Tag: Nicaragua

My Best Life-Growth: August, 2013

Posted on August 12, 2013 by

From my first day teaching to mothering in Nicaragua, living my best life means embracing growth in all it’s subtle forms.

I first felt like a grown-up…

when I started teaching, back in early 1991.

Jen first day teachingCollege wasn’t easy for me, and I spent a lot of time trying to figure out who I was and where I was going. Ultimately, I found myself in a credential program teaching 7th grade. To my great surprise, I loved the kooky age group, and when I was offered a job teaching 7th grade English at a brand new school, I was thrilled. I remember my first day so clearly-what I wore (purple, because it was the school colors – ugh!), my nervousness, the over-planning, the exhaustion, the adrenaline, the absolute weirdness of being called “Miss Mason” by groups of kids not much smaller than me! Over the 22 years I’ve been teaching, I’ve experienced tremendous growth, but still get that first-day-of-school tingle when I know I’m meeting kids for the first time!

If I could make anything grow on trees, it would be…

time.

Cameron age 2I’d like to be able to pick a few minutes or hours or days off branches right outside my study window. I’d love to be able to go back to those lazy summer days of my childhood, when it seemed like all I had was time and couldn’t wait to go back to school to fill up my days. I’d love to stop time and buy those minutes back from my babies’ childhoods, those times when they were screaming and fussing and I didn’t know what to do, just that I wanted it to stop. Their growth as humans measures my time as their mother; now that they’re plugged in and heading into their lives independent of me, I’d love to have more time to be with them before they head off into the world without me.

My last growing pain was…

this summer, when I had to stretch outside my proverbial box and trust that everything would be OK.

Nicaragua Lily and CameronIn Nicaragua, I had to trust that my kids were strong, smart, and capable of traveling in a foreign country without me hovering all the time. I needed to let myself grow into trust, knowing that all would be well, and that they were learning valuable lessons right along with me.

I use my “green thumb” to…

bring beauty into the world.

gardenI can’t remember a time when I didn’t have a garden-first it was at my parent’s one-acre lot, where my dad would plant rows and rows of vegetables. I remember spending so many summer days happily moving hoses and scampering around in the dirt. My grandma Flossie was the consummate gardener – so much so that she carried around pruning shears in her purse to take slips of plants that she found on her daily walks. When I finally purchased my first house, the first thing we did was plant and landscape a blank plot of dirt into a beautiful Monet-inspired garden, complete with a brick patio and retaining wall built by hand. Today, as I write, I look out my second-story window and see hummingbirds feasting on Buddleia bushes and Stargazer lilies, old-fashioned roses blooming alongside gorgeous, droopy lavender Russian sage. My morning blooms make me happy, and digging in the dirt centers my soul.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Infused With Reverence

Posted on August 9, 2013 by

The simplest activities are infused with reverence.

“We see that when the activities of life are infused with reverence, they come alive with meaning and purpose. We see that when reverence is lacking from life’s activities, the result is cruelty, violence and loneliness. The physical arena is a magnificent learning environment. It is a school within which, through experimentation, we come to understand what causes us to expand and what causes us to contract, what causes us to grow and what causes us to shrivel, what nourishes our souls and what depletes them, what works and what does not.”

– Gary Zukav, The Seat of the Soul

I’ve written about the simplicity of life in Nicaragua; as images of our trip flash through my mind, I think about the authenticity of the people I met. Their simple lives – in outward appearances – rattle my brain as I slip back into my California home, bursting with the comforts of American life. At once, I wonder how they live without, and how do we live with?

What I come back to is the simple reverence they have for each aspect of their lives. The daily routines of existence- the preparing of food, the washing, the tending to children and animals, the care for their property-has such meaning and purpose. Nothing is taken for granted, little is wasted. And instead of a sense of lack, happiness exudes from their smiles, generosity pours from their hands and hearts.Their simple life, in reality, is much more complex than it appears.

Perhaps it is we who are simple, after all.

In Nicaragua, we learn what nourishes our souls.

We expand.

We experience reverence.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Travel with mamawolfe: Language Helps Us Share Who We Are

Posted on August 5, 2013 by

Nicaragua girls

I’m in a bit of culture shock, actually. I’m still thinking in Spanish – which is quite strange for someone who really doesn’t speak the language. In Nicaragua, communication was quite a struggle for me.

Sometimes I’d try to speak, and it would come out an odd mixture of Franglish – a twisted concoction of my college level French, mixed with years of listening to Spanish, and topped off with my native tongue. It scrambled my brain.

