#11: Our first blog

this one, was started to share pieces of our written lives with all of you. One of the toughest decisions when starting a blog is... well, "How to name it?"

I'd already blogged for over two years, and videoblogged just as long (insert commercial space here) and.. blah, blah, blah... needless to say, I love blogs! But this new space, was to be Carlee and I's first blog together. I knew quite a few people wanted to read it mostly so they'd get to know more about this sudden stranger who even sudden-er became this gorgeous girl's fiancée. So Carlee and I agreed on a rule for my posts: strictly PG-13 with mild thematic elements, but absolutely no language or graphic anything. In other words, a sort-a censored blog. Anyway, by writing in English it was already censored... it's so much easier to express truth and emotions in one's mother language.

Anyway, so on to the difficult choice of picking a name for our blog... I mean, a web address, that one, the one in the browser, that must not change; different than the blog current title, which may change occasionally.

After some consideration, I proposed a musical reference to a country song by one of my top five favorite artists of all time: George Strait. The title of the song spoke to me about a wide open space above us that inspires life and feeds dreams of a heaven beyond the visible vastness; the specific adjectives reminded me of my bride's beautiful face... and her blue clear eyes. And the lyrics of the song... simply spoke a truth about us, coming together, then the choice was clear... we'd name our blog Blue Clear Sky.

Now, for all of you out there?

How did you pick the name of your blog?

#10: Our first weekend… on different countries.

Nobody home. Not one of us.. we are almost three, yet nobody home.

It must be a wandering spirit within me that always gets me excited about the prospect of going places… regardless of their condition or the circumstances, I love going places. So when I took this job, after lenghty consideration between Carlee and I, I was eagerly expecting weeks like these… away from home, to travel, to work, to feed my self-esteem, and to miss what I have in order to appreciate it even more.

Sometimes I wonder if I am really bad at relationships. Sometimes I could affirm it. My history would help me confirm it. Sometimes, I think my bad choices allow me to see that the glass is twice as big as the water it holds, and the water is half of what it should be… but nothing is empty, no something is ever full.

I love Amy Grant’s music, I really do. In my conflicted and sinking faith, her lyrics, her story, her interviews, her stage banter and the feeling I have after listening to her music, have given me a beacon of hope that divinity is, or might be, after all, not reachable, but reaching out… to me.

For a few weeks in February I wanted things at work to happen in a way that my monthly schedule would look something like this: 1. several trips during February (maybe one lucky assignment would keep me from having to have a birthday party [I used to hate my birthday] and avoid explaining my decades long arguments about the self-worshipping anti-biblical modern tradition of b-days), 2. home on the weekend BEFORE my b-day (to attend my third Queensrÿche concert on Feb.16 in Dallas), 3. a heavy training schedule at corporate offices during March that would prevent me from being outside Dallas for 4. the weekend of March26-27 when I would have two chances to see my third (and fourth)Amy Grant concert, only this time with the Symphony of Dallas at the Meyerson.

I moved to the US (it's impossible for me to name the country properly: America) in May 2002. When discussing the exact date with my then prospective employer, I ended up moving my arrival date to two weeks earlier so I could catch my first concert ever with, of course, the Ames. Ever since I been living in the US, I’ve felt a desire to continue travelling along any road that would lie before me, for those years when my return trip was not back to the city where I was born, no trip ever felt like a trip back home.

And that has added to the loneliness, when instead of building relationships with the bricks that humans nearby brought to share, I built walls and threw rocks around me, because I simply could not let anyone know how homeless I’ve been.

