Swing

The meadow pond. Late afternoon. I slid the old, weathered canoe off the bank into the water. It was cool, but the sun was strong and it warmed my bare back. As I trolled the shoreline, bass and bluegill eyed me curiously. The water was flat and every tree reflected its perfect twin. 

Impulsively I dug deep. The bow rose and the canoe accelerated. Another deep stroke with a perfect “J” to hold the bow. I dug again, strong measured strokes, my ash wood paddle an extension of my arms. 

I held form careful not to graze the gunnel. Muscle memory took over, along with another long-forgotten memory. At fourteen I had won all my summer camp mid-season canoe races. Those competing canoes were only ghosts now, but the exhilaration was the same. 

In rowing there is a term the swing - "an elusive sensation of near-perfection; a state in which all rowers in the boat are seemingly in a symphony of harmonic motion, with no wasted energy." I don't know if there is an equivalent term in canoeing, but now almost forty years later, if only for a brief time, my “swing” was back.

Olisiane

Sunday Evening. Matthew 25 House. Haiti. The World Racers* arrived for dinner, and Mariah turned in her bench to ask me how I spent my afternoon.

“Painting with the ladies,” I said.

“Oh wow. Do you paint at home?”

I smiled, “Not a lick. I just do as I’m told.”

I hoped my smile conveyed what no words could describe, about how much more my afternoon had become, by listening more carefully to “what I was told” …

 
Res had sat me down in a porch chair with Olisiane, a beautiful resident. He squeezed globs of acrylic paint onto a pallet and remarked, “I hope you feel inspired, Man.” The truth is I didn’t. I didn’t know how to paint, and I didn’t think this would turn out. I set a blank canvas on Olisiane’s lap hoping she would take the brush. Nope.

My mind was elsewhere… maybe I could help in the kitchen. Maybe I could do a menial task in the courtyard. I am not very good at sitting. I needed something else to do. I turned, and Olisiane’s eyes looked into mine. I was filled with quietude, and the fog cleared from my head.

All Olisiane had at Matthew 25 was time, and could I not give her that? She asked through our interpreter that I paint her a tree. My hesitation was gone. I would paint her the most magnificent tree I could imagine, the most magnificent tree she could imagine. I envisioned the brush strokes sweeping the canvas through her hands. I painted a tree. Behind its lush, green canopy I set mountains. Mountains beyond mountains, shadows cast in violet dusk. Under the tree I brushed a royal blue bench. I told her we could sit together under the tree and while away the days.

Olisiane starred for a long time. She gently lifted the painting and set it on a ledge. Her eyes remained transfixed on the canvas. In time, she put her hand in mine, and we sat. Eventually she motioned to a staff person, and asked they set the painting by her bed.

I thought my afternoon complete, but as we rose to throw away the pallet, still laden with puddles of acrylic, a young girl emerged from the shadows and asked if she could paint. Of course. She took a brush and set to work with such focus and intensity I was startled. She filled the canvas with a kaleidoscope of color. Along the border she took a sharp edge of a paint stick and scratched outlines of flowers and faces, and she filled them with color. At the bottom she etched her name, Benjina Noel.

Our companion Alex described hand painting was a rare thing in Montrouis, and I had to believe this was the first time Benjina ever held a brush. How many years did she have this image in her head waiting to emerge?

Seeing our laughter and smiles, another young woman emerged from the kitchen. Her name was Mirlande, and she did not want to paint. Instead, she had a burning question but was reluctant to ask. We encouraged her, and she described she and her husband had a small savings in U.S. currency which she hid in her house, but rats had eaten the edges. She feared the money was now worthless. Her fears were not without merit – Haiti honors U.S. dollars, but only if they are crisp and clean. We asked her how much of the paper was left. She said most, just the edges were gone. We assured her the ministry could exchange her bills for fresh ones. A smile spread across her face, and relief washed over her like a spring rain. She waltzed through her work the remainder of the evening, her feet 12 inches off the ground…

 
Mariah smiled at me and turned back to rejoin the Racers in conversation. I drifted in my thoughts. When I had first sat with Olisiane, what if I had succumbed to my selfish notions to look for other tasks? Why did I doubt the worth of just sitting wordlessly, sharing time? Greater forces were at work here, opening my mind and opening my heart. Look what unfolded.

I return to that bench beneath the tree often now, and Olisiane and I gaze upon the mountains.

* More about the World Racers here. An incredible group.

Haiti Delivers

There is a saying, “In Haiti, anything is possible.” Only those who visit will grasp the full nuance. Haiti can overwhelm you emotionally and spiritually, but if you are looking for a pure adrenaline rush, you can find that too.

You never know what to expect when you hop on the back of a moto. The most cynical will say you have a death wish, but for the open-minded it’s yet another way to get “intimate” with the culture.

Brother Res introduced me to moto-riding during my first visit with a ten-second narration, “Okay Man, always straddle it from the left, and for the ride you can either hold on to your driver’s shoulders, or grab the rack behind you.” In that brief moment I felt a sliver of confidence, he followed with a twinkle in his eye, “…but neither one is going to save you.”

Moto outings often beat any amusements such as the Alpengeist at Busch Gardens. On a recent ride we needed to cross town from our resident fishing village to the Matthew 25 senior care house. At the midpoint we ascended from an alley to the coast road which was inextricably snarled in gridlock. My driver’s strategy involved plunging into the small gap between a roaring 18-wheeler and a decrepit Datsun pickup who faced one another seemingly in a duel, and any aftermath now involved me.

We stopped there blocked by the vendor cart diagonally in front of us. The Mack truck’s air horn blared and it surged forward. Its bumper touched my left knee, the opposing Datsun’s bumper touched my right. The truck’s bulldog hood ornament glared inches above my left temple. I closed my eyes and lamented my now broken promise to my wife to “stay safe.” A few moments later the vendor pulled back her cart and we emerged through the other side.

I shot this video later on the same ride only when (by relative measure) all seemed better. 

Know you can visit Montrouis and never have to ride a moto, but if you want a story to tell your grandchildren, don’t pass it up.