My kids say it takes them about 24 hours to reset the language switches in their brains from English to Spanish, and after that, their fluency takes over. Aside from the copious amounts of slang Nicaraguans use, as well as the dropping of the ‘s’, they manage to communicate quite well. They definitely shatter their ‘gringo’ appearance when they open their mouths, much to my delight.

One of the first nights we were in Nicaragua we walked to the nearby internet/phone cafe to make a few calls home. As my three teenage daughters and I entered the small room, we were greeted by a handsome young man behind the counter. I kid you not – he took one look at us, turned slightly to the side, and began slowly taking off his t-shirt to reveal his well-toned upper body. As the four of us stood there dumbfounded, I quickly gathered myself and whispered, “Say something in Spanish – he needs to know you understand him before they start making fun of us!” Quickly, the girls regrouped and asked to use the phone in impeccable Spanish, and he smiled and let them into the booths.

Walking home that night, I thought about my comfort level in Nicaragua. I’m basically at the mercy of my children to communicate for me, which is an interesting place to be. In Nicaragua, I’m much more comfortable being an observer. I can pick up enough of the conversation to act, to do something, to get to the right place, but to truly jump in and get to know what people are thinking, feeling or believing is nearly impossible for me. It keeps me at gringo status. It forces me to trust, to rely on someone else to do my talking.

To have my voice.

For someone who has worked so hard to find her voice and learn how to use it, that’s a little unsettling. My lack of language keeps me on the outside.

One day at the worksite things weren’t going so well for me. In the space of about 30 minutes I had fallen on my butt and dropped a heavy wooden sifter down my leg, leaving a huge, bloody scrape. I was hot, tired, and worried about what accident would happen next. Perfect time for a walk.

I set out down the road with Cameron and Niki, just hoping for a diversion from my looming injury. While I walked off to take a photo, Cameron struck up a conversation with a young man feeding his pigs. Curious, I walked over and started listening. I couldn’t follow much, and Cam kindly started translating about the beautiful cows in his pasture (well fed and bred for plowing the rocky fields) and the hungry pigs, who were being fed the milk left over from something or other.

Nicaragua pig farmer

We wandered down a path and caught a glimpse of a distant view. At Cameron’s urging, we started down the steep trail and soon stopped at a beautifully manicured yard, the dirt carefully swept and red hibiscus bushes in bloom. While Niki and I snapped photos, Cameron called out “Hola” to an old man sitting on his porch. With that one word, we were welcomed into his home and given a tour of his beautiful yard. He told us how he had lived there 50 years, and his wife proudly shared the fine construction of their home.

Casas Viejas, Nicaragua, family

After a few photos, the man told us to keep walking down the path for a view. Just as we were leaving, another young man spoke to Cameron in Spanish and asked us if we had time for a walk, and he would take us somewhere special. Cameron agreed, skipped after him, and Niki and I scrambled to keep up.

 Casas Viejas, Nicaragua

We walked through a community we didn’t even know existed, past well kept homes and smiling Nicaraguans. We were the only ‘gringos’ for miles.

Suddenly, we stopped at the edge of a cliff. The most breathtaking view awaited us, and we were speechless.

 Casas Viejas, Nicaragua  Casas Viejas, Nicaragua

Cameron continued his conversation as we snapped dozens of photos. Our guide pointed across the valley, and said he wanted to take us there. Again, Cameron agreed and we tagged along.

 Casas Viejas, Nicaragua

We wound up here, at the private watering hole for the community. We felt incredibly special to have this behind-the-scenes tour.

 Casas Viejas, Nicaragua

Walking back to the work site, I realized that without Cameron’s fluency we wouldn’t have had that experience. We would have snapped a few photos of the house and maybe, hesitatntly gone down the path a bit more. could I have said hello like Cameron did? Of course, but did I? Of course not. Would I have allowed myself to be led into the community alone, not understanding where I was going? No way.

To think of what I would have missed.

Sure, with my Franglish I can buy a Fanta or a pair of earrings. I can even get the kind of beer I want, and get myself to breakfast on time.

But I cannot ask why I need to drink the Fanta out of a bag. Or why I can’t take the bottle of beer instead of the can, or how Enrique prepared our delicious breakfast meal.

I can just smile and say, “Gracias”.

Language = power. Language opens doors, makes friends, and connects us. Language gives us a voice, enabling us to break down the outside and get to the good stuff – the gooey, sweet inside that makes us who we are. I’m so glad I got a taste of that.

Lily and her Agua Fria, Nicaragua brothers.

Lily and her Agua Fria, Nicaragua brothers.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Travel with mamawolfe: The Simple Life in Nicaragua

Posted on July 31, 2013 by

simple life in Nicaragua

There is something to be said about the simple life in Nicaragua. Every morning here starts out the same: I wake up, roll out of bed, and pad outside with my journal to listen to the morning sounds of doves cooing, roosters crowing and coffee percolating. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine I was home – except for climbing out of a sweaty bunk bed tangled in mosquito netting, swinging in a hammock, and the scent of burnt debris, it is eerily similar to Davis.

And that’s when reality sets in.

Traveling in Nicaragua is hard for foreigners. We’re constantly on guard to keep from eating or drinking the wrong things. We’re vigilant about drinking water to keep hydrated, spraying DEET to ward off malaria and dengue, and we sanitize like it’s going out of style.

But some of my favorite parts about traveling in Nicaragua are really the simple parts that are so very different from living in the US.

13 7 24 Nicaragua Casas Viejas 2 002 (59)

The truck rides

I absolutely love riding up the dirt road in the back of the pickup truck. The only rules? Stay seated on the pavement, hold on, and only 10 gringos in the back at once. Easy enough. I remember my terror the first time here at the thought of my children riding in back without seatbelts; I soon realized that the back of the truck was the most comfortable.

The sense of time

It does take some getting used to, this idea of Nicaraguan time. ‘Hurry up and wait’ is how we Americans seem to operate. As long as we make it safely, and everyone in the group is accounted for, time isn’t really something paid a whole lot of attention to. The only rule I’ve heard our host say is to not be driving after dark-it’s not as safe.

simple life in Nicaragua

The food

Most of our meals are prepared by a restaurant owner named Enrique. He has his own restaurant right around the corner, and we eat breakfast there every morning. Lunch and dinner are either brought to the work site (lunch) or to the Seeds of Learning compound (dinner). Simple and delicious, Nicaraguan food is a combination of savory and sweet, little salt or spice, not much dairy or cheese. The fruits are fresh, squash and corn plentiful, and nearly every meal comes with freshly made corn tortillas. The kids love the soda here – nothing artificial about it. Pure cane sugar!

Everyone worked!  There were NO power tools.

Everyone worked! There were NO power tools.

The activities

Each day here is some sort of combination of hard manual labor when building the school, connecting with the community, and working with children.

In Nicaragua we don’t use power tools or pre-made anything – we make our own mortar, cement, and rebar, and it is not unusual to see men working entire days with a pickax to remove one large boulder in the way of a new wall or foundation.

The people of Casas Viejas and Ciudad Dario couldn’t be more friendly and hospitable. We get a fair share of strange looks (19 white people walking down the street surely must look odd in these small, remote communities), and cat-calls (chellita! chellita! are the favorites), but considering the US’s checkered past with Nicaragua during the Reagan years, they really do welcome us warmly.

The children here really do seem happy with the simple life in Nicaragua. Although we bring crafts, they really enjoy coloring books, puzzles, Monopoly and chess games, Legos and playing catch. Not many kids here are plugged in or tuned out. Their favorite use of technology seems to be having their picture taken- “un photo” echoes through my ears every afternoon.

the community prepared songs and dances for our arrival

the community prepared songs and dances for our arrival

The focus on the family

Nicaraguan houses are simple and conducive to socializing with the family and their neighbors. An open door is an invitation in Nicaragua, and each evening we see families gathered on the sidewalk in front of their house, or inside their front room, having conversation and simply spending time together. Often they will draw us in, asking us questions or making friendly comments. In the rural areas, the same sense of connectedness happens with parents and kids sitting outside in the shade, in the crotch of a tree, or on a rock in their garden.

So while I admit I do look forward to a bit of air conditioning, purified tap water and a hot shower, I will certainly miss much about the simple life in Nicaragua. I guess that’s a good reason to come back.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Powerful or Powerless: The Execution of Noa P. Singleton

Posted on July 29, 2013 by

“it’s that sense of powerlessness that destroyed my soul. i cannot be as good as i would like to be.nor as bad as i think i need to be.i think you have the same doubts that your goodness was not rewarded.”
Paulo Coelho

Powerless Structures Fig.101

Powerless Structures (Photo credit: failing_angel)

“Like all great stories, mine begins with classic Greek lore. With Persephone, the daughter of Zeus, wife of Hades, queen of the underworld, goddess of death, and my closest friend when I was twelve years old.”
– from The Execution of Noa P. Singleton by Elizabeth L. Silver
As a Child:
“You may feel powerless as a child, but the world will one day be yours. And you’re responsible for it. So, seize the day and take charge of it.”
Harvey Fierstein
It wasn’t far from my 6th grade classroom to our cozy little house on the tree lined street. Classic Americana small town living; our family of six squished into the brown shingled house with the cork tree out front. We played on the street, kicking the can or legendary games of hide and seek nearly every summer night.
But this afternoon the street was eerily quiet as I pedaled my green Schwinn one speed down the lane and pulled into the driveway. Walking up the curved, hedge lined front path I was surprised at the lack of activity. Cautiously, I opened the front door and stepped inside. My footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors as I slowly stepped down the hall, gazing into each empty room.
“Mom?” I called to no one.
I walked past the bathroom, sterile in its emptiness, and towards the cozy room I shared with my younger sister. Empty. And my brother’s room looked sad, empty of trucks, Legos and Lincoln Logs. I continued down to my parent’s room, realizing what I would find wasn’t there, but hoping it was.
As I retraced my steps, I found myself whispering goodbye to each room. I wandered through the living room with the picture window facing the garden where our Christmas tree used to stand, the family room where Sesame Street, Julia Child and Sonny and Cher broadcast out of our black and white, and into the kitchen. Empty.
Returning to the front hall, I paused, looked back, and wiped the tear from my face. “Goodbye, house,” I mouthed as I shut the door, climbed on my bike, and rode away. Powerless, I never looked back.
As a Young Woman:

“Being tall is an advantage, especially in business. People will always remember you. And if you’re in a crowd, you’ll always have some clean air to breathe.”

-Julia Child

It was Bastille Day in Paris, 1989. We were young, in love, and spending the summer with packs on our backs and Eurail passes in our pockets. Fresh from the Louvre, we ambitiously boarded the train back to our hostel. Feeling relieved to find a seat, I carefully clutched my recent purchase: two Monet reproduction posters, just waiting to be framed and hung on our bedroom wall.

“S’il vous plaît quitter le train. Il ya un autre venant en rapide derrière nous. S’il vous plaît quitter le train,” the announcer broadcast in rapid fire French. My brain processed as quickly as I could;all I could translate was ‘Please exit the train!” before dozens of Parisians began climbing over each other, terror on their faces. That, we understood.

I felt myself getting squished down in the melee, my Monets still tightly in my grasp. Panic had set in, and the announcer continued to blare his message of terror.

Suddenly, I felt someone grab my arm. In an instant I was swept off my feet, powerless to the crowd. I sailed over subway seats, moving to the exit with amazing speed. My other arm still clutching my Monets, I somehow landed on my feet and gazed up at my boyfriend with great relief.

“Run!” he shouted, and we dashed for the stairs leading up and out of the Metro, panic coursing through our bodies. As we reached the stairs, suddenly the tension eased and the crowd began to laugh.

“Pas besoin de s’inquiéter. Le prochain train arrivera sous peu. Nous vous remercions de votre coopération.”

This time, my college level French completely left me. Language fail had left me powerless, but as I watched the next train calmly pull up behind us I realized we were safe.

As a Mother:

“It is for us to pray not for tasks equal to our powers, but for powers equal to our tasks, to go forward with a great desire forever beating at the door of our hearts as we travel toward our distant goal.”

– Helen Keller

It just seemed like the right thing to do, for some crazy reason. A leap of faith, maybe, that my children and I would be safe. Months of preparation led up to this point; immunizations, packing, fund raising and studying the Nicaraguan culture and finally, we were ready to leave.

As we gathered together in the airport, I was seized with anxiety. What was I doing? Taking my kids to a country I’d never been to, with people I didn’t know, to spend two weeks of hard work building a school in uncertain circumstances?

Sleep wasn’t an option on the red eye flight to Managua. As we gently descended my anxiety ebbed, then released. We were here. I could do this, even alone.

It was a few days later when we met him; a doe eyed, nine year old boy with closely shaved hair and no shoes. His name was Victor, and he wore the same red jersey and yellow shorts to the work site each day, darting out of the bushes as our Toyota truck clambered up the dirt road. He became our only real reason for going to the work site – his smile was that powerful. Cameron and he bonded, spending hours together scampering around the school site, finger knitting friendship bracelets and conversing easily in Spanish.

When the last day came, my tears flowed freely. Cameron hugged me as we drove away, assuring me it would be ok. And actually, in some way I knew he was right. It would be ok. We would be ok. This powerful experience would forever be etched in our heart, and his smile forever on my mind. We did this. I did this for my kids, and nothing could quite compare.

Execution-of-Noa-P-Singleton-by-Elizabeth-Silver-Cover-197x300

This post was inspired by the novel The Execution of Noa P. Singleton by Elizabeth L. Silver. Mere months before Noa’s execution, her victim’s mother changed her mind Noa’s sentence and vows to help stay the execution. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes. Grab your copy of The Execution of Noa P. Singleton and join From Left to Write on July 30 when we discuss the book.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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