratitude and a deep sense of accomplishment. 

We have two days in this paradise, and weeks ago Pema (since I’ve not been going in a linear fashion, to fill you in: Pema, one of my best friends of 18 years, joined me in Argentina for the last 5 weeks of the voyage) and I decided to take the plunge and just fill up our Dominica days with SAS trips—we wanted to wring as much joy and adventure out of the last port as possible and not spend our time trying to figure out what to do and how to do it.  For Saturday the first day we signed up for inner-tubing down a river in the morning, and a 4x4 adventure jeep trip up into the mountains in the afternoon.  For Sunday, we signed up for a river to ocean kayak adventure.  I was excited for all of them, especially the kayak trip, not only because I love kayaking, but also because although we had been around the rim of the Atlantic, I had yet to swim in her waters on this voyage. 

The ship cleared, and we headed off the ship with the innertube trip—which included Jacques and Brett and Kai.  We first visited the emerald falls, where we all plunged in to the cool waters in the midst of a tropical island jungle, swimming to stand or sit or cling to rocks under the waterfall.  I remember everyone laughing and posing and a multitude of water-proof go-pro cameras.  It is really sweet to be on an adventure with students, staff, and faculty—how the joy is contagious, and shared, and feels like a shared blessing.  Our guide on the van sweetly and jokingly apologized to us as we drove to the next destination.  “I’m sorry to say, that now that you have dipped into our waters, you will be living longer.  That is the way of life in Dominica—it is beautiful here and healthy here and people live longer. We have the longest living woman in the world here, she lived to 126.”  From the waterfalls, we headed over to a mountain river, suited up in life-jackets and helmets, were given a paddle, told that one of the rules was to splash one another, and launched off into a beautiful class I-II river.  Through jungle and through pebbly river-washed plains, and through ravines, we bumped and splashed and spun and rafted together to tell jokes and sing songs and watched this beautiful world unfurling around us, floating along in joy and gratitude, and this was only the morning!  At the end we had fresh guava and coconut and a taste of island spiced rum.  Damp and exhilarated, we piled back into the vans and headed back to the ship. 

Pema, Kai, Brett and I went out for a quick bite to eat in town—I had a chicken curry pasty with a Coke.  We headed back to the ship and I picked up my big camera for the afternoon’s trip, and then we got into an open top 4x4 jeep that fit 16 people in the back.  Brett, Kai, Kate, Annalyn, Chris, Jen, Pema, myself and several students got into one of the jeeps, and John Tymitz and other friends and students got into the second jeep.  We headed up into the gorgeous mountains, stopping to see the volcanic hot water springs, several vistas, and finally ending up off-roading to a short hike to a stream pouring out of a ravine. 

