Hand-Painted Signs in Solala Have Soul-la-la

My favorite:

Panajachel [Lake Atitlan] Street Art

Mona Guatemalisa

I named her Tinkerbell

An Absence of Disruption

Today I went to Juanita and Candace’s home in Santiago to learn embroidery. It was a perfectly lovely experience, marked by very little “noise.”

We don’t speak the same language [Candace knows some Spanish, but for the most part they both speak the local dialect], so we were sitting there in silence as I worked, and they watched me, and instructed me with their fingers. There was no music playing. There was nothing on the gray walls, except a hand-made sign that said “Happy Birthday Dad” in Spanish. There was no television. No pets. The only bit of print media in the room was the magazines that I brought for Candace. Even when their brother Santiago quietly came into the room, he stayed awhile, watching me tentatively as I worked.

The absence of disruption exposed quickly the sheer difficulty of what I was doing, and the discomfort and confusion I was feeling about learning something new from people that I couldn’t speak to. It also allowed me to fully be present and appreciate that after 6 hours I not only had a little birdie sitting in my lap, but I had also developed a special bond with these women without sharing words.

And in such synchronicity, I happened to read this right after my experience:
“Everything is usually so masked or perfumed or disguised in the world, and it’s so touching when you get to see something real and human.” P 215, Traveling Mercies, Thoughts on Faith, Anne Lamott

Weaving Through the Discomfort

Back-strap weaving at Cojolya Assocation of Mayan Women Weavers in San Lucas, at Lake Atitlan:

I might look like I'm having fun in these photos ... but I'm not. It took me about a full day and a lot of breaks to actually get into this [we spent a day and a half total at Cojolya]. It was pretty hard for me to get the hang of this type of weaving - and to just get into it.

But once I worked through that discomfort - and once I began to take a little design initiative [see use of maguey below] - I was able to let go of my whirling thoughts, and get lost in the little loom.


PS - I don't know how these weavers do it.

El Insectos

No arrows needed.

Bearing Witness to a Dying Tradition

San Marcos at Lake Atitlan used to be covered in maguey plants, and harvested to turn into a fiber, and then sold as twine or made into bags. But since coffee plants took over [more profitable], finding a maguey plant in San Marcos is a rarity.

Meet José and his dad Lucas. Making the maguey into a fiber, and then bags has been tradition in their family for decades. But since the coffee plants took over, and the invention of plastic [used for twine], there is no demand for the fiber due to its laborious [note:expensive] process. José's only incentive for continuing this craft is to keep the tradition alive.

Our class had the special opportunity of bearing witness to this process. It is likely that José and Lucas' family are the only people that are still doing this in the world.

Cut the leaf from the plant

Hit the leaf. Be careful, the juice stings!

Let leaves sit in the lake for 5 days

Scrape to reveal fiber



Hand-spin


Crochet

The total process to make a bag takes about 25 days [!!].

An Inflammation of Discomfort

We arrived at Lake Atitlan yesterday, and started working with the artisans in the villages today. On our boat ride over to San Pedro, Cameron - our guide at that point - was telling us a little bit about the Lake.

Just to go back in time for a minute ... last semester I had the first of the sustainability classes that make up the Fashion Design program that focuses on Sustainability at CCA. This class was a seminar class where we focused on research about the environment and environmental and sustainability issues that are specific to fashion design. I was so eager in the beginning, and then my eagerness turned into major discomfort. I was getting inundated with really really negative information. And not only that - I was doing my own research. I was feeding some sort of addiction. A pessimistic environmental addiction that was telling me that everyone was doing it wrong - that I couldn't do enough - that I had to save the world - that we were ruining God's beautiful work - that I must die. I know this sounds really ridiculous - but this is how my head works sometimes. It's pretty sick.

So I had to stop it. I disconnected from the work, and stopped doing "research." At that point I had enough information. I started living in the solution. It was in the solution that I could actually feel useful. To me - that meant not telling others they were doing wrong or not enough, and also applying those same principles to myself. I couldn't expect myself to clean up all the trash in the world ... but I could continue to recycle, compost, eat local, cut down on food packaging, wear recycled clothes, etc. I really had to let go. I realized that I didn't have the kind of power that it took to solve the world's problems. And anyways - they were MY ideas of what the world's problems were.

