Saying all that cannot be said in words

They each step down from the truck taxi to say goodbye. The one driving suggests a group hug and we all quickly form a circle. They each place their hands on my back and I on theirs and we lean forward so that our heads meet in the middle, resulting in us each looking at our sandaled feet. Between telling me thank you in the most genuine of ways and asking me if I am packed, they manage to be truly genuine and in the moment as well as active and forward thinking. I like the way they each can fluctuate from a mindful relaxed presence to a multi-tasking high speed processor; I have yet to figure out how they do it, when I try I just look flustered. I want to hug each one of them but I can’t, I’m not sure if my newly acquired comfort with embracing and being embraced will translate here. I smile and think of how proud my friend Jules would be if she could see me now. Her relentless persistence gradually desensitizing me to touch has worked. I used to be awkward and uncomfortable with gestures of intimacy and would get confused with the three cheek kiss greeting of Europe, finding myself head butting unprepared recipients. I like the way I have changed and have learned to appreciate everything from a wink to fingers dancing on my arms to a warm embrace fluttering over my shoulders, to a gentle touch on my back. Saying all that cannot be said in words, the nonverbal world of communication has transformed my experience of the world and its people and I feel my throat get tight and my eyes get hot and I know it is once again time for me to cry the honorable tears of loss. It is only those meaningful relationships that we grieved when lost and I know deep in my heart and soul that the meaning I have found here has been deep and profound.

The approximate wetness of hope

What is the proper number of kisses
For a man to leave this world?
The average depth of melancholy?
The approximate wetness of hope?
~ Max Garland



Thingyan, which translates “transit of the Sun from Pisces to Aries” is the Local New Year Water Festival and usually falls around mid-April, the Local month of Tagu. It is celebrated over a period of four to five days culminating in the Local New Year. The days are filled with loud music and truck loads of giddy young people tossing water and singing. The nights are filled with musical performances on stages that sprouted up like weeds overnight in the cracks of a sidewalk. In every neighborhood mandats or stages, with festive names, made from bamboo, wood and beautifully decorated paper mache and merrymaking and general gaiety are the main ticket items, day in and day out.

During the first two days of Thingyan, I saunter the streets of Y and got absolutely soaked by passing celebrators with buckets of water, modern day squirt guns and a keen eye for foreigners. On the third day I stayed in as I discovered I was quite sunburned on every patch of skin I missed applying sun screen to the day before and I was tired of being such an identifiable target. I also knew I would be out all day the following day as a group of my first training participants invited me to an event called Heaven and Hell which was an amusing surprise given I was at that time residing in a majority Buddhist country that finds the idea of heaven and hell to be a bit comical. The plan was they would pick me up at 7 am and we would be out all day dancing, singing and engaging in the collective merrymaking.
Around 6 pm I got the call. There had been a bombing and the location of the explosion was the very stage that we had planned to go to the following day.

According to the news media:
“three bomb blasts rocked a park in M's main city Y on Thursday as thousands of revellers celebrated an annual water festival, leaving nine people dead and at least 75 wounded, officials said. The blasts occurred near Kandawgyi Lake in the military-ruled country's commercial hub, where thousands of people had gathered for water-throwing festivities to mark the Buddhist New Year.

"Nine people were killed -- five men and four women," an official told AFP on condition of anonymity, adding that a fourth bomb was found and defused. State television gave a slightly different toll, saying eight people had died and 94 were injured. The blasts came as the country prepares for elections planned for this year that critics have dismissed as a sham.”

Over the course of the next few days the numbers varied greatly and reports of suggested perpetrators covered the whole continuum from hunches to conspiracy theories.

I missed the event and felt the heaviness of having planned to be in a place that happened to have been bombed 17 hours prior to my arrival but I also felt the hope and collective ability to adjust, regulate and normalize an existence that has rarely in its recent history been delivered to such an oppressed group of people.

“Hopenmar” – An environmentally friendly visit from twelve guys and a girl

I returned to the unspoken city 2 weeks ago. A few short hours after I arrived I was invited to the closing ceremony and celebratory dinner of a motivated group of young local and Chinese activists. The topic of their shared interest: the environment and global warming. All I have to say is that, “Hopenhagan, you should be ashamed.”

