"Prayer is a nonlocative, nongeographic space that one enters at one's own peril, for it houses God during those few moments of one's presence there, and what is there will most surely change everything that comes into it. Prayer, its opal walls polished to transparency by the centuries of hands that have touched them, is the Tabernacle realized and the wayside chapel utilized. Ever traveling as we travel, moving as we move, prayer grips like home, until the heart belongs nowhere else and the body can scarcely function apart from them both. Prayer is dangerous and the entrance way to wholeness."
PHYLLIS TICKLE, Prayer Is a Place
I like this quote. What do you think?
Peace and Love, Krista
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
InsideToronto Article: Mosque, synagogue unite in effort to feed homeless youth
InsideToronto Article: Mosque, synagogue unite in effort to feed homeless youth
I found this article while trying to find information on how I might be able to assist homeless youth anywhere within driving distance from my little town in Virginia.
I get stuck on things sometimes. The brain just refuses to let go. This is one of those times.
How did I get there? It probably has something to do with the fact that we are really cold at my house some days. There are times when the temperature hovers in the mid forties. I tend to operate from the "it could always be worse" perspective. I like to think of it as chilly, not cold. We survive. We do have some heat, and we can get a few rooms alot warmer. We have heated mattress pads that wake me in a full sweat in the middle of the night when I forget to lower the temp. It isn't so bad.
I began to think of others who endure much colder weather. It isn't much of a leap. I work with kids daily. So runs the movie in my brain.
Homeless youth. If those two words don't make you cry, read them again. Homeless youth. Homeless youth.
There are an estimated 2 million homeless young people in America. 2 million. If you have a hard time visualizing that number, try this: the seating capacity at FedEx stadium is 91, 655. Nearly 22 stadiums filled to capacity, not with Redskins fans, but with our sons and daughters. It is unimaginable.
Unfathomable. Insane.
Eight homeless young people burned in a fire over the holidays in an abandoned warehouse in New Orleans' Ninth Ward. If it made national news, I certainly missed it. Burned beyond recognition, beyond even the identification of gender. If you don't believe it, google it.
I want to do something about homelessness. I want everyone to do something to end homelessness for our nation's youth. If a mosque and a synagogue can work together in Toronto to be part of a solution for homeless Canadian youth, can we not do the same?
Yes, there are organizations who are leading the way. Check out Dry Bones in Denver, and StandUp for Kids across the country. But, in these terrible, harrowing economic times that are putting families and kids on the streets daily, funding to support outreach also drys up. Staffed centers vanish.
2 million homeless youth. 2 million. Homeless Youth.
It isn't right.
Those homeless kids are not nameless. They are not faceless. They are part of Our family.
Peace and Love, K
(I will update this when I sort out what I am going to do)
I found this article while trying to find information on how I might be able to assist homeless youth anywhere within driving distance from my little town in Virginia.
I get stuck on things sometimes. The brain just refuses to let go. This is one of those times.
How did I get there? It probably has something to do with the fact that we are really cold at my house some days. There are times when the temperature hovers in the mid forties. I tend to operate from the "it could always be worse" perspective. I like to think of it as chilly, not cold. We survive. We do have some heat, and we can get a few rooms alot warmer. We have heated mattress pads that wake me in a full sweat in the middle of the night when I forget to lower the temp. It isn't so bad.
I began to think of others who endure much colder weather. It isn't much of a leap. I work with kids daily. So runs the movie in my brain.
Homeless youth. If those two words don't make you cry, read them again. Homeless youth. Homeless youth.
There are an estimated 2 million homeless young people in America. 2 million. If you have a hard time visualizing that number, try this: the seating capacity at FedEx stadium is 91, 655. Nearly 22 stadiums filled to capacity, not with Redskins fans, but with our sons and daughters. It is unimaginable.
Unfathomable. Insane.
Eight homeless young people burned in a fire over the holidays in an abandoned warehouse in New Orleans' Ninth Ward. If it made national news, I certainly missed it. Burned beyond recognition, beyond even the identification of gender. If you don't believe it, google it.
I want to do something about homelessness. I want everyone to do something to end homelessness for our nation's youth. If a mosque and a synagogue can work together in Toronto to be part of a solution for homeless Canadian youth, can we not do the same?
Yes, there are organizations who are leading the way. Check out Dry Bones in Denver, and StandUp for Kids across the country. But, in these terrible, harrowing economic times that are putting families and kids on the streets daily, funding to support outreach also drys up. Staffed centers vanish.
2 million homeless youth. 2 million. Homeless Youth.
It isn't right.
Those homeless kids are not nameless. They are not faceless. They are part of Our family.
