Vale, Valencia, Vale.

A year ago, we choose Spain from the dropdown menu, scrolling past Australia, England, and Italy, stopping when the haunting voice of Valencia cried ahora, pare.

We were welcomed as strangers and accepted as friends, claiming her streets and breathing her beauty while she exclaimed amigos, dale.

I trained my tongue to mimic her sounds as she laughed, ¡chica, hable!

She amazed me with her beauty and life and taunted me with ¡aquí, mire!

I laughed, and enjoyed her ease, her grace, and her encouragement as she voiced, si, disfrute.

When I cried, she held me close and whispered softly cariña, respire.

When I was tired, I slept as she offered, paz, descanse.

I saw her sun, and smiled and basked as she encouraged, así, mejore.

I grew inside, my heart swelling with hope and confidence and she remarked por fin, sabe.

I watched my children grow and mature in her assurance and safety as she promised me las tengo, calme.

She protected my protector and loved my lover with her quick-witted ¡chico, anime!

Then time cast a spell on me, I blinked, and she began to fade.  I cried, ¿Valencia, dónde?

She sensed my fear and stepped in with a comforting aquí, tranquilize.

I can’t say goodbye to something that has become a part of me, and offer back only a meek por favor, quede.

Then we smile at each other and I thank her for everything.  Vale, Valencia, vale.

¿Bailas Conmigo?

En muchas sociedades chamanicas (sociedades en las que los médicos curan a la gente a través de los espíritus), cuando vas a un medico quejándote de depresión o tristeza, te pregunta “y cuando dejaron de bailar?”  Es que en el momento en el que dejamos de bailar, empezamos a perder nuestra alma.

El baile demuestra la energía que tenemos por la vida.  Por expresar esta energía, creamos mas energía. Implica a todas las partes de nuestros cuerpos: los brazos, las piernas, el corazón. La cara refleja el agradecimiento que tenemos por la vida, y las manos alcanzan al cielo. Los cuerpos se mueven al compás del latido del corazón, y cerramos los ojos para ver mejor quien somos. Bailar y sentir corren parejas. Cuando perdemos la habilidad de conectar nuestros cuerpos con nuestros espíritus, perdemos la conexión con nuestras almas, con nuestros deseos, con nosotros mismos, y nos deprimimos.

El sábado pasado fuimos al festival de baile de las chicas. Tres horas sentados en bancos de metal.  Tres horas de calor en un espacio demasiado pequeño para la cantidad de gente que vino.  Tres horas de esperar para los pocos minutes en los que aparecieron las chicas en el escenario. Pero también fueron tres horas de energía que estaba emitiendo el escenario, llenando el teatro con luz, música, y movimiento. Tres horas de olvidarnos de nuestras vidas, problemas, y preocupaciones.  Tres horas de amar a los cuerpos por lo que eran – expresiones de sus almas. Eran tres horas de vida verdadera.

Cuando miras un baile, o unas personas bailando, a veces no es suficiente sentarte y mirar y escuchar.  Tienes que taconear, mover la cabeza, y cantar con la música. Imagínate a ti misma en el escenario, moviéndote precisamente con las chicas de hip-hop, expresándote dramáticamente con las de Jazz, y vestida bien como las mujeres de flamenco. Es contagioso. Sientes la libertad, y tienes ganas de cogerla y embotellarla. Pero no puedes, y tienes que experimentar el momento.

Tengo muchos deseos para mis hijas.  Espero que tengan un año escolar exitoso.  Espero que hagan amigas y que disfruten sus grupos de deportes. Espero que vivan en el momento en el que se encuentren. Espero que conozcan hombres buenos de los que se enamoren y que les traten como reinas (pues, en el futuro distante, por supuesto).  Espero que intenten alcanzar el cielo con los talentos que Dios les ha dado y que eso les ponga contentas.  Quiero que aprendan mas de Dios y el amor que tiene para ellas, y que crezcan en su fe.  Espero que vivan como si no hubiera nadie mirándolas – con libertad y alegría.

Espero que bailen.

In shaman societies, (societies where doctors cure people with the help of the spirit world), when you go to a doctor complaining of depression or sadness, they ask you "and when did you stop dancing?".  The belief is that the moment we stop dancing is when we begin to lose our soul.

Dance exemplifies the energy we have for life.  By expressing this energy, we create more energy.  Dancing employs every part of our bodies including our arms, legs, and hearts.  Our faces reflect the thankfulness we feel, as our hands reach to touch the sky.  Our bodies move to the beat of our hearts, and we close our eyes to see ourselves better.  Dancing and feeling go hand in hand. When we lose the ability to connect our bodies with our spirits, we lose the connection with our souls, with our hopes and dreams, and with ourselves, and we become depressed.

Last Saturday we went to the girl's end of year dance festival.  Three hours of sitting on metal benches. Three hours of intense heat in a room too small for the amount of people that were there.  Three hours of waiting for those few minutes that Rebecca and Samantha appeared on the stage.  But also three hours of energy coming from the stage, filling the theater with light, music and movement.  Three hours of forgetting about our own lives, problems, and worries.  Three hours of loving those young people for who they were - expressions of their souls. 

Sometimes, when you watch others dance, it is not enough to just sit, watch and listen.  You have to tap your feet, move your head, and sing with the music.  You imagine yourself on the stage doing the precise movements with the hip hop team, dramatically expressing yourself with the jazz group, and flaunting the ruffled dresses of the flamenco dancers.  Dancing is contagious. It makes you feel free, and you want to bottle that feeling to save some for later.  But you can't, and can only experience it in the moment.

I have many hopes for my daughters.  I hope that they have a successful school year next year.  I hope that they make a lot of friends and enjoy their extracurricular activities.  I hope that they learn to live in the moment. I hope the meet wonderful men to fall in love with and who treat them like the treasures they are (in the distant future, of course). I hope that they reach for the sky using the talents God has given them, and that this brings them joy.  I hope they learn how much God loves them and grow in their faith.  I hope that they live as if no one is watching them - with freedom to be who they are.

I hope they dance.

Fallas

Nothing is a better cure for insomnia that the realization that it is time to get up. I prefer to dedicate the initial precious moments of each day to pretending morning isn’t really happening and inventing new reasons not to rise.  I still wish they started later, but lately, I’ve had a good reason to welcome the new day.  

Celebrated in March, Fallas is a month-long Valencian tradition dating back to the Middle Ages.  We have heard of little else since we arrived and are so excited it is finally here. The joy of Fallas is waking each morning to a city under siege. Mascletás, which are very loud fireworks without the pretty light show, are set off officially every day at 2pm in Plaza de Ayuntamiento (City Square), and unofficially all the time everywhere else.  The five actual days of Fallas, March 15-19, are a continuous party, and each day starts with drums and firecrackers at 8am. The week culminates with the torching of giant wooden and paiper maché statues depicting various cultural and political icons that have taken all year to make. I love that Valencia celebrates its peaceful heritage with ear-splitting mini-bombs and honors its community and laborious efforts by burning them down.  It’s a paradoxical celebration by people who clearly have too much time on their hands. We fit right in.

I cannot adequately convey the extent of the new daily excitement.  It is a like a war zone with children visible though the smoke crying for the noise of the firecrackers, and traffic rerouted because of the crowds and churro stands. Spontaneous explosions make your bones vibrate and test your stop, drop and roll reflexes. The battle for Valencia between the Moors and Christians continues via parades, as people of all ages fight for front row seating in the cafés. For most there is anticipation in the air, while for others escape routes are being planned. OK, maybe I’m being a little dramatic, but it is hard to sleep.