As soon as I arrive I discover two giddy groups of participants, one group local, one group Chinese. They were truly enjoying each other and excited about their shared vision – green living and sustainable green development. I observe playful yet serious dialogue, and it was clear they all have deep respect and admiration towards each others plight. While the Chinese activists struggle with an all powerful controlling administration that the world fears and obsesses about, they and their hosts quickly realized their struggle pales in comparison to the plight of the local activists in attendance. One Chinese activist takes care to express just that in his farewell speech. According to him, while it is frustrating to be living is such a controlled country; at least the rules and regulations are clear and transparent. In this place, it’s an altogether different game and a much more confusing existence. Nothing is clear and the word transparency is only spoken in whispers.

For those of you who haven’t heard me say it a hundred times already, it is important to note it has been very hot here; and, when I say hot I mean it has been 100 degrees plus every stinkin day. One Chinese participant also made note of the heat during his speech but he added one important fact to his observation: “The weather here is very warm, but the people are warm too.” If you asked me, I would say the people of this place may be the warmest people on the face of the planet but, that’s just me and although I have visited many places, I haven’t quite visited them all.

By the end of the event I realize that I (an American who has been indoctrinated with fears of pending Chinese takeover of the planet and some underlying stereotypical beliefs that environmental concerns take a back seat to currency control and exports and falls just ahead of human rights concerns in China) have fallen victim to a tremendous amount of misinformation. The reality is China is as diverse as a New York City subway and if this passionate young group of students represents even a small part of their rather large Republic. We my friends, are greatly mistaken.

The accomplishments and concluding thoughts of this youth initiative focused on global warming thought up by and accomplished by two groups of what many in the west would all assume to be disempowered and uninformed group of civilians, blew the events in Copenhagen a few short months ago out of the water; and, if Obama were smart, he would come here and meet with this group and learn a few lessons on international engagement and strategic green development.

I will end this train of thought with another quote, this time it was from one of the local participants to the China team which happened to be made up of a dozen men and one lone woman: “As we are living under the same Sun and walking on the same Land, we are together in our heart to act for our environment. We love you, brothers and sister.”

the possibilities of 2010...

For many months I have been a psychologist on the outskirts of two identities: one being a trauma psychologist and trainer of local counselors in international disaster environments, another being a clinician maintaining a much more traditional role, gradually building a private practice in Denver. Nearly every morning since my return from Burma I drive to my favorite fitness studio. I have done so on snowy roads, rainy roads and fall time roads. This ever-changing driving experience makes it feel like I have been back much longer than I have. During the day I see clients, attend meetings and write grants with the hopes that both worlds can continue to be a part of my life. Currently it seems I am existing in limbo between these two identities searching for sustainability and nourishment.

I wake up early because mornings are my favorite. Waking up before the sun makes it feel as though the world is my secret. I walk the dog in the dark, pleased to see there are no other lights on in my building and return to smell the aroma of fresh coffee grounds from the canister. The ritual is pleasing because it is something I do in both lives and it is one of the few consistencies in my exceptionally inconsistent life. The one thing I miss about doing this in Burma and Thailand is watching the monks walk the streets gowned in red and gold, humbly asking for alms.

Inwardly I feel both at peace with my role in life and suffer quiet trepidations of a woman who has witnessed too much global human suffering in all its forms. My clinical practice is growing slowly and has been blessed by the dedication of brave souls who desire happiness in all its forms. In the end I do the same thing here as I did abroad; listen, reflect and empathize. That’s the thing about humanity, in the end we are more alike than we are different and I tend to feel sadness for the western who thinks that I couldn’t possibly practice here after seeing what I’ve seen abroad in conflict zones are counties enduring horrific government oppression. That for some reason I might feel bored with the stories of my clients in America baffles me. The truth in the matter is I have seen just as much pain, just as much suffering, just as much torment in the West as I have seen abroad.

It’s the dead of winter, the mornings darker longer and my window only gets a short sliver of the direct sun before it passes over the building and leaves for the evening. I can’t quite tell if it is this that affects my mood or if it’s something bigger, something more existential. While most of the time I am deeply, seriously happy and content with my life, in part because I am deeply, seriously and contentedly in love with an amazing man, I also experience moments where darkness rumbles through me as if my soul is suffocating in cement.

While my personal life is in a great place; blessed by love, family and friendships all over the world, I hope I find a way to make my professional life work. I love my life in all its colors but given the painful loss I endured just over a year ago and the complicated nature of my work, it has been a tricky life as of late. For example, it is painfully hard to hear that psychiatric treatment and child protection are not a right or even an option in most parts of the world. The good news is that as I close my eyes, my tired self is swept by waves of gratitude for what I have and the possibilities of 2010.

remarkably different meanings

One of my funniest lost in translations moments to date began with a simple question: how long?