Peace and Love, K
(I will update this when I sort out what I am going to do)
Saturday, January 1, 2011
New Year
Happy New Year. May the new year find you filled with wonder as you gaze upon nature's incredible beauty ...whether it be a snowy afternoon, a starlit sky, or the simple ripples on a sparkling pond after skipping stones. May you have peace in your heart, and generosity in spirit. Let dreams soar, and face challenge with courage. Remember that Love always wins. -K
Some of my favorite pics from the last week:
Some of my favorite pics from the last week:
Monday, August 23, 2010
Searching for Domingo Castillo
My mom set up an appointment today for my grandmother to see about B12 injections as that seems to help some patients diagnosed with Alzheimer's. So far, other than brief hospitalizations for injury, my grandmother has been able to stay in her home. With the help of her caregiver. It isn't easy.
Noah and I last visited 2 1/2 years ago. While there we had to take her car in for repairs. When it came time to pay the bill, she didn't want to pay, and insisted the car was mine (we flew out). It was hysterically funny. We had to leave the car at Sears for abit. We took her to lunch at Famous Daves, and her caregiver snatched her wallet as I distracted her. Neither of us had the money to get the car out of the shop on our own. I had to explain to the mechanic why I was signing her name and showing the military id of someone in her eighties. I was pretty close to freaking out because if he had asked to talk to Carmen, she would have told him that the car was mine and she wasn't paying.
I've found some interesting pieces of the family history over the last few days. So far the scanty evidence seems to corroborate the wild stories I had heard Gramma tell when I was young. I've found records of Domingo's passage aboard the Coppename from Puerto Barrios, Guatemala to New Orleans on May 13, 1915 It records his birth in Managua. It says that he was travelling to university in Philadelphia. I've found his registration for the Draft from 1917. It says that he is employed as a Spanish Instructor with the DC Board of Education. It says that he is single with his mother and child to support, and that he has 3 years of military service in Nicaragua. He claims disability, but on the reverse the registrar indicates none. I found the census record of 1920 which places Domingo, Volberg and Carmen Castillo in Washington DC. My gramma was born in 1918. That is it for Domingo.
But Carmen and Volberg Castillo are passengers on the Olancho in 1923, headed home from Bluefields, Nicaragua. There are no documents related to Domingo's life with my grandmother in Bluefields. What happened to him? Why did he take my grandmother from her mother? Why did he let her mother take her back?
Grandma Carmen says he took her because he loved her so. That makes me smile. Her story is that he became a judge and she had the President of Nicaragua as a godfather. She has said that he died from malaria and that he was killed in rebellion, but there exists the possibility that he survived well into old age and lived to tell his story of the Sandino Rebellion. It is hard to find Nicaraguan documents from the twenties. I am working on it.
I also discovered that Carmen has a half sister she never met. She is still alive. She is older than my grandma...her mom's first child. I don't know her name yet.
Still searching for Domingo.
Love and Peace, Krista
Noah and I last visited 2 1/2 years ago. While there we had to take her car in for repairs. When it came time to pay the bill, she didn't want to pay, and insisted the car was mine (we flew out). It was hysterically funny. We had to leave the car at Sears for abit. We took her to lunch at Famous Daves, and her caregiver snatched her wallet as I distracted her. Neither of us had the money to get the car out of the shop on our own. I had to explain to the mechanic why I was signing her name and showing the military id of someone in her eighties. I was pretty close to freaking out because if he had asked to talk to Carmen, she would have told him that the car was mine and she wasn't paying.
I've found some interesting pieces of the family history over the last few days. So far the scanty evidence seems to corroborate the wild stories I had heard Gramma tell when I was young. I've found records of Domingo's passage aboard the Coppename from Puerto Barrios, Guatemala to New Orleans on May 13, 1915 It records his birth in Managua. It says that he was travelling to university in Philadelphia. I've found his registration for the Draft from 1917. It says that he is employed as a Spanish Instructor with the DC Board of Education. It says that he is single with his mother and child to support, and that he has 3 years of military service in Nicaragua. He claims disability, but on the reverse the registrar indicates none. I found the census record of 1920 which places Domingo, Volberg and Carmen Castillo in Washington DC. My gramma was born in 1918. That is it for Domingo.
But Carmen and Volberg Castillo are passengers on the Olancho in 1923, headed home from Bluefields, Nicaragua. There are no documents related to Domingo's life with my grandmother in Bluefields. What happened to him? Why did he take my grandmother from her mother? Why did he let her mother take her back?
Grandma Carmen says he took her because he loved her so. That makes me smile. Her story is that he became a judge and she had the President of Nicaragua as a godfather. She has said that he died from malaria and that he was killed in rebellion, but there exists the possibility that he survived well into old age and lived to tell his story of the Sandino Rebellion. It is hard to find Nicaraguan documents from the twenties. I am working on it.
