List 42 - Surprises from Nicaragua . . .

This week's list will be a few more memories - surprises - from my trip.  I'll finish up (well, maybe or maybe just for now) my reflections on this awesome week in Nicaragua.  I guess we're never really 'finished' with learning from a dive into a new world.  I believe little pieces, memories, faces, stories, moments stay with us forever - changing us into new people, tiny bits at a time.  That's good stuff.

Nicaragua was definitely 'good stuff.'  I spend a lot of time reminiscing about those I met and what I saw and learned.  I find myself searching for ways that I can assimilate what I learned with the life I'm part of here where I am.  

For now, though, here are a few of the moments that surprised me most:

1.  I was surprised when I arrived at the Youth Ranch in Padre Ramos, Nicaragua, and I took in the beauty.

2.  I was surprised when we spent the day in the dump of Chinandega and I watched the young, living in the depths of poverty,  share what they had with others.  I watched them reach for an orange and then turn and give it to another.  I saw them treat each other with a kindness towards each other that I couldn't believe.

3.  I was surprised by the colors of Nicaragua.  I loved the brightly colored buildings, the spectacular hues of the natural surroundings and the brightness that I saw with every turn.

4.  I was surprised by a night on the beach that I'll never forget, with folks I had only known for a couple of days.  One night, tired from the day, a few of us wandered down to the beach.   We wanted to spend some time looking up at the stars in a place where the lights of progress don't interfere with the darkness.  The sky was spectacular - stars sliding across the arc above us, as we listened to the splashing of the waves.  Our necks tired and we finally decided that we'd just 'get yucky' and lie right down on the sand below.  I'm so glad we did.  The warm sand immediately comforted us and all got very quiet.  After a few minutes, my friends, Terri and Mona, began to sing.  They sang mostly hymns and old time church songs.  It was a moment.  It was a feast for the senses.  After a while, noticing that I wasn't singing, one of them asked me if I knew the songs.  Of course I knew the songs, but I was busy enjoying the gift of the moment.  Their music and all that was happening around me was one of those good surprises that don't come around very often - or maybe they do, but we don't always notice them.  I'm thankful for the surprise of that night, those stars, that warm sand and two friends who sweetly sang.

5.  I was surprised by the feeling I got the many moments that I felt another beside me and looked down to find that a precious little one, who I already knew well or I had not yet met, had moved beside me and quietly reached up to grab my hand as we walked along.  I can often be a fan of personal space; but on this special trip, I was thankful for the many ways that the fine people of Nicaragua are free to hold on whenever they want.

6.  I was surprised at the times that animals - farm animals - roamed casually through a house during a conversation and no one but me thought anything of it!

7.  And, I was surprised when the 'zip line guy' turned me upside down before the second zip.  Whooooooooooooo!!

The bread lady, the dollar store glasses and why I know that humor needs not share a language . . .

Still talking about the fantastic trip, folks, but The Wednesday Pop will return!  I want to tell these Nicaragua stories while they are filing past in my brain.  I want to do justice to the awesomeness I witnessed.  Thanks for hanging in with me.

What do the bread lady and dollar store glasses and humor have in common?  What's a bread lady?  All good questions, my friends.  Here goes . . .

In Padre Ramos, the lovely village on the northwest Pacific coast of Nicaragua where we were staying, people would amble by from time to time.  Sometimes it would be precious children carrying buckets to gather water who would travel back by toting their heavy buckets back home.  Sometimes it would be folks coming by to say, "Hello" or dropping by to see what was going on at the Youth Ranch.  Sometimes it was Andre, the sweet elderly man with the delightful smiling eyes, peddling his bananas and huge mangos.  And, sometimes it was Maria, who we called the bread lady.

I didn't think much about Maria upon her first few visits, other than noticing her strength and determination and wondering where she fell between 85 and 100 years old.  I saw her loaded down with her home-baked breads, hoping that we would buy some and lighten her load.  I didn't know where she lived or who she spent her days with or what made her heart happy and sad.  I didn't think much about her.  I considered her an interesting part of the local color and left it at that.  She was picturesque, ambling along with her tired old feet in worn out flip-flops, but I didn't work much to get to know her.