It was a typical training day, one like any other. For me, this meant a fine balance between didactic lessons and experiential trust building activities that facilitate self-disclosure and the feelings of the therapeutic experience rather than simply an intellectual understanding of the therapeutic experience. With time and experience I have found that my students all over the globe are much like I was when I was a green inexperienced therapist: suckers for a good case study and a deeper understanding of all the fascinating diagnosis that touch our captivating species. So the idea was to first teach a wide variety of diagnosis from depression to anxiety with PTSD and Bi-Polar mood disorder at the spectrum ends (for those of you who are curious these are all diagnosis I have seen in the numerous developed and undeveloped countries I have worked in).

As I explained each symptom constellation I stressed that the point was not to diagnosis just to diagnosis but rather to enlighten the patient, the counselor and his or her family about their experienced emotional or psychological struggles and to create a plan towards less suffering, less confusion and an experience of feeling less alone in the world. After I explained the 9 most common disorders, disorders that occur on average in 1 in 20 individuals at least once in their lifetime in a stable environment (now for a minute consider what the rates must be in environments that have been impacted by war, human rights violations, discrimination and mass violence has on psychological well being), I told them we would be would be playing a diagnosis game. I shared 8 case studies and they were to diagnosis each case base on the symptoms presented and described. The two most important features to differentiating between spectrum diagnosis (like dysthymia and major depression or acute stress disorder and post traumatic stress disorder) are frequency and duration; or, “How long and how often?”

This is where it all began. In my dramatic presentation of each diagnosis full of tears, hand wringing, lethargy, flashback and obsessive checking behavior I always ended with, “always remember we should ask for how long and how often the symptoms have been present.” Each time I said this I sensed something. It wasn’t anything that was said or even any non-verbal signs just something in the air I suppose. As I got more dramatic in my acting out of various symptom consolations came a more relaxed audience who were getting a kick out of me making a fool of myself. As they became more relaxed, the more noticeable reactions I started to get to my “now remember always ask for how long and how often the symptoms have been present.”

The module went on and they got completely enthralled by the case studies and the diagnosis game that I forgot about all the subtle confusion I was feeling and went on with my day. The next day I was enjoying a cup of 3-in-1 Nescafe while groups of trainees prepared for a pending presentation when one of the participants approached me quietly and asked if we could chat. He shared part of her personal story and then, as others started moving towards us, quickly changed the subject and said, “Gwan I have to tell you something funny about something you have been saying a lot lately.” At first I was worried that maybe I was saying or doing something that was culturally inappropriate and he was trying to be nice about breaking the news to me, but instead he said, “it’s when you say how long.”

“How long?” I replied. “Tell me more” (tell me more is my classic therapy reaction to just about anything to keep people talking in a non-directive manner).

“Well in Burmese…” he replies, “How long means without longyi.”

“Like someone who wears pants instead of the classic Burmese skirt” (that is commonly worn by both men and women albeit in a gender specific wrap style), I reply.

“No not exactly,” he says, “like when someone’s longyi has fallen off accidently.”

I start laughing which causes him to give out a sigh of relief as he must have been worried I might feel ashamed when I heard such news. I yell out “How long!” and look down at and pat my skirt to make sure it is there and we both crack up. His laugh was so fantastic that I fall into one of my silent laughing fits that lead to tears and breathless gasps (I know those of you who know me best are shaking your heads right now with deep understanding). This loss of control on my part causes everyone in the room to be briefed on the fact I had been briefed by the “how long issue” and after a collective sigh, everyone bursts out in laughter.

From there on out “How Long” was our group’s inside joke and it did wonders for the togetherness and connectivity and I didn’t mind in the least that it was at my expense. When on the final day I wrote “Mr. How Long” on this gentleman’s compliment card it was a sealed deal: we would all always remember an ever so slightly strange and potentially awkward lost in translation moment that turned into an unforgettable shared moment. Given unadulterated shared laughter is such a rare event in environments between foreigners, where language and culture and power and respect and a ton of other potentially disconnecting elements prevent such simple yet important playful events to occur, this lost in translation moment will forever remain a cherished memory for me and I will never again be able to say “how long” without a small smirk and giggle.

these are the things I must never forget

My history, my friends, my adventures and this country: its plight, its struggle and the amazing capacity that resides within.

To capture my reasoning for the final memorable item I would like to share a story.

I will call this story "bit dine thow: throw ever stand."

Bit Dine Thow is the name for a famous toy from this country; the meaning also seems to capture the resilient aspects of the civilian population here, forever being tossed around; forever managing to land on their feet.

