Since my return from Guatemala I have been both anticipating and dreading putting words to my 10-day trip. There are millions of metaphors swimming in my head to try to describe what happened to me in those days, but none of them seem adequate. Literal descriptions fall short as I reread my journal, so all I can do is give some pieces to the puzzle. Sheet Metal. Metallic. Rust. You can see the ebbs and flows of the metal shape shifting if you let yourself stare at a piece of it long enough. I can still trace (in my mind) the miles of sheet metal that marked the road’s edges and hillsides as we moved through the myriad small towns on our bus and truck rides. I only wish I could remember all of the names of those towns. My lack of knowledge of Spanish along with the sheer overwhelming intake of new information has left the names hidden in the recesses of my mind.
There was much to see in the back of the pick-up truck that took a group of us to various service trips deep in the mountains of Guatemala. It was probably one of the days that most affected me. Tragically beautiful Mayan villages. My eyes only able to take in superficial pieces of information. Do they have dirt or cement floors? That is the litmus test. For me, the tragedy was that I saw just enough to feel the immensity of what I was not seeing. The weight of what I could not comprehend still haunts me. It is a frustrating feeling that would continue to mark my journey in Guatemala.
The thing that makes sheet metal such an important metaphor on my journey is not simply the way it physically pocked the mountainside. The literal is only one dimension of it. The figurative taste of metallic conjures a whole other set of emotions. Oddly (yet in my mind, it makes perfect sense), the metallic taste brings to mind the Flaming Lips’ album, Clouds Taste Metallic. That dewy wet metallic taste was often in my mouth during the trip—that heavy iron (dare I say blood) flavor that you can’t get out no matter how much you spit. The metallic taste flared up whenever I struggled to understand what was happening around me. This was particularly true when the events were outside of my control, leaving me a hapless observer. Needless to say, I became quite familiar with this taste.
Sheet metal was also an ongoing presence at our build site. We were working in tight quarters and the pieces of sheet metal, which would soon be the roof of the house we were building, were shuttled around to various parts of our work area. It was in the way at certain moments—yet we always knew its immense importance to the home we were building. We tried to put it far enough to the side so that it wouldn’t be ruined by our clumsy attempts at being construction workers. Then, it was used to protect cement during a rainstorm that left us all huddled under a makeshift space that contained a bed and dresser. It served many purposes.
There is a contradiction to the sheet metal. It protects and serves as roofs and walls, but there is a danger to the sheet metal. Sharp edges could easily cut my soft (dare I say spoiled) hands if I picked it up in the wrong way. I still have a cut that is healing from when I accidentally bumped my forearm against one of the edges of the metal.
Contradictions. To live in a both/and world that is not so much about choices than it is about decisions. What do I mean by that? The difference is fragile and fleeting, but important to my understanding of the world. Specifically, what I mean is that we cannot always choose our circumstances, but we can make decisions about those circumstances. We can make the decision to learn from those things that profoundly confuse and cut us to the core rather than hide from the heaviness that both weighs us down and gives our lives density and meaning. We can make the decision to hear the faintest dog barking in the distance rather than the cacophony of sirens filling the streets. This was something that Patrick Atkinson emphasized during our closing ceremony and it heavily resonates with many meditation and yogic teachings. It is something I keep trying to work on, but it is uneven, serrated. This is one reason why the metaphor of sheet metal provides such a visceral point of reference for me. The scars from rusty metal tend to last a very long time. They are reminders of the jagged process healing takes. At times, you think you’ve healed and are ready to move on. So, you live your life, relying on the sheet metal as protection from yet another of life’s storms. And just as you get under cover, another ridge of that sheet metal rubs against you just enough to open that old wound.
Everyday in Guatemala was like that for me. But I made the decision to hold on to those feelings while I was there and let myself see just how far I’ve come in this life.
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