Most of us went swimming in this ravine, which was like swimming into a cave, a cleft in the world, six or seven smooth-walled chambers with a slice of green jungle light way above us, our laughter bouncing off of the walls, as we swam our way to yet another waterfall.  It was an outdoor temple of awe, friendship, adventure, and connection.  At the waterfall we climbed up onto a ledge and plunged back down into the center of the cavern, whooping triumphantly, and slowly drifted and swam our way back into the sunny entrance, which included a side-stream of volcano-warmed water.  We got out, dried off, and had yet more fresh coconut.  The drive down the mountain was lush and beautiful with the sun beginning to turn everything golden.  The air was soft, and my body felt like I was 8 again;  I had been swimming three separate times that day, and felt pleasantly alive and tired all at the same time.  Upon arriving at the ship, I could tell that there was only about 5 minutes left until the sun set over the ocean in front of the ship, and I wanted to walk out along the wall of the port to see the sunset.  You could walk along the top of this wall that faced the ocean, or you could walk along the sidewalk about 4 feet below the wall, and I walked out along the top of the wall.  I passed by several students who did not look happy about something, but didn’t stop to engage, as I knew that several of them had been going through some personal drama earlier that week, and I simply walked out along the wall and took several pictures of the sunset painting its magic across the world.  At this point, one of my RDs, Brett, came over and said something to me about hearing that a student had died.  I shook my head, and said that we would have known, we were with John Tymitz the whole afternoon.  In my head I thought well maybe someone got hurt, I will go check in, and I took 2 more pictures of the sun slipping beneath the horizon and started back to the ship.  As I walked along the wall, I passed by two students below me who were on the sidewalk and leaning against the wall itself—they looked really sad.  I slowed and stopped and half-sat down to check in on them.  “Is everything ok?” I asked, still not putting everything together, still deep in the throes of denial.  “You all look really sad.”  One of the students said something to the effect of “yeah…we are really sad. A student died today.”  And in the act of just beginning to sit down, it all broke through into my consciousness, and I rose up (I think I said “I have to go” and started running back to the ship, along the wall, through port security, down the long dock.  I don’t remember my body, I just remember running as fast as I could.  And snapshots of realization.  And not knowing which of the 475 students (minus the 30 I had been with or just seen) we had lost, and the weight of that in my soul.  And passing Pema on my flight down the dock and shouting to her “I won’t be able to go out to dinner tonight” as if that mattered.  And getting to the gangway and trying to swipe in and seeing the stricken look of grief in Chief Security Vladamir’s face as they just waved me through, with every step knowing that our lives were going to be forever changed, and meeting Mary Andres (one of our shipboard counselors and an amazing person) right at the deck 2 entrance, who stopped me.  “Tell me” I said.  “One of our students died,” she said.   Time slowing down briefly on the first syllable—K.  Knowing a Casey and a Kalynn and several Katies and the rest of her name on Mary’s lips.  “Casey Schulman” she said.  I knew Casey Schulman.  I don’t know when the tears started, I do know that I was in shock and a part of me wanted to keep running forever.  “Go put on dry warm clothes and get water” Mary said.  “And go to the Union.  They are in the Union.” She said, giving me direction for the next ten minutes, giving me the only advice that she could, I clung to it like it was a life boat and ran upstairs to change into dry clothes, get water, and head into the Union.

Part 2 is still working its way through my heart and head.