I learned about this special toy a few days ago. It occurred during a training I was facilitating on Child Development and Experiential Education for a number of local Community Based Organizations (CBOs). After presenting on maternal health, the importance of reading to children between the ages of zero and three, mental health problems in children and the Mozart Effect, I asked the group to break into small groups and design a toy that would help foster the healthy development of all aspects of child development (i.e., physical, motor, cognitive, social-emotional and language). Interestingly, rather than design what I imagined (a high tech futuristic toy with all sorts of gadgets and interactive educational parts) each group choose a simple yet highly effective toy that have been around for ages. One group selected a jump rope and described how all 5 aspects were developed, another chose the game of musical chairs with an added trivia component to push participants in the cognitive realm. The final group chose a Bit Dine Thow.

Bit Dine Thow is one of those round weighted balls that always lands right side up. I have seen them before but I can’t quite remember where I saw them or how they were designed. I will never forget the Bit Dine Thow and just in case I ever would have this group of trainees were kind enough to gift me one as a remembrance for our time spent together. I will cherish it for its appropriateness to my training as well as for the manner in which it was presented to me.

A day to never forget:

I start the day like any other in Y: up early at my relatively swanky hotel with a cup of Nescafe instant coffee and time to work on flip charts. I enjoy getting up early in general but I appreciate it here a bit more because it is one of the rare windows of opportunity I am given to connect with friends, family and other cherished ones who are living on the other side of the globe. There is a 12 and half hour time difference between here and Colorado (10 and a half to Tennessee). After a shower and coffee and a few skype conversations I head out for my 30 minute walk to the training center. It’s a complicated walk of traffic jams, intense drivers whose cars are made for British style driving but the rules of the road match American ones, busy buses, buzzing markets, calls to prayer, musical request to give alms to the monks, church bells, curb side tea shops, load music houses, internet cafes, kids playing football, adults playing caneball, women sweeping, men hustling, women selling flowers and women and men escorting uniformed kids to school.

Upon arrival to the training center I find my very reliable very organized tag team of county coordinators and interpreters waiting for me. They are quick and they are energetic and they are passionate about learning and incorporating new skills into their already diverse portfolios. Typically we have a quick meeting of minds and then start preparing for the days training; but today was different, today I would travel. Today I would see more than my hotel and the training center. Today I would taste some freedom and meet some local kiddos. Today was a special day.

The plan is to walk another few short blocks from the training center and meet the rest of the 21 participants near the post office. They are a team of teachers, community developers and doctors. After connecting we will visit the school they built for a convent of nuns to run with at-risk/poverty stricken kids and apply the new skills they learned in the training. This team knows these kids because they volunteer their time at this school teaching English and offering medical care.

Upon arrival to the meeting spot we find 7 of the participants sitting on short stools at a curbside tea shop enjoying a breakfast of samosas and rice curry. They are all laughing and chatting and it is clear they are a close team that enjoys each other both personally as well as professionally. They welcome us warmly and I order a tea (strong not too sweet). The tea here is truly unique and there are unique ways to order it mostly based on how sweet and strong you want it. After finishing a cup of milky/sugary tea you are welcome to have as many glasses of green tea as you like and tea kettles sit in the middle of the table for the purpose of a quick endless re-fill. This endless cup of follow-up tea facilitates the opportunity for folks to linger in tea shops and pontificate on all sorts of things. I firmly believe this is one of the many reasons the interpersonal skills here are beyond reproach.

This place has a tea culture and being a tea or a coffee culture is a welcoming sign for any outsider to any country. Without a tea or coffee component to the culture it seems a bit harder to break into the local realm of socializing; it’s not impossible, but it is definitely more difficult. Sometimes I wonder if this issue alone isn’t one of the primarily reasons outsiders believe Liberia is a difficult culture to live in. Although the average Liberian is exceptionally giving with their food and will say “let’s eat” (and mean it) to any stranger that passes by when they are eating: for some, this offer of food seems like too much to give when struggling and thus the offer is denied and the opportunity to sit and share time and space with locals is denied. Without coffee or tea (which is common in places such as Afghanistan, China, Bosnia, Nigeria, much of South America and most of the Middle East), there is a void of opportunities for casual connectivity in places like Liberia that does not involve alcohol or food, which can get expensive and/or rowdy, and thus the disconnect.