I also discovered that Carmen has a half sister she never met. She is still alive. She is older than my grandma...her mom's first child. I don't know her name yet.
Still searching for Domingo.
Love and Peace, Krista
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Memory and Carmen Castillo
Memory.
Clickety-clack went her high-heels along the sidewalk as I struggled to keep up, making sure I didn't step on a crack. Where were we? In the dusty book of days past, on some nearly forgotten shelf in my brain, are the faintest memories of shopping with my grandmother in Washington, D.C. I hear the noise of cars passing and feel my arms swinging, but the visual image is just the cement sidewalk-- my feet skipping over the cracks to avoid breaking my mother's back-- and Gramma's red heels and the pleated hemline of her skirt that was just at the knee. And clickety-clack, I had to keep up, and where are we going? but my whole movie has been edited out... except for that one scene. Clickety-clack.
I hate not being able to recall. I know she feels the same. I've heard her say it: "Oh, I'm so stupid, I can't remember the word." My grandmother has been alot of things; stupid was never one of them. And this just isn't the script she'd have written for the last scenes of her movie.
My brother just gave me the sweetest present via ancestry.com:
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According to Gramma the apartment was across the street from a fire department. She had a mischevous side, and apparently burned a wax doll. When smoke billowed out the window, they didn't have far to come. That, and the firemen looked after her a bit as she was a latch-key kid. Her mom worked as an accountant in the fashion district. Gramma says her mom would give her money to attend piano lessons after-school, but it was just enough for pie and a soda at the local diner, so that is where she would go. Apparently it worked out fine until recital time.
My grandmother never sat for a single piano lesson...but as a kid I would marvel at how she could sit at our old piano and peck out a tune. She loved music, still does. We used to all dance with her in her living room when we visited. She has crazy stories of driving all night with my grandad to dance and listen to great music in Chicago back in the 40s. One of them involves dancing through a drummer and landing in a drum.
Well, I have rambled on through this blog tonight, and that was never my intention. Kurt's happy surprise in the middle blew the melancholy memories away, and I am dancing with my gram to "La Vida Loca."
Peace and Love, Krista
Clickety-clack went her high-heels along the sidewalk as I struggled to keep up, making sure I didn't step on a crack. Where were we? In the dusty book of days past, on some nearly forgotten shelf in my brain, are the faintest memories of shopping with my grandmother in Washington, D.C. I hear the noise of cars passing and feel my arms swinging, but the visual image is just the cement sidewalk-- my feet skipping over the cracks to avoid breaking my mother's back-- and Gramma's red heels and the pleated hemline of her skirt that was just at the knee. And clickety-clack, I had to keep up, and where are we going? but my whole movie has been edited out... except for that one scene. Clickety-clack.
I hate not being able to recall. I know she feels the same. I've heard her say it: "Oh, I'm so stupid, I can't remember the word." My grandmother has been alot of things; stupid was never one of them. And this just isn't the script she'd have written for the last scenes of her movie.
My brother just gave me the sweetest present via ancestry.com:
.jpg)
The first tangible evidence of the Bluefields story. Amazing. So they left Bluefields, Nicaragua aboard the Olancho on August 29, 1923 and arrived in New York on September 5. My grandmother was five, and she and Volberg (the spelling is different than I've seen elsewhere) would live at 578 Academy St, NY, NY.
According to Gramma the apartment was across the street from a fire department. She had a mischevous side, and apparently burned a wax doll. When smoke billowed out the window, they didn't have far to come. That, and the firemen looked after her a bit as she was a latch-key kid. Her mom worked as an accountant in the fashion district. Gramma says her mom would give her money to attend piano lessons after-school, but it was just enough for pie and a soda at the local diner, so that is where she would go. Apparently it worked out fine until recital time.
My grandmother never sat for a single piano lesson...but as a kid I would marvel at how she could sit at our old piano and peck out a tune. She loved music, still does. We used to all dance with her in her living room when we visited. She has crazy stories of driving all night with my grandad to dance and listen to great music in Chicago back in the 40s. One of them involves dancing through a drummer and landing in a drum.
Well, I have rambled on through this blog tonight, and that was never my intention. Kurt's happy surprise in the middle blew the melancholy memories away, and I am dancing with my gram to "La Vida Loca."
Peace and Love, Krista
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Carmen Castillo, 2
"Besame mucho" and "Je ne compre pas"
My grandmother says that when she returned with her mother from Nicaragua, she could no longer speak English. Years later she would say that these two phrases comprised her only Spanish. You'd have to really know Carmen to understand that there was never any point in explaining that the second phrase is French. That it means "I don't understand" has always made me giggle...and since she was forever leaving her bright lipstick all over our faces as kids, I am pretty sure she understood the meaning of the first.
