Things Learned in a Colombian Prison

The smell of diesel fumes mingled with the aroma of cooking fires drifting through the half-open windows of our swaying bus as we careened through the Andes mountains in Colombia, SA.  We were entering guerrilla territory and I pressed my face against the glass to take in the panoramic beauty of the forested peaks, wondering at the evil hidden by the lush green canopy.  Occasionally, an army truck passed us with its cargo of camouflaged soldiers in the back, their weapons resting on their shoulders as they, too, scanned the forest for signs of unusual activity.  All was quiet, though, on this morning ride save for the squeaking of the bus and the roar of the engine as we bounced over the highway that sliced through the heart of these ranges.

Our journey took us into the heart of Colombia where I was taking a small team of women to a high-security prison in Ibague to teach Amish quilt-making to the women inmates.  Many of these women were incarcerated because of their link to a drug-lord or because they were considered an accomplice to their husband's criminal charges and were swept along to prison, as well.  The majority of them were innocent and were spending many long months awaiting a trial that would probably not turn out favorably for them in the end. Most of these women and girls had children at home to support and were looking for ways to provide for them while behind bars. 

In our carefully packed luggage, we carried 200 sewing kits, each complete with all the materials needed to make crib quilts for babies.  It was our plan to teach the women how to make these quilts which they could then sell to provide money for their children living outside the prison.  One of the women on my team owned an Amish quilt shop in Ohio and had provided the supplies for our venture, in addition to offering her expert skills in demonstrating the art of quilting.

Three hours into our scenic ride, we had left the crisp elevation of Bogota and were arriving in the tropical rain forest climate of Ibague.  Pedestrians cluttered the road leading into the town, children rang alongside the bus holding up