But I digress, after a quick tea, supplemented with a lovely conversation about romance and dating in Burma, we jump in the back of a flatbed truck that has been set up with seats along the sides and a hard top cover. Once all 21 of us were safely inside, teaching supplies and guitar in tow, we are off. Although I am delighted to see someone had brought along a guitar, I assume it is for the school based activities and sit back to take in the scenery for the 45 minute journey. Fortunately for me, and all my travel companions, the talented musicians in the truck wouldn’t give up the opportunity to play and sing and begin singing a series of traditional and modern songs with energy and passion. After a few brief moments, 90% of the riders delightfully join in on the singing. The young woman who sits next to me thoughtfully translates the words. The songs are about not being able to live without seeing the sparkle in a girl’s eye or the inability to think without knowing the next time they will be together.

Romantic, cheesy loves songs: can it get any better than that?

Along the way we cross a bridge where we see hundreds of fishing boats hard at work. We also pass by farms, houses and storefronts all busy with people trying to make a living. Feeling the impact of the numerous pot holes and observing the many severe shades of poverty is so much more difficult to witness here in a country when, one knows, deep in the back of one’s mind, that the suffering here is not due to lack of resources or wealth, just due to an all powerful all greed driven leadership.

Upon arrival at the school house the first thing I notice is thatch roof houses that make up the living quarters, outhouse and kitchen of the school…..bustling about is about 100 pink clad junior nuns, 60-70 matching adult nuns that are either playing the role of teachers or spiritual leaders and about 90 civilian kiddos all gathered together for a day of school and learning.

The teachers did a great job with their experiential education lesson plans and following the completion of all the psycho-social activities we shared lunch and had a brief reflection session about the training and what they took from it.
Following a brief certificate ceremony I was showered with gifts and a Bit Dine Thow.

As I sit once again in my swanky hotel working on flip chats and skyping with loved ones back home I realize I’m happy and content in this very complicated place and I feel blessed to have this new orb of people in my life. In Buddhism it is said that every person you meet has played a part in a past life and we are destined to cross paths in every life to come. I like that idea very much and know that with people like this around me I will indeed land on my feet and if I ever feel thrown away or thrown down I will land on my feet forevermore.

these are the things i know as true

My name is Gwen and it is not an easy name to say around the world. My dear sweet country director in our Fang project, Pao Hom, reminded me of this when, shortly after I arrived, she noted that her father said, “oh dear that’s the one with the difficult name.” The good thing about that is I have been gifted many variations of my name and delightfully turn my head to Gwan, Glen and Gwoon in this corner of the world. I also know I am prone to adopt stray dogs wherever I go. The good thing about returning to these places is that I have learned dogs have fabulous memories and if for some reason I have done everything wrong in this life I will be happy to come back as a dog in my next life. My only hope would be that the dogs that have colored my life come back as dog pals or as humans for me to love as well as I’ve felt loved by them.

I know all this, yet there is much I don’t know or have failed to learn. A hundred times over I have been trying to figure out what I love about the place I am in now and although I try, the truest reason constantly eludes me. While I seem to know exactly why I have come to cherish the continent of Africa, specifically the West African region, the reason for loving this place is less clear. Regarding Africa, if the idea of past lives turns out to be true, I know deep in my heart I once lived a life there. My gut tells me I was a large graceful woman with 10 children, with magnificent head wraps and a fabulous singing voice. I also enjoyed laughing until I cried. This last quality seems to be the only quality that remains in this reincarnated life where I am called Gwen or a variation thereof. I can no longer sing and for some reason I am now fiercely independent with a bland sense of fashion. I appreciate the brazenness of Africa superimposed on its wisdom and eternal beauty. When given the opportunity, I also love to call it home.
My love for this place is different, no less powerful, but different in many ways.
What I do know is that I love the people first and then the environment. The universal character of the people here is awe inspiring and I feel deeply pleased every time someone smiles at me or says hello. Collectively they are gentle, and sweet and smart and quick to smile. They also are deeply curious, playfully sarcastic, self-deprecating and passionate about learning. The environment is beautiful no doubt, but it pales in comparison to the everyday person you meet in the street.

I also think that in this place the suffering has indeed led to amazing moments of enlightenment. I am surrounded by survivors but no one appears to be that distressed. It makes me think of the Chinese pictogram for crisis. In it is a combination of two symbols: danger and opportunity. Although there is nothing to suggest there has been opportunity here for decades, people persevere and shine and enjoy none the less.

So as I was saying I have much to learn but I have realized that there is something interesting about the quest for wisdom. It’s not the material you find on masters level examinations that matter; the art of knowing starts not in big lessons but in small nearly unremarkable experiences of everyday life.