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

Gaining the Willingness to Cross Over the Learning Edge

Yesterday we went over Atun's house [Atun is a weaver that works at Cojolya], and we met his wife Juanita and his daughter Candace, who are both embroiders.

As I walked in the door, I saw the two sitting on the couch, and my eyes danced around their house ... looking for something more - more light, more music, ... But at the moment I saw her work, I knew that this was it - I was bearing witness to the work of a master embroiderer and fantastic artist. Her work was nothing short of unbelievable.

I felt connected to this woman's work. I wanted to work with her. But I couldn't. It was too far away from Antigua. Where was I going to stay? I already paid for my room in Antigua. It would cost too much. The transportation back to the lake would be annoying. A classmate suggested asking Atun if his wife would teach me, and I snapped at her. She obviously needed to mind her own business. This was my life, and I didn't need her stupid ideas.

My resistance and my discomfort started to become blatantly obvious at that moment. In speaking to my instructor about this later, she noted that it was having the willingness to break through the learning edge.

So I stopped listening to the "can't" voices, and started to embrace the "can" voices. I started asking simple questions about the possibility of working with Juanita ... and in a few short minutes [literally], I had transportation to Antigua, and a free place to stay for a few days. And a special embroiderer teacher.

El Insectos

No arrows needed.

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."

de Dieu [from God] - Marie Noelle Fontan Natural Textiles Artist

Today I had the pleasure of not only meeting natural textiles artist Marie Noelle Fontan, but I also had the pleasure of helping her put together a slide show of her art for my class. Oh ... my ... God. There were moments that I nearly stopping breathing. Forever. Like - I was so satisfied seeing her art that I would've been ok dying at that moment. Really.

Marie Noelle is from France and spends a couple of months out of the year living in Antigua. Her happening to be in Antigua at the same time our class - and her visiting our class to give a presentation - was a such a gift.

When I say "natural textiles artist" I mean this: Marie Noelle collects nature from around the world, and weaves it directly into a composition using the loom that her Mom used to make her clothes when she was a young child. You heard me: She uses nature she finds - coconut, leaves, husks, beans, sticks ... etc - and weaves them into a delicate 'textile.'

Her art is perfectly composed, and uses the natural form of her findings to create beautifully gestural, perfectly delicate, and incredibly graceful pieces. Breath-taking really. And I just saw photos.

And Marie Noelle is just like her art - beautifully composed, humble, and full of grace. I have died and gone to heaven.

Marie Noelle giving the presentation:


Some of her work I pulled off her website:









Olga, Marie Noelle, and Me (a truly prized photo):

Finding Passion: Ode to Embroidery

Have you always wanted to learn how to do something ... and finally when you do, it's like fireworks going off? It's like somehow, you're home.

I've always wanted to learn how to embroider. And today, when I learned how to embroider, it was like 4th of July.

Camilla from a village up North was my teacher. I think that I might be hooked. No really, you don't understand ... I already went to the market and bought 30 different colors of thread and some hoops. I want to embroider everything in site. My shih tzu Bunny. My breakfast [eggs]. An ice cream cone. Leaves. Flowers. I'm looking forward to our long ride to Lake Atitlan on Thursday so I can zone out and embroider and drool in delight.

Camilla:

And also learned how to make pom-poms. I mean, who doesn't like a good pom-pom every once in awhile?

Hummingbird Heaven & The Best Artist I Know

Today we had a free day, and 6 of us went on a hike in Antigua.

At the beginning of the hike, there was this little hummingbird deck set up and I was literally moved to tears when I was watching these little creatures. Like nothing I've ever seen, or heard. They are larger than the hummingbirds we have in San Francisco, and because of their size, their wings make a low moaning noise as they float in the air. At some moments, I was hearing an orchestra of the hummingbirds. I've never heard anything like this. And unfortunately, you won't either ... since you can't hear the sound in the video, but you can see the little guys fly around:

I am beyond grateful today to be a fully-awake and conscious witness to the artwork of the best artist I know. Here are a few photos from the hike:

And I saw a butterfly with transparent wings! You heard me! The wings are see-through. I couldn't get a good shot, but I just looked it up and it's called a Glass-wing Butterfly. Literally took my breath away. Here's an image I found on the internet:

A Rainbow of Battle Scars

[Dyed with Indigo yesterday. And the huge red dot is one of many mosquito bites]

The Cutest Thing You'll Ever See

So cute, I just can't take it. [Needle felted today out of Momostenango wool!]

Transcending Language

I had a moment today. I was feeling overwhelmed. A little anxious. I went outside and took a long break. I sat in the middle of the garden outside our school. Cried, wrote in my journal, drew, sat quietly. I went back inside, wiped the tears off my face, and then sat down at the loom with Jorgé.

Jorgé and I don't speak the same language, but he taught me. It was tough at first. But then I started to get it. It was all coming together. I wasn't thinking about anything. My hand was moving back and forth. We were beautifully working together ... in a rhythm, only communicating through craft, and not needing any language.

I stumbled away from the loom an hour and a half later. My feet were sore. My head was spinning with delight. I had a moment with Jorgé, with the loom. And there were really no words exchanged. Ah, the universal language of making.

Jorgé made this for me: