claudiapena.com

Easter is an inspiring time because of the beautiful blooming flowers, the end of a cold winter, the celebration of Christ’s resurrection for Christians worldwide, and the overall feeling of renewal that the season brings. This weeks photo collection is

Dixonator’s Garden and my bohemian observations watching life from the the underbelly looking up at bright suns…entertainment is so easy from this angle.

Pictures of me:
I’ve never thought of giving people pictures of me until I started traveling. Yes, it’s petal picking forget me nots in your memory prairie of toucan yellow chrysanthemums and red dripping Indian brushes, but… I’m looking at the repoused silver intricate work upon layers of beads on black felt jacket, Hmong neon pink head dress feathers, taken in the land of the elephants. Following a tradition my friend started when she came back from Iraq. This is me at 30, almost 31. Four continents touched, 7 countries explored, unabashedly sailing solo but open to addendum. So much more to do and see, but… forget me not.

Sucking fish:
My friends know when my twisted smile comes on. I struggle to detach my eyes from the little fish sucking off the weary traveler’s calloused feet that dare invade their territory. People swear by its nourishing power to bring healthier skin, but curiosity bites harder. “Arashi…” I have everyone’s curiosity as my eyebrows peak. Fine, I’ll address the proverbial pink elephant/literal feet sucking fish in the room. “Hey Arashi…what happens when the fish get too big? Do you eat them? Do they taste like feet?” Meanwhile, I’m making sure nothing is lost in translation pointing at the fat fish in the bottom left corner sinking by gluttony, motioning a fork and knife. He throws his hands at me, with an international crazy foreigner mumble. I guess answers are secondary to laughter.

Western females:
The little black number with a new hairdo and shoes, gold lip gloss and charcoal eye shadow drinking coffee by the sidewalk, is like a weed growing between concrete barrier divides in the German Autobahn: Claudia’s field research. While men peripherally look and walk faster so as not to make eye contact, females whisper to their bffs holding on to hand to hand. I smile, wanting to say, “Hey, thirty something year old lady: nice school plaid mini! I’m so honored to be topic of your conversation and give you something to bond over. Oh, dude with bright green scarf, check it: we have the same lip gloss,” but language absconds vocal sounds and it becomes a silent flick. With eyes only, I have to say, “Hey, you know there are so many things we have in common culturally, you would laugh! Do you realize group identity becomes easier with immigrant presence, so you’re welcome. I see you….do you see me?” Amid my two hour notes, I quickly put my coffee down and stop my self from whistling like a construction worker at the only guy who has seriously caught my attention quickly walking by me. Chuckling, “Oh, c’on, now!” I wonder, “Latinas can’t possibly be that scary, right?”

add to del.icio.us

I’m in my friend’s apartment cleaning. Every part of my body has some layer of grime. It’s the third day of packing and dust thickens the air. The back and forth motion of mopping reminds me of my grandmother’s linoleum floor, years of lower belt status wondering why I had to mop when there was enough money to hire a maid and now here, in Korea on Friday night Salsa. Looking at my blackened feet from cleaning, I wondered how it crossed Jesus’ head that he had to wash dirty stinky feet like mine for Holy week with the reason, “Such as my love has been for you, so must your love be for each other.” Yet, sometimes interpretations come from life events, like leaving good friends or having them leave you. Like my friends did for me, I helped her because I was given it when I needed it, because I knew she would do the same for me, because I wanted to see her happy and I knew this would help. And somehow, because it made both her and me feel safe; in the sense that someone is watching out for us from head to toe.

In the taxi, I rushed goodbyes to hold back tears but I always look back for three seconds to get a picture of the people I leave, why I find them so inspiring, so strong and remember that life is momentary. Happiness are moments stacked like cubes magnetically attracted by faith. Knowing that small actions are meaningful and every road has a definition, is a smile after any departure.

So ahead of many entries, I give you St. Theresa’s Prayer and my photographic journal observing all the beauty in people: “Life Story Stills/claudiapena/flicker.com”

May today there be peace within.
May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.
It is there for each and every one of us.

Happy Easter! For Mona, Jaz, and Jentz…nothing like chosen sisters!

add to del.icio.us

My grandmother’s fingers were always thicker than the rest of her. Sometimes, it was like they didn’t belong to her. They attracted my gaze before I saw the droop of her kind soul. She would follow my gaze to the cracked dry landscape inside her hands that looked like a carbon etching filled filled with dirt from the vegetables of La Alameda market. Clapping her hands, she’d say, “See mija, that’s why you have to study so when you grow up, your fingers will just type.” She would fold her thick hands and her skin would pleat with too much moving room to ever be seen as dainty. Her finger tips were pricked from weaving furniture in perfect honey comb octagons. Her afternoon was happy working on chair backs and watching soap operas that we both cried to. Dinner was always fresh. If I didn’t catch the chicken, they would come clucking from the market. “It’s not a farm chicken when the meat is tough and the eggs are bright orange; Those are free range chickens.” To this date I can’t match my grandmother’s cooking.

I’m 30 now, watching a man with no legs drag his torso across the market street pushing a red plastic bowl on a skate board. His speaker is blasting a prayer in another language I don’t recognize. I don’t know if to admire this man for living life four inches above the floor or be repulsed by the obvious appearance. He shoves the red bowl in front of my torso incoherently asking for mercy. His hands are dirty, protected in old fingerless leather gloves, thick, old and rough. All I can see is the my grandmother’s hands: hugging my face on my birthday, weaving furniture reeds and twisting the chicken’s head before Christmas.