But that all changed with the dollar store glasses.  (Dollar Store glasses don't usually change things, do they?)  You see, we were having a blast creating a photo booth for the kids at the 'rancho.'  I had brought along all sorts of funny glasses and such and we had used a polka-dotted sheet on a turned up table for our backdrop.  They didn't take long to warm up to the idea that I would photograph them as long as they could last, coming up one at a time with a crazy face and a few props.  It was a blast!  It was a moment when you realize that your idea worked and the giggles and wide eyes of the kids was like a balm to this sometimes-crazy world.  I was in heaven.  The kids were laughing out loud, and I was already dreaming of creating little pieces of this day for them to keep in their homes forever.  It was a good time.  My camera holding hand was close to falling off and my squinting eye was tired of the view finder, but I was happy.  It had worked.

Finally, the kids began to slow down, and it was clear that the photobooth was about to close.  Maria, the bread lady, had wandered up and was busy talking with a few of the ladies.  I was readying to head out for a refreshing dip in the ocean.  We were almost finished.  I felt full.  But I had no idea I was about to fill up even more.

I finally grabbed a seat in one of the cheap plastic chairs to relish in the glory of a fun time, when I heard the crowd laughing hysterically.  I looked towards the cheer in time to see the bread lady smiling sneakily in the largest, most gaudy pair of the dollar store glasses!  I loved it!  We all loved it!  She really loved it!  She had beat even the giddy delight of the little children and brought us all to our knees with laughter and joy.  She had transcended her hard, hard life and thrown us all up into a place where laughter carries away everything else.

Everyone was talking and laughing, and the excitement in our little part of that beautiful country was happy, to be sure!  Maria, the bread lady, was all achatter, though I have no idea what she was saying.  I ran over to begin snapping photos of her and we laughed and laughed and laughed.  I believe she tried on every pair of cheap, crazy glasses we had.  We hugged and slapped each other's shoulders and smiled and smiled.  I was telling her how funny she was and how incredibly beautiful she was and what a strong, strong woman she was.  I don't know what she was telling me, but I know I felt love.  We touched and hugged and laughed and laughed together.  Our laughter together transcended reality.  It moved past struggles and what we don't know about each other.  It rose above the monotony of her days and made my day sweeter than I could have imagined.

Shared laughter does that, huh?  We can't laugh all of the time, because everything isn't funny.  But when we can laugh - and laugh together - isn't it beautiful?  Doesn't it remind us of how alike we all are, when the world tries to tell us otherwise?  I believe so, and I'll take this moment with me always as a reminder that laughter is ours to revel in together.  I am thankful beyond words for the moment I turned my head to see that sweet Maria's eyes light up with a twinkle that said, "I am funny, no matter what language you speak!"  I will never forget it.

I spend my days working to make images tell the story of moments.  We can't ever do it exactly, but it's worth trying.  I hope when you see these photos you will work to hear the hearty laughter, the quiet giggles, the excitement and the moment when folks let go of worry and reality and just had fun - together.  Thanks be to God, and may we always remember the power of laughing with each other - those we know well and those we are yet to love.

Imperfect lenses and seeing clearly . . .

* A note to regular readers . . . I'm suspending The Wednesday Pop until next week, so I can tell the Nicaragua stories in consecutive posts.  Pop will return!


So, you know I just returned from this amazing trip meeting friends in another land.  Everything is different after you do that - thoughts, the way you 'take in' a regular ole' day, the things you appreciate. Nicaragua was wonderful, from the vivid colors of her landscape to the big open hearts of her people.  I can't wait to go back.

I went to Nicaragua in a confusion that I rarely feel.  I decided, after advice from friends who had been before, that taking my 'real' camera wasn't the thing to do.  I vacillated with that decision from its inception until moments before I boarded the plane.

On the one side of my brain, I heard, I always take my camera!  How will I make it, not recording what I see to the best of my ability?  Will I miss something?  Will I be able to retell the story when I return without crisp, sharp photos?  How will I make it without my 'friend'?  

On the other side, I'll really BE there and live in the moment.  I won't have that albatross around my neck.  There will be no worry at the chance of destroying my investment.  My big camera won't be between me and the wonderful souls I'll meet.  

I went back and forth, back and forth.  I do that too much anyway, and this was serious see-sawing!  It drove me crazy!  I researched meaningful photography with an iphone, I threw the question out and tried to hear what God had to say, and I looked into 'making it work' without a DSLR.  I put myself through the ringer, trying to decide.  I tried to remind myself what I tell people all of the time . . . it's not the camera that makes a great photo.

Okay, you get the point.  I was befuddled.  Folks felt like the dusty conditions weren't the right thing for my camera and some wondered if maybe it would be a good exercise for me to see things through a different lens.   What to do, what to do?

So, I went and boarded the plane, loaded down with small cameras and equipment.  I spent the day of travel convinced that I was forgetting something, as I was so accustomed to carrying my heavy camera bag.  I had a borrowed camera, a new small camera to leave with friends in Nicaragua and my iphone, accompanied with my array of extra little lenses for it.  I was armed and ready.  I would leave my Canon at home and I would head off into a new world and see it with my own eyes.  I wouldn't carry a great big instrument around my neck.  I wouldn't worry about which lens was best for each situation.  I would see what I was seeing, instead of composing it through the viewfinder of my comfort zone.  I would retrain myself to use different equipment, and I would enjoy it.

Want to know how I did?  I'm still not sure!  I did enjoy the freedom my camera choices allowed me.  I often felt closer to what I was living than I sometimes feel behind my usual mechanical friend.  I was lighter.  I was quicker.  I didn't worry about water or dust or sand or where to set things down or whether something was safe.  That was good.  I focused with my own two eyes.  Maybe I was more of a participator instead of the director.  I snapped and snapped and snapped.

I guess I could say it was a success.  I missed things, though.  I missed the artistic part of what I do.  I missed the familiar feel of camera in hand, imagining what stories I could tell with what images.  I missed the work that goes into the choices about light and focus and speed, etc.  I was out of my element, a bit.  And, when I returned home, I really missed the crisp photos I like to see.  I was disappointed with the fuzzy images of the people and place I now love so much.  I missed the art.  I missed the bokeh behind my new friends' faces.  I missed the focus on just a small section of the photo of something special.  I missed the clarity I look to find.

But the trial wasn't a blowout.  It worked.  It really did.  My camera stayed safe at home, ready to get back to work when I returned.  I moved effortlessly around a new home in a new land.  I was with my subjects.  I was there.  Nothing was between me and the people I loved.  I snapped and snapped and snapped like I always do.  All was all right.  I learned.  I learned a lot.

I'll admit that when I look at the photos, I often find myself wishing I could 'do it again' with clearer machinery.  I do.  But, in the end, I made the right decision.  I spent my first trip to a new favorite place with less baggage, and that is always a good thing.  I'll go back.  I'll probably go back with a familiar friend around my neck.  But, nevertheless, I did it right the first time.  This time it was about getting to know this place and her amazing people.  I did that.  Thank God.

As I've edited the photos, I've had to re-assure myself of this epiphany over and over again.  I've had to tell myself, again and again, that the images I returned with are just fine.  And, as usual, I did come back with a few thousand photos too many and I can look at them and immediately bring back the moments that meant so much.  They work.  They help to tell a story.  I'm thankful.

The little cameras were just fine to remind me of what I saw.  Wish you could have seen it, too, friend.

 I wish you could have watched this quiet time between my dear friend and this precious little girl, living in the dump just outside of Chinandega, Nicaragua.

I wish you could know the magic of watching one with nothing tenderly helped by one with plenty.  I wish you could have witnessed the gentleness of this speck of time; this moment with no language.

I long to make you see what this child's face looked like when she looked back at Marta with no words and with a thousand words.  A child who is used to nothing walks by with her gift of oranges from us and works to carry them safely back to her shack to her waiting family to share in the magic.

   She and Marta work together, with a few failed attempts, until they got it right, and this little love looks back with thanks.  It was tender.  It was loving.  It was sad and happy and beautiful at the same time.  I snapped and snapped and snapped.

And I didn't need a fancy camera to see the look in the eyes of this little girl from the same area, as she spotted the familiar face of a friend from far away.  I wouldn't have had time to decide on the right settings on my usual camera, but I was able to grab the little one and click, click, click.  I can't tell you how wonderful it was to watch this sweet girl see the face of my friend and lunge into the air to get to her!  What a moment.  These photos don't follow any rules of composition; but for me, they capture that magic moment - a moment when two people who share no language, no realities, no familiarity, come together in love and understanding.  Snap, snap, snap.

And on the day before I left this new place I love, I was able to jump out of the back of the truck when I saw the looks on the faces of my dear friend and this sweet mother in the village.  They didn't know each other.  They share no commonalities.  But, what I saw convinced me that their eyes screamed out in understanding.  They looked at each other in a way that said, from one to another, "We know that feeding our babies, physically and emotionally, is what we are here to do."  They loved each other without words or shared stories.  I was there.  I grabbed my trusty phone and witnessed the magic.  Snap, snap, snap.

So, I'll get over the fact that the photos aren't perfect.  I'll move past it and remember that they can still tell the story.  These fuzzy photos can still tell the story of folks who came together in ways more meaningful than I could ever imagine.  Thanks be to God.