Secrets of the Amazon

On deck 7, on day 8 of the Rio to Manaus crossing, in the Amazon.  Sitting with Pema and Jonathan—Jonathan just came over to say how impressed he was with Ambassador Shannon guest-speaking in Kathy Manning’s leadership class, speaking about authentic leadership and connecting with people to build coalitions.  Untold stories are scrolling by—flat plains of dense jungle on river banks of about 10 feet of café-con-leche water.  Looking through the binoculars, you can see that the river occasionally floods about 20 feet higher, based upon the mud-markings on the trunks of the trees.  Some tree reach above the rest, their canopy in stark relief against the hazy blue sky.  Occasionally there’s the smudge of smoke, apparently the burning of sugar cane fields;  because of this, smoke tinges the air like a campfire;  the air also carries the scent of the river and the forest, so somehow it creates it’s own unique subtle incense.  It feels soft and fresh in spite of the smokieness.  We pass by cleared areas with cattle, we pass by islands within islands, we pass by little houses all by their lonesome.  Also through the binoculars, you can see how dense the jungle gets—it’s dark immediately behind the trees fronting the river.  I think I saw a toucan flying in the distance—a bird with a huge beak, a flash of red or yellow before it was hidden behind the leaves.  A big splash on the banks by fallen trees is probably a caiman;  several lucky folks have gotten glimpses of the pink dolphins (including Pema this morning, from our cabin, while I was brushing my teeth).  The flat jungle peaks sometimes into higher cliffs of red soil, and also spreads out into sandy beaches, but most of it is forest/jungle.  Cumulus clouds gather over everything, offering a brief respite from the powerful equatorial sun.  It is hot, and it is wonderful to float in the pool on the ship in the middle of the Amazon—I feel like my own island within an island.  Birds fly by with calls I’ve never heard before;  there may be white egrets and turkey buzzards in the distance.   We pass by people in dugout canoes, who wave back to us—I am in awe and wonder at the human connection.  Little moths are aflutter on the river and on the ship, while the big moths rest quietly, converting our decks to the equivalent of a hanger of spaceships of all sizes and shapes.  I’m in awe at their quiet resting and their size and their fuzziness—some look like they have fur all over their bodies, some just have fur on their legs which look like little moth-legwarmers, and others look like they are sporting furry mohawks or a riot of furry muppet hair.  Their shapes are designed to fit into nature in addition to their camouflaged colors, looking like leaves and bark and shadowy secrets.  Walking around the ship outside is like an easter egg hunt, with the reward being animals (can you call a bug an animal?  These little ones feel more like animals to me) beyond my imagination.  Last night Chris and I were watching the half moon set over the river, looking like a quarter of tangerine, while the ship was being paced by a cloak of bats, a ephemeral group of about 50 dark shapes, flittering in and out of the edge of perception.  The air is soft, with a warm breeze, as the sun lowers in the sky.  In utter gratitude, wonder, and awe of it all.  My imagination is fired up with what people do and how they make their living in this part of the world, and how they meet one another when it looks so isolated, and wondering what the rhythm of their days and nights hold.  Pema, Annalyn, and I are heading in to an eco-lodge near Manaus called Tariri;  I’m looking forward to catching a glimpse of life amongst the trees and caimans and piranha and fruit that you can only find in the Amazon and that only has a name in a language that I don’t yet know the name of.  Feeling full of thanks, happy to be on this journey with amazing people (this journey and the larger one as well).  Happy Thanksgiving folks!  Xo Lisa