Read previous blog posts here, here, and here.

So back to today: On our boat ride, Cameron was telling us about the Lake, and how it's been polluted by chemical fertilizer run-off from farms [farmers are using fertilizer that is illegal in the U.S.]. The pollution began a mere 3 years ago, and has had some suprising ultra-damaging effects in such a short period of time. The water used to be clear. It's not anymore. Fish can not be eaten out of the lake anymore - and the population of the Lake's fish is quickly decreasing. There's a high amount of bacteria and a high amount of dysentery. In 2 years, the lake's water won't be drinkable [not that it really is now]. The lake is dying.

I immediately got overwhelmed with the same feelings that magnetized to me during the Spring semester. I just got so sad. The Lake is so beautiful. And it's dying. I can't describe why this affects me so much, I really can't. But what I do understand at this point is that I will understand more later.

In the midst of me trying to desperately hold back my tears [and not appear like a crazy-lady who's shedding tears about the environment] ... I remembered what I was told last semester ... and what helped me to come back to reality. God is a controversial artist. I totally don't understand this "art," and I don't need to. There's some sort of plan. Something happening that I don't understand. And it's not my responsibility to save the world. I just need to do my part, whatever it is at that moment. Right now it means buying my food from farmers who don't spray with pesticides, cutting down on plastic bag use, using recycled materials for my clothes, buying local ... tomorrow it might mean starting an organization to clean up Lake Atitlan. All I gotta do is listen to the loving voice in my head that's telling me what to do at that moment, and not carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. I just need to trust and have faith that our world is being taken care of. Maybe not in the way that I would do it. But then again, I'm not God.

Some pretty, and some 'ugly' ...

Mosquiters

Not a fan.

A Part of [A Butterfly Beat]

Today I sat in the backyard of Indigo to embroider. I sat my little chair next to this huge bush-type-thing that the butterflies liked to swirl around. At first I felt like an intruder. I would embroider a little bit, then watch them. Embroider. Watch. Sit. Embroider. Sit. Watch. Stare. Sit. Embroider. What little legs they have!

They were all doing their own thing. So was I. Then I started to feel like I was blending in, like I was a part of this picture. I started to see this scene as a show - stage left yellow butterfly - stage right striped butterfly - ok now swirl around each other - go! ...

I started to see a rhythm. An inconsistent rhythm. A silent beat. A beat that made no sense, but made so much sense at the same time. And me sitting in my little chair. I was part of this stage. I certainly wasn't the main character, nor was I the audience. But I was a part of. I was a part of this little scene. Me and my little chair, in the backyard.

de parte de Dios 2 [from God part 2] - Ladies of Coban

As I sit here in a café at 7:23 am reflecting on our day yesterday when we were introduced to the ladies of Coban I am emotional. There have been moments here where I have been able to hold back my tears. There have been moments here where I have not. Shoot I think this is one of those moments. Poor café people.

I witnessed something so special yesterday. The ladies of Coban came to visit us from their village in Coban to show us their art. They are weavers, these ladies ... but different than other weavers. The women in the village [yes only women, the men are farmers] weave these beautifully delicate and intricate textiles only in white. And when I say delicate/intricate, I mean that their textiles look like lace.

These women started weaving when they were children [think: under 10 y/o]. They weave into their textiles symbols of what they see around them - crabs, ducks, deers, spiders ...

To say that these textiles take a long time to weave is a total understatement. The weaving takes a very very long time - and because it takes so long the price is high. And because the price is so high, it is very difficult to find these treasured textiles in the world. It pains me to say this, but this art is not sustainable for the ladies. It is a dying art. Unless we can work with the artisans to come up with a sellable solution, while not changing what makes their art so perfect.

And these ladies are exactly like the art they create: peaceful, delicate, full of grace. Yesterday I saw God.



"Thank you for coming to see my weaving. I came here with my heart. Take it with you, with your heart."