These are some of Gramma's pictures. I have guessed that they come from her time in Bluefields, Nicaragua, but I am far from certain. Once upon a time they were packaged with a photo of my great grandfather, Domingo Castillo. He was teaching Spanish in Washington, D.C. when he met my great grandmother, Valberg Erikksen, a Swede. At some point in my grandmother's toddler years, Domingo returned permanently to Nicaragua. He took Carmen with him. In Bluefields, Domingo became a judge, and his friend, one of the seven men who served as President of Nicaragua from 1921 to 1925, became my grandmother's godfather.
My grandmother has said that these were happy times. Eventually her mother would arrive to take her back to the states, but that is a story for another night.
I just got off the phone with Gramma. She lives in Nebraska. It was a 15 second conversation. She asked when I could come to get her. I'm planning on visiting at Thanksgiving. Oh, good. She told me life at the lake was okay. She asked when I could come get her. I'm coming at Thanksgiving. Oh that will be nice. I love...she passed the phone back to her caregiver. Would you please tell Gramma that I love her. I'll try to remember to say that first next time. Besame mucho, Gramma.
My grandmother says that when she returned with her mother from Nicaragua, she could no longer speak English. Years later she would say that these two phrases comprised her only Spanish. You'd have to really know Carmen to understand that there was never any point in explaining that the second phrase is French. That it means "I don't understand" has always made me giggle...and since she was forever leaving her bright lipstick all over our faces as kids, I am pretty sure she understood the meaning of the first.
These are some of Gramma's pictures. I have guessed that they come from her time in Bluefields, Nicaragua, but I am far from certain. Once upon a time they were packaged with a photo of my great grandfather, Domingo Castillo. He was teaching Spanish in Washington, D.C. when he met my great grandmother, Valberg Erikksen, a Swede. At some point in my grandmother's toddler years, Domingo returned permanently to Nicaragua. He took Carmen with him. In Bluefields, Domingo became a judge, and his friend, one of the seven men who served as President of Nicaragua from 1921 to 1925, became my grandmother's godfather.
My grandmother has said that these were happy times. Eventually her mother would arrive to take her back to the states, but that is a story for another night.
I just got off the phone with Gramma. She lives in Nebraska. It was a 15 second conversation. She asked when I could come to get her. I'm planning on visiting at Thanksgiving. Oh, good. She told me life at the lake was okay. She asked when I could come get her. I'm coming at Thanksgiving. Oh that will be nice. I love...she passed the phone back to her caregiver. Would you please tell Gramma that I love her. I'll try to remember to say that first next time. Besame mucho, Gramma.
Carmen Castillo
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Carmen Castillo
"Sea-Fever"
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
By John Masefield (1878-1967)
One of my grandmother's favorite poems. She used to recite it all the time, along with the Preamble to the Constitution and Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. My grandmother has Alzheimer's. She's 92. I have been thinking about her alot lately because I really miss her and I wish I hadn't waited so long to ask the questions about her years in Nicaragua and her father, Domingo Castillo, who took her there in the mid-twenties. I have only pieces of the story, Bluefields, the kidnapping (if you call it that), a godfather that was the President of Nicaragua at the time, and the story of a mother who travelled far to retrieve her daughter, contracted malaria, and eventually died in a mental hospital in New York.
For family that might read this, that is the story I got...if you heard a different version feel free to chime in. I'm going on a hunt for old photos and will scan them in tomorrow, but for awhile at least my blog will be about Gramma. She was the most enjoyable travel partner I ever had, having come out to visit me in both Greece and Italy, and I just really miss her humor. Yes, even hearing "Sea Fever" over and over. And, hey, I wouldn't know the Preamble without her. I'm going to call her tonight, but she never stays on the phone for long...I just need to say "I love you, Gramma."
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
By John Masefield (1878-1967)
One of my grandmother's favorite poems. She used to recite it all the time, along with the Preamble to the Constitution and Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. My grandmother has Alzheimer's. She's 92. I have been thinking about her alot lately because I really miss her and I wish I hadn't waited so long to ask the questions about her years in Nicaragua and her father, Domingo Castillo, who took her there in the mid-twenties. I have only pieces of the story, Bluefields, the kidnapping (if you call it that), a godfather that was the President of Nicaragua at the time, and the story of a mother who travelled far to retrieve her daughter, contracted malaria, and eventually died in a mental hospital in New York.
For family that might read this, that is the story I got...if you heard a different version feel free to chime in. I'm going on a hunt for old photos and will scan them in tomorrow, but for awhile at least my blog will be about Gramma. She was the most enjoyable travel partner I ever had, having come out to visit me in both Greece and Italy, and I just really miss her humor. Yes, even hearing "Sea Fever" over and over. And, hey, I wouldn't know the Preamble without her. I'm going to call her tonight, but she never stays on the phone for long...I just need to say "I love you, Gramma."
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