So besides a wandering spirit, it’s been a void within me that prompts me to seek the road that would lead me to that place, where I would feel at home, at ease with myself and where I’d become owner of my surroundings in the same way those surroundigns would own me. Sixteen years ago I believed that place would be one that’d tenderly described with religious language. Now cynicism has taken over the joy. Over the last decade that place would be perfectly defined with a geographical name. But the chase hurt more than the catch would ever fulfill. For five and a half years I yearned and ached to find a home in an individual person. Just to allow pain to find a home in me. Over the last seven months a little cozy building has earned the title of a home which, at least in the material sense, is my first ever…yet now, working some 1300 miles west of that cozy little place (and farther from my homeland than I've ever been) with my wife travelling 500 miles south, across the border (in a country whose only uttered name immediately brings senseless latin rivalry to my mind), I feel more at home than I have ever been: browsing the blogged lives of a bunch who call themselves Church, listening to a Bruce Springsteen song, having read an Amy Grant related e-mail from my beautiful sister-in-law, not letting my job define myself, meeting distant friends whose lives I’ve read, working harder than ever at defining my life by who I am not what I do, terrified about the world I’m bringing my baby into, but smiling when my own dreams pass right over my head, and I see the palms of my hands with no piercings from nails, and look at my finger dressed with a ring of commitment, knowing that home is where the heart is… and my heart is here: shyly beating inside of me… and I know who loves it well.

#7: Our first Sunday morning breakfast

We decided to not go to church today.  That is a good thing.  

I like going to church because I want to, not because I have to... so it's refreshing to agree on not going.  We had already decided to go to a Spanish language service (at church B) in the early afternoon anyway, so skipping church early morning (at church A) wasn't skipping any spiritual nourishment, just choosing a different denomination, at least for today.

I sometimes miss my language too much.  Just like the Bible verse that states that with the same tongue we worship God with, we curse other humans, that's how sometimes I feel about the language thing.  It's so easy for me to use "cuss" words in English bc no matter what, they don't feel as strong to me.... and praising, well... it feels more like a verbal repetition of phrases I've heard than a cry from the heart.  Maybe that's why it feels easier to say "I love you Lord" in English, than in Spanish, bc saying "Te amo" carries a meaning that feels disconnected from the true places of my heart whereas "I love you" is like a cool phrase that comes to mind fast and easy.... and does not make me feel like lying to Him when I struggle with the reality that maybe I do not love Him... but that's another story.

The things one person misses bring pain, but just as much as the things that are brand new when one is in an environment different from what one's been used to.  "Culture shock" is a term frequently used.  I'd say the term should be changed to "culture SHOCK (emphasis underestimated)".

Since we decided to not go to church (A) early (we are still going to a Spanish speaking service) it was perfect time to have a home cooked breakfast.  Yesterday I had time to eat some waffles my bride made, and like all good things we are tasting in marriage, the next morning we want more of it, so when she asked me what would I like for breakfast the answer jumped out of my mouth: "more waffles".  As she cooked them, we talked that we'd have to stop by church A anyway since I'd agreed to meet a non-English speaking guy to pick him up and take him to the Spanish speaking service (at church B) with us.  Coincidentally, today there's a potluck thanksgiving lunch so I told my bride we'd probably stop for a few minutes at church A anyway.

Just there, the shock begins.  Potluck and thanksgiving are terms completely foreign to me.  And somehow, rather than excitement there's fear about the upcoming thanksgiving for I'm sure I cannot yet grasp what it means.  Just now I asked her about Squanto and she couldn't remember exactly what the story is.  See?  I have the understanding of Thanksgiving in my mind, yet in my 32 yr. old life, no special memories of what that celebration is.

But the plot thickens.  Uneasy to drop by the potluck with nothing to bring, she decided to make casserole (another foreign invention to me).  All the while, my waffles were ready and the music played softly in the background.  How could I be enjoying waffles (something my mom NEVER cooked) and Cindy Lauper/Ryan Adams in the stereo yet feel puzzled about casserole for a Thanksgiving potluck?!?