He announces that I am the adult female representative for the city-wide Hapkido competitions in April. He smiles and quickly leaves for a celebratory hot green tea where the fine line will be explained and my black belt shadow presented. I give way and bow following cultural rules, but wanting to strangle the lip gloss, long finger nail, long hair, giggling “cuteness” out of my married counterpart. I look away hearing the dig of a wooden spear against sandy grounds that my eyes have already pierced with a silent affirmation that I can fight my own battles. The least emotion shown, the better chance for success. So, I recall the peaceful elegant silence of the people I admire, and swallow all thoughts to the soft fleshy belly of survival underneath my tongue. I am still an immigrant in country where I don’t speak the language or acquired any education.

Femininity is an important part of her identity and although it’s culturally normal, I wonder if she ever feels frustrated and low. I wonder why she still continues a sport silently approved only to children, university students and older men, and why not do it correctly? I wonder if she is learning anything from me and if there’s anything I can take from this situation.

I breathe in and the second point in the fine print explained: the victory may not really be a victory. Many do not present themselves and the others forfeit. Very few will actually fight. “Well, can I be placed in the male division?” He shakes his head vigorously, “We don’t do that. America, yes, I know. Here no.”

Radical: It’s outside society. I am it to many. Avoided on the subway like nine foot muscular 300 pound black male in a dark alley; Attracted to by my exotic features. People are unsure of how to approach a small quiet female that loves an aspect of their culture and pride reserved only for men. Hesitating on questions and images inside kwan mats and bumping into me on a Saturday night with pink lipstick and parted hair.

The more I’m away, the more appreciation I’ve gathered for the States. There are dark sides to human nature regardless of time, space or location. Individuality has given people like Martin Luther King Jr. a chance to be heard and an opportunity to change the whole within 250 years of history.

I smile. For now, it’s okay. I can only do my best.
I sit in silence recreating battles and battlegrounds in metered breath and…wait.
Leaders destroy the followers and followers destroy the leaders. You have to be your own teacher and your own disciple. You have to question everything that man has accepted as valuable, as necessary. — J. Krishnamurti

She’s never quiet when anything is terrible but she takes true sadness when she can’t comfort pain. Going from EM nurse to project manager and hacker around the world, she’s lived her life to the fullest. Her bright green eyes, she says are German, against her African brown hair, look so beautiful. Today, she is dictating my exercise routine and I sit quietly and listen. Tomorrow, she will have 7 pound tumor taken from inside her viscera in a 5 hour surgery. One of many in the year to come. Sometimes, I feel like I came half way across the world to hold this woman’s hand. She reads my thoughts and says, “Because you needed a mother. No one knows what life has in stored for us.” Today is the celebration of La Virgen de Guadalupe and I miss hearing the taclas of the dried calabashes in church halls. The entry in my diary is short:

I’m wrapping my words around a wound that hasn’t bled yet
Dripping the rags like prayers to reach you
Hoping to be like marmalade yellow on lemon:
there even when you can’t see me

Far from here, my two friends have/are visited/visiting the operating table. I rely on textbook knowledge to ease popping static emotions on telephone –It’s just a body. It can heal. We’re just Lego parts on operating table. I just want you to think about how happy you’ll be afterwards.

Sometimes, living far away feels like wrapping a tree
Each revolution an onhmed color
and the smell of burnt camphor that I lay on the Virgin’s feet
Exhaled in each breath
fractally sculpting this pacific blue that will
travel the world and darkness to be there,
hoping so very much to be there,
like the single tree wrapped in rags in this sunset room…
Breathing and glorifying God,
Saying, “Everything will be okay,” in the mantra of your name.

Suzanna flipped her perfectly shiny hair while she chewed on the hot pink bubble gum. Her blue jean Gap purse full of trinkets jingled as she ran after me down the hall, “Missss!” She was one of fourth grade’s characters, trend setter and mini skirt dress-code-pusher. She batted her big brown eyes full of mascara, took a deep breath, sighed and dropped her shoulders. Big news. “Yes, mam’.”

A small hesitation but her outspoken nature took over, “Am…, (smack) I want to know if there’s life after death.” I chuckled, “I don’t know but what if throw you out that window and you come back and let me know?” It’s hard to protest while laughing and she gave me the familiar teenage, “M-issss!”

“Don’t know girl, you’re gonna have to ask your mom that question,” still smiling while she hurried to class. What could I have answered? “Well, the Bible says yes but not if you’re not Christian. Other religions follow suit. Many think that’s it; no mas, no menos. Science believes the brain sees what it wants to see when it’s under duress. (BUT, scientists also say love is the same as going totally nuts, so take it with a lima bean of skepticism.) I think the question is a dead end (joke, get it?!). A better question would be is my death worthy of my life?” …Yeah

What human being hasn’t asked themselves that question and how long did it take them to discover their answer? How many people think the same way I do about this subject and how did they come upon their answer?
Does asking a teacher, preacher, monk, or spiritual adviser make any difference or is it something you really need to get on your own?
What would people answer this kid and why would a question like that leave me so dumbfounded for words and so deep in thought?
Is this a bad question because I can’t “teach” it and there’s no empirical evidence therefore no coherent argument but just emotion? Since when did emotion become bad?
Is it dreaming when pursuing something without evidence? Aren’t great actions made of dreams?
How long did it take me to formulate that two sentence answer?
How many questions did I have to ask before I said bad question, you’re loosing your time as of this point forward, return to your question and make a better one?

The spicy radish brings me back to reality, listen. How quiet and sweet does the taste of freedom feel? How small can happiness be given? It’s not the answers but the questions. It’s not a book but the person who makes meaning. Meaning fine tuned makes technique. The whole is art.