Grace in Ghana--

Tema, Ghana

The day after the Winneba trip I was on duty and needed to stay nearby in Tema, even though Accra is about 20 miles away, with the traffic it can take up to two hours to get there (and my duty-dean radius is 1 hour).  Patrick (the photographer), Jacques and I decided to head into Tema  to explore, our only planned destination being the Church of the Prime Meridian (as you can guess, it’s a church that the prime meridian runs by).  The port of Tema is miles of industrial bustle, and so there was a shuttle we could catch to right outside the port gates.  We took the shuttle out and then caught a taxi into the Church of the Prime Meridian.  After some fun shots straddling the meridian (*which I don’t have.  I slipped my memory card into the cd reader instead of the memory card reader on my computer, where it is snugly awaiting my return to the states.  I did take apart my computer and couldn’t get it, and I do not think “shaking it” is actually such a great idea—my computer is working great right now, I’d like to keep it that way).  After our mini-meridian photo-shoot, we wandered in to the quiet church, only to realize that a service was underway.  It was cooler inside out of the direct sunlight, and the high church walls were constructed in such a way so that almost every other cinder block was missing, the design being to let in light and air.  We sat down on the back benches as respectfully and quietly as we could, to observe a bit and let the peace of the church wash over us.  I was acutely aware that 3 white tourists had just bumbled in to their sanctuary.  As I watched the service being orchestrated by several leaders in several languages (including English), I suddenly realized that everyone in attendance was a woman.  Most were dressed in traditional Ghanaian-print wraps/dresses.  Several grandmas and mothers had babies bouncing on their laps or wrapped on their backs.  At the exact moment that I leaned over to Patrick and Jacques to comment upon this (I believe my words were, “you guys, you’re the only guys here!  I think we should leave), one of the main leaders at the front said, “Our guests!  You are welcome—come sit with us up front.  Please share with us what your mission in Ghana is.”  In the blink of an eye everything changed.  I learned so much about grace and graciousness and welcoming in that moment, in that moment where I felt like we had been intruding (we had), but with the magic of compassion and welcoming words, we became a part of the service.   We walked to the front, all eyes on us, and were handed a microphone (which, mind you, hadn’t been working for the others leading the sermon). Luckily, my two-day Winneba public speaking training kicked in, and I started us off, describing our mission of bringing college students around the world for greater peace, connection and understanding.  After the three of us said a few words, the main leader welcomed us to stay and hear the sermon, the topic of which was listening—listening so that your spirit may soar.  They prayed that our mission in Ghana would be fulfilled. We stayed for the sermon, which was beautiful—“Find a quiet space so that God can hear you” “Let your inner deity quiet it’s message of ‘I can do this alone’ to hear other messages”.  There was the constant friendly beeps from the hustling and bustling traffic outside, and the swaying of the women inside, with the Ghanian accent lilting through the church.  At one point in the service we were encouraged to pray.  Almost everyone got up and moved around to find some space to talk aloud to God.  The leadership was shared by 4 or 5 women—two who led the main sermon, one who free-styled a bit, and others who led us in song.  They asked us for any words of wisdom, and as several of our SAS elders had joined us at that point, I deferred to them.  At the end we all stood in a circle and prayed/sang while holding hands.  I left feeling full of gratitude, wonder, and at the beautiful receiving end of so much grace.  We popped outside to figure out what next—a passing group of girls all dressed in mango-yellow dresses with silver hoop earrings walked by—one of the them pulled her earring and pointed to my earring and smiled, because they matched—connections are all around us!  I then made them laugh by raising up my sunglasses and showing off my matching eye-brow ring.  We crossed the dusty busy road to get fresh coconuts, and then crossed two more streets to one of the markets.  The markets I went to in Ghana were amazing—so much for sale, all laid out in chiara-scura labyrinths—dark shaded stores with bright pathways.  To my US-centric senses, it felt a bit like going down the rabbit hole, a warren of wares.  Patrick was hilarious to trail behind—he has such a joie de vivre and a playfulness to him—very bold and connecting (I think my style is also playful, but a bit more sensitive/quiet).  Patrick is a tall, muscular, lanky guy with a buzzed head and a Castro-like moustache and beard.  He’s got bright blue twinkly eyes and typically wears a shoulder harness that has two cameras attached on either side.  I kept a list of one-liners/comments that Patrick had on our market tour:

1.  “Do you have any black shoes?” (asked of a vendor who had nothing but black shoes—about 500 pairs.)

2.  Thumbs up to another bearded & head-shaven gentleman passing by, who broke out into a big smile.

3.  vendor “do you want some fish?”  Patrick “no thanks, I’m allergic to fish”

4.  Vendor joking with Patrick “would you like to marry my daughter?”

Patrick “What is your daughter’s name?  Oh, I’m sorry, I only marry people named Mary.”

And finally, in the market are these HUGE live snails for sale—they look kind of like conches, but exist outside of water.  The vendor tried to sell Patrick one, and he said “No thanks—they terrify me!  Look—she’s doesn’t even like them!” he said of the vendor's friend.  Once she realized that Patrick was terrified of them she kept on trying to give him one for free by putting it in his pocket. “Free, free!” she would giggle, as Patrick would squeak in terror. (Sorry Patrick, you were squeaking).  Market hilarity ensued.

where's waldo in ghana

where's pema?  in Buenos Aires

As I write this now we are hours outside of Rio, and it is very wavy outside—the swells occasionally hit the bridge of the ship a certain way and a thud and plume of spray shoots up, all the way past my cabin window on the 5^th deck.  The ocean is a beautiful blue—not dark steel blue, not tropical blue, but a deep soothing blue, with whitecaps at the peaks, spraying off their own individual rainbows.  Pema’s on board somewhere writing, and we have a social with the captain in a couple of hours in John Tymitz’s cabin.  I’m so excited for Rio—we’re getting up at 5:45 to watch the ship come in to one of the most beautiful cities in the world.