A weird high point was definitely when her eggs were ready and she asked me to pray while a reworked version of Cindy Lauper's She Bop was playing.  She Bop?  That early 80s paean to "bodily self-exploration" while we prayed to thank God for our food?  My bride didn't notice the song, she just enjoyed the moment with me... and so did I.  Maybe that's why instead of focusing on the people that are starving daily in countries like my beloved Guatemala (where people need not to wait for a specific day to give thanks bc they do not know if fragile health and scarce food will take them through another full year) and feel undeserving about the food in my plate, I simply hugged her and prayed that the God I don't yet love, will transform my heart and take my iniquities away.

As we finished our brief prayer, I could no longer hear the music in the background.  Neither I longed to go to any church at all today.  I simply stared at our kitchen and couldn't believe how merciful and generous He's been to me.  I couldn't believe how overwhelming it is to feel His presence at home, with my bride... and see how through all our differences God is teaching me.... again.

Now, if I could only stop writing about it and get ready to pick up that non-English speaking Mexican man who came to church for the first time last week, after quitting heavy drugs three weeks earlier and didn't understand a word of the service yet somehow felt the need for more, and is right now waiting for me to drive him to a Spanish speaking church.... that'd be a good thing.

#6: Our first wedding picture.

Ok, so this is just the beginning....
as a matter of fact, we were not even married when this picture was taken... or were we? I don't know.... and probably I don't care. What matters to me is that we were there... we are still here, and forever will be. And while it seems like forever for the rest of the 530 pictures and video from that day to arrive, we are posting one of the only five pics from that day I've seen.

Post #5: Our first post from home...

...or maybe, more specifically, from house.

As of this post, the name of the blog changes. Is anyone keeping track? Maybe not, but I am... so I want to leave these words to remind me of this night.

It's 4:03 AM on my computer's clock. On the radio, a CD by Caetano Veloso plays. I got it almost 3 yrs. ago yet this is the first time I'm listening to it all the way through. That's become the norm rather than the exception: to buy a CD only to listen to it sparsely and sometimes, never all the way through. Like earlier today (yes, around 1 AM) Carlee and I watched a couple of videos from a Guatemalan singer (the ONLY reknown Guatemalan singer) from a CD/DVD I bought 10 months ago and had not yet seen even once. For those Spanish speakers who read, it was Arjona's Adentro Special Edition. We saw a couple of videos on the DVD: Pinguinos and then Mojado (yes, the Spanish word for "wetback") which had not only the video but also a behind-the scenes segment. Anyway, somehow, bc of the subject matter, the plight of unfortunate to-be-immigrants stuck at the border, Carlee really liked the video and the documentary. I however, was more interested in showing her some of Latin America's best artists... part of the culture-sharing process that our lives are. Starting with 45 minutes of Ricky Martin videos, and ending with a song by this Guatemalan singer:

"Once every month you become an artist
Leaving an impressionist painting
Underneath the sheets

Once every month with your watercolors
You paint shreds of plums
That go right to the mattress

Once every month a laundry soap
Steals the fleeting art
Of your belly and its creation
And its natural when you´re a lady
That you paint roses on the bed
Once every month…

Chorus:
Once every month
The stork kills itself
And there you are, so depressed
Trying to find an explanation"
Anyway, the whole lyric in Spanish and its translation can be found on this other blog if anyone cares to read it.

But let's pretend for a moment that you do... you do try to read those lyrics, you try to understand the song.... still, do you get the same idea, feeling, images, or emotions that a native Spanish speaker gets? Probably not. Probably, reading the song would feel awkward and listening to it, intriguing at most, boring at worst. Simply because so much gets lost in translation.

And that's just what's happening in my world now. A world where another human shares the minutes, the seconds, the heartbeats. Yet still, we are simply getting to know each other with every passing day... and that is a beautiful thing.

****

Right before we watched Ricky Martin videos and listened to Ricardo Arjona's music, we spent a good half hour watching Garth Brooks's concert clips and videos. Interestingly enough, one of his videos, The Change, features the terrorist bombing in Oklahoma; another, Standing Outside The Fire, features a teen with Down Syndrome trying to race at a school competition. We both had seen those clips years ago, before we had ever met and while we said little when watching them, it was obvious to me we were touched deeper by a different video, as nothing can relate as close to me as a child with special needs considering I've been brother to one for more than a quarter of a century; yet for Carlee, the pain and suffering of other humans moves her to tears, whether her fellow citizens losing their lives in their homeland, or latin immigrants south of the border dying to come here. We both shed tears on both videos, yet the motives not alike as our perspectives differ.

We've disagreed so many times on issues like these: life, loss, politics, health, nationality, immigration and even the visual content on what's on our TV (read post #6). And that is part of our daily life: disagreement, as we agree to share a vision, and follow the same road. We are two people, in love with each other, living on love, living to know each other deeper, giving our best to connect each other's culture and opening our arms to embrace each other's heartaches. And to think we've only met seven months ago.

That's why we started this blog. To have a record of our journey, to share with those who read... known or unknown, to reflect on the road we are traveling, and to understand through misunderstandings.

We share them every day, like me misunderstanding that "us" starting a blog meant something more like "me" writing about us, rather than both of us writing. Or when she misunderstood me when I said I'd rather not have any internet at home because I'm addicted to all sorts of information and someday she'd find me up late in the computer after 300 hundred click-throughs learning about how museums incorrectly display dinosaurs or discovering Voyager's Golden Record. Now, if I could only find the reason why even though I moved into our house almost 4 months ago, and we've both lived here for three weeks now, the internet got connected only yesterday, and like I said, it's well past 4 AM, and here I am... writing toward the big void of cyberspace, trying to describe our joyful and complex new life, that came out of a blue clear sky.

Post #4: Our first excuse

Words, are so easy to use... yet............... ?

Yeah. If words are so easy to say, then why haven't we posted in weeks? I wonder the same too.

I've been blogging for a little more than two years now. My blog (which is in Spanish, btw) has been and still is, a faithful companion of my last couple of years' journey. Through it, I found a window to express my ideas, thoughts, longings, sadness, joy, anger, frustration, pain, hurt, tears, smiles, happiness, memories, emotions, feelings, pictures, phrases, and ultimately, my soul. That blog which I have kept abandoned for a few months now (with the exception of a note or two about my best friend's dad passing a month ago, and some grieving I express verbally) became more than a friend, a confident. And the good thing is, through that blog, I met real friends. Yes, a few guys who started reading my blog from far away places like LA, Atlanta, Colombia, and even Paris, France either came to Texas or I visited them, and we became "real" friends in person. Well, except the guy from France since that April day he would lay-over in Houston before flying back was the day after I met Carlee and I canceled all my plans to make sure I could ask the famous "so, can I see you again... today?" question.

Anyway, what I want to say is: blogs have proven VERY meaningful to me. A lot of how I look at life has been posted on my videoblog (or vlog for short) where I can be seen, heard, examined, and somehow, known. In specific times of loneliness and desperation friends I met (and many I hadn't yet met in person) felt they knew me through my words and were there for me when I needed them the most. A lot of that has been recorded on video and I even have a special b-day video they made for me (I used to hate b-days, until I got the best b-day present I never imagined). I couldn't believe how people I've never met decided to record a message for me and send their videos from Israel, Tokyo, France, Colombia, Mexico, LA, Atlanta, Houston to make me a reminder of how valuable I was, when I felt the most worthless. And also, I can't believe how close I feel to friends I've met once or twice, or spoken long distance to, because we have read each other's hearts and minds for days, weeks, months, years.

That is what a blog (or vlog) is to me. A window into the soul, a glimpse into the deepest parts of a human. An open door to the nakedness of my ugliest and hidden-most thoughts, emotions and truths. That's why I cannot get myself to write about the simple things of a day, or a week, unless I can use those moments to ponder at bigger question about my own existence, or even God's.

