Real, though far off

I had the casa to myself this morning. My mama and papa had long since left for work, and my four brothers and sisters all had class. So I casually toasted some bread and heated some water for tea, paced sleepily around the small kitchen, checked the refrigerator door in hopes of finding anything other than whole milk and then remembered that the milk here doesn't go in the frigde, delighted in my three different and equally delicious marmalade options, hummed a tune. Then I stopped humming, for fear of waking someone up or messing up someone's train of thought. And then I remembered that I was the only one home. So I started humming again. And then I did something I haven't done in a really long time.

I starting singing.

Really loud.

And I kept singing, surprised at the sound of my own voice, at the melody cutting through the morning silence, at the English weaving around my morning te ceylan and pan and marmalada. Surprised I remembered how. I sang whatever I thought of as I thought of it, jumping from song to song, soprano to alto, gospel to basilica to Santiago kitchen.

Music is inescapable here. You can't even get on a city bus without a guitarist or djembe-clad hip-hop duo or Peruvian flautist hopping on after you to play for riders' pocket change. And I adore the seemingly endless soundtrack that my life here seems to enjoy. It makes it easy when I pretend I'm in a movie scene. But I miss singing along. The last time I heard myself sing, I was finishing four weeks of Vision, four weeks of endless song, and my screechy, failing voice was nonetheless filled with joy. For the past five weeks, I've been content in this lingering, inevitable homesickness for all the million sources of music in my life. But I guess I never realized how much I missed it all until this morning. My life was music. My life is music. And not in the "Baseball is life: the rest is just details" t-shirt way. My life flowed on in endless song. And for the past five weeks, the song's been in the morning, breakfast-preparing humming, or as I quietly sing "Arise, My Love" to the beat of my steps as I walk home every night, or when mass parts are the repeat kind, or when my little brother Cristobal brings home a kids song to memorize for English class. But it's not enough. I miss it. I miss singing. Loud. Unreserved. Praying twice. I miss it.

There are no grand revelations to be had here. I just miss singing. That's all.

Sugar and salt and everything Chilean

Of all the exotic new Chilean customs with which I have become enamored (and a couple other ones I'm not super crazy about), my favorite by far is the apparent Chilean espousal of the idea of meals in bed. As if a sliced hot dog/corn/tomato omelet and rice, or perhaps a heaping mound of noodles and chicken and cream (not sauce... cream. I am going to have a heart attack tomorrow at 5:46:07 EST), or a giant bowl of beans in orange stuff, or toasted allullah and manjar, or any of my other favorite things that my Chilean mama cooks up on a given noche, weren't good enough before... they're like four times better when I get to eat them warm under my many blankets, on a tray with a frilly doily, a big glass of fruit juice, and probably some more rice (just in case).

Other reasons that Chilean cuisine is going to end me include:

-1.5 spoons instant coffee + 1 spoon sugar + 3/4 cup boiling water + 1/4 cup chocolate milk = the best part of waking up.
-Chilean affinity for excessive amounts of sugar and salt. On everything. No seriously. All things.
-Tres leches ice cream.
-¡Empanadas everywhere!
-Avocados. So many avocados. No wonder Chileans are happy people.
-Manjar. Known in Meh-hee-co as "dulce de leche." Known in los Estados Unidos as sweetened condensed milk put in the microwave and then added superfluously to every breakfast food, dessert, ice cream flavor, bread product, fruit... spoonful...
-Allullah/ham/cheese/butter sandwiches.
-Potatoes.
-Hot dogs with guacamole.
-Fascinating milk that does not need to be refrigerated.
-Rice.
-Chileans eat more mayonnaise per capita than people of any other nation in the world. The average Chilean consumes more than 1 kg of mayonnaise per year. I believe it's 1 kg = 270 lbs.

This list is by no means complete. Check back for updates throughout the semester as I experience more and more of the wonder that is Chilean cooking.

Like the mints

Best decision of the day:
Peppermint hot chocolate

Second best decision of the day:
Skiing in the Andes

Lord, which way?

"I am with you."


I used to think that free will meant that God gave us the power to make the Right Decision. When presented with two options, one was always The Right One and the other The Wrong One. God left it up to us to discern between the two and choose for ourselves.

My every experience, my every memory, the ones I hold dearest most of all, and truly the very story of my life should have shown me long ago that this simply isn't true. If I'd have looked hard enough, it would have been obvious.

If at every crossroads, one choice is always Right and the other Wrong, then it isn't really free will at all, is it, but rather a trick. We have a choice but no real options and, in our human blindness, are doomed to fail.

The difference between The Right Thing and The Wrong Thing is only half the story. Maybe a little less than half. God gives us a will that is free to choose not only Right from Wrong - which at once compresses life into the table of contents of the Catechism yet elevates it beyond anything humanity is capable of living - but A from B. "Lord, which way?" I had to hear the story a dozen times in two different contexts to finally listen to the reply. "I AM WITH YOU," sayeth the Lord. Choose a way, sayeth the Lord. And make it right. And trust. And live.