Speaking Without Words

Over the past 4 years, I have traveled to Central American many times, each time with a particular purpose: to explore, understand, and support the resolution of the injustices that are present here in the world between the United States and Colombia.  Each journey dove deeper into the structural, cultural, and political causes of the hunger, violence, and injustice prevalent throughout this land of lakes and volcanoes. Each time I set foot in these places my agenda was "analyze", "ask questions", and "find answers", however in the past few weeks, it seems my agenda has included a more diverse schedule.

In some moments, as I step across the familiar cobblestone streets of Antigua, walking to the print shop or passing by Central Park on my way to buy some bread, as I sit at the bow of a boat skimming across the silky water of Lake Atitlán, feeling just a sprinkle of rain hit my skin, as I feel the warm sun on the back of my neck as I talk with a young Guatemalan with the soul much older than mine, or as I sit at dinner with friends discussing fears and personalities, I feel myself forget to analyze. I forget to connect all the social and political factors together into a map leading me directly to my place in society at that moment.

Instead, I feel the pressure of each stone through my shoes on the balls of my feet, the sharp and the dull, the angled and the flat, the rough and the smooth. I hear the music of flutes and drums in Central Park as a band plays for onlookers. I let the wind of the lake whip across my face, holding my attention with its gentle touch yet roaring sound.

I feel the droplets of rain touch my skin as small reminders that I am alive. I sit and do nothing, creating space to see the people around me as humans rather than sociological pawns. I hear the laughter of a friend as I feel the same sound escape from my own chest.

As we drive home from a National Hospital, the smell of the truck exhaust in front of us pinches my nose with its unnatural stench. The spiciness of jalapeño pupusas sits on my tongue for just a moment longer than usual, breaking from my usual hasty eating to experience the food. I walk lightly through ancient ruins, imagining the people who 500 years ago walked the same path.

I feel the soft touch of a friend's hand as we dance together, laughing and smiling as the only ones brave enough to let the music move us. I see the reflection of people in a puddle as they walk by, a portal into another world. I feel the bump and rattle of the camionetas we ride to class each Monday and Wednesday, noticing the detail and intricacy of the designs on each one.

In these moments I am pulled from my demanding mind and find peace in the sensory experiences of the world around me. There is no analysis, there is no larger contextual connection, there is only feeling, tasting, hearing, seeing, smell, and moving. The details of the world around me light up through my senses, reaching deep into my muscles, telling me each stone's texture through my toes, each droplet's weight through my skin, each human's emotion through my eyes, and each taste of life through my tongue. Without words, the world describes itself to me.


I am not sure why these experiences have been so prevalent lately. Maybe because my purpose on this trip is not really to analyze or process, maybe because the person who taught me the value of these experience has been on my mind quite frequently of late, maybe it is because I am not engulfed in searching for an answer because I have not asked a question... there could be many reasons. It really doesn't matter why.

Sometimes the only thing that matters is that I am here, in this complex and diverse world, filled with experiences, people, tastes, sounds, sensations, and emotions. I am one living organism speaking with the world through my life, a dance of soul and sense, a moment in time to be felt to its fullest extent.