When Carlee and I decided to create this blog, it was hoping we could both share a record of our journey together, and at the same time, allow many of you, her friends and family, to get to know us as a couple, and me, as this "new" guy who unsuspectingly got into her life and won her heart. She loves to journal, and she gave me the confidence to keep doing the same with my videos and words: journaling. And I do want to share, and we will share.... but for now, time's too little to sit down and write, or even edit (sorry Les) videos.

Y'all know the reason, but I wanted to say: thanks to everyone who has read, and thanks to you, who still decide to come back and see what's new in my life, in hers, in ours.

And that is my excuse.... now, I wonder about Carlee's?

Post #3: our first concert / Wedding Dress

was, as every concert worth attending should be, a moment to remember.

The first Sunday I was invited to church, they had scheduled an outdoor lunch. I had already met her best friend's husband ('best male friend' sounds awkward, dont'cha think?) at a Barnes and Noble so, by then, we knew there was a musical connection (thanks to a shared devotion to all things [Irish dad's real names, Dutch cover-photographers, Guatemalan jackets on Rattle and Hum, Swedish covers with ABBA] U2). So, my future-bride-then-girlfriend's-best-friend's-husband mentioned an upcoming concert at a church in Plano by this 21st century poet originally from an unknown (to me, at least) 90s band. Needless to say, I jumped with a "yes!"; after all, if he's a U2 fan (and a closet the Queen, aka Amy Grant fan, by his own admission) his musical taste must be good (although his repeated dislike of Slayer makes me doubt it a little).

Three days later we attended the concert. Inside a beautiful small sized church, I got my first glimpse into Derek Webb's music. Lyrics such as:

"Don't teach me about politics and government, just tell me who to vote for;

don't teach me about truth and beauty, just label my music;

don't teach me about how to live like a free man, just give me a new law"

were like a hook thrown into my wide open mouth. Then,

"There's two lies that I've heard:

the day you eat of the fruit of that tree you will not surely die,

and that Jesus was a white middle class Republican"

simply grabbed me by the gut and forced to listen, not enjoy and torture myself with the agony of knowing somebody was wording some sense out of my angry places of doubt. Nothing, however, would prepare me for what lied ahead; if the aforementioned songs seduced my mind, what followed sealed the deal... penetrating my soul like a spear into the heart:

[I] look for blessings in disguise,

to make me handsome, rich and wise, is that really what you want?

I am a whore I do confess,

I put you on just like a wedding dress and I, run down the aisle;

I'm a prodigal with no way home,

I put you on just like a ring of gold and I run down the aisle to you".

I cried when I listened to those lyrics; I still cry everytime I hear the whole song; I will cry so hard, I have not been able to listen to any other song on that album, I just repeat it a handful times until my voice is no longer singing but begging forgiveness to my God. That song, prompted me to share my deepest fears and pour confessions of an angry/ sad/ confused heart with my beautiful date for that evening. We had just begun dating and I liked her so much, that I needed her to know the real whore inside of me. Her response? "You are not [that], you are a good man". Ever since, we've been committed to verbally sharing whatever troubles our hearts both individually and as a couple and I've grown to trust her friendship more than I've ever trusted my fears. I guess Derek Webb's Wedding Dress definitely played a slightly literal part in the fact that Carlee is, in fact, now shopping for a wedding dress.
Before I forget (as if!), our drive to church was spent listening three times in a row to a 80s song by an obscure band from the 70s. The lyrics were a perfect match. The first time I told her "I love you" was while listening to that little ditty: Amanda by Boston.

Here, a pic right after

Derek Webb's concert.

Post #2: our first picture

But wait! Where's post #1 ! ??? No, we're not glad you asked.

So let's move on to post #2, and maybe, one day, in the future, we'll come back to that mysterious post #1 (hint: it was not a picture, neither a written post). For now we want to share with all of you our first picture. Taken one morning at church while, unbeknownst to us, our first kiss waited a few hours ahead. But we'll leave that for post #3.. or later.


Picture by FiercePeace, at SBC, July 8, 2007.