After a sleepless night of Fallas celebrations, the best part of waking up is going back to bed after you pee. I hope that I can discern my alarm from the ringing in my ears.  They say that you need 8 hours of sleep each night.  I don’t know about that, but I do know that the perfect amount for me is just 5 minutes more…

Falla

Mascletá in city square

Italy

My life might seem glamorous because I am in Spain where the sun always shines, the tapas have no calories, and Enrique Iglesias serenades me every evening, but is still so easy to get caught up in all of our vices: Keith in front of the computer, Rebecca lounging, Sammie with her ipod, and me, like Mt. Vesuvius, blowing my top at all of them to do something different.  I’m just kidding, I say a lot of nice things to them too, just not out loud. 

Being void of any real responsibilities here, I am often left to my own devices.  So often, many days fall away with nothing to show. I still did not get to the ironing today, and that makes 8 years in a row. The truth is I am perfectly content with the crunch of leaves under my feet, a salty snack in hand and my favorite song on itunes. But it is better to see something once, than hear about it a million times, so last week we left the comfort of the city that we love to unearth some Italian history.

In some ways, Rome is like many European cities, with narrow cobblestone streets, impressive monuments, and an abundance of manscaping.  In fact, if I close my eyes, it almost feels like I’ve been there before. All around us, we were reminded of the past through what exists now in the present.  The amazing food, stylish clothing, and beautiful people echo the Rome of the third century.  It is a city built on bricks but remembered in marble.  Today it lives on in its people and its pasta. We came, we saw, we ate, and swear the city was still standing when we left.

Rome has ignored the concept of hindsight, as it has returned to the way of life that was once its downfall. It was not too big to fall, but it was too loved to disappear. Like the fragment of my tooth that remains after my brush with corn nuts: its absence will not deter future snacking, and one could say I’ve learned nothing from its demise. I just love that life has so much to offer, and want to taste it all. When the world ends, I don’t want to be found under a pile of rubble wondering what just happened.

My road today does not lead to Rome, but to the dentist. I will remember my tooth fondly, as well as the snack that took it from me. I just hope that the fixing of said tooth is not an experience I will remember forever.  We will see -  I’m gonna be an optimist about this.

Where are we?

La Sagrada Família

Lately my mind has been more like a booby trap than a steel trap, so helping the girls with their academics has been challenging.  This week we experimented with oxygenated water, which, among other things, has been touted as improving one’s oxygen levels when consumed.  We searched every store for it until I realized that I had incorrectly translated the word and that we had just been missing it.  In case you are interested, the effect it has on raw food is worthy of close investigation, but drinking it just makes for an expensive burp.  

If you go to Barcelona, don’t miss seeing La Sagrada Família, Antonio Gaudí’s truly magnificent basilica that has been under construction for 133 years and is still not done. Gaudi made the church his life’s work, and it is his vision that is still being carried out today almost 90 years after his death. The architecture itself represents the birth, life, and death of Christ, and the interior reflects nature with a forest of tall columns bathed in color from the stained glass windows.  It was stunning, and millions have come to stand in awe.

While there, I was reminded of another craftsman named Huram who carved 200 pomegranates by hand for the tops of the spires of the temple in Jerusalem.  It must have taken many years and he most likely devoted much of his life to this work.  But once erected, the spires stood so tall that I doubt anyone from the ground could see the fruits of his labor.  He worked for an audience of one.

Wrinkled is not what I wanted to be when I grew up, but neither was old, and they both seem to be happening.  I ask my girls what they want to be when they grow up because I am still looking for ideas.  While I have become great at redecorating my comfort zone, which is currently a lovely shade of safe, I can’t point to any one big endeavor to which I’ve devoted my life. As noble as my efforts are of not mixing plaids in public or burping the alphabet may be, I sense there might be more to life. I could be a chemist. I could be an interior decorator. Maybe, I could carve a pomegranate.

La Sagrada Família is a work in progress, and so am I. I don’t know if anyone will ever stand in awe of what I do.  I don’t know if anyone will be able to stand what I do.  Dang, it is unlikely that anyone will even know what I do. Regardless, there is something I am supposed to be doing, and I don’t want to miss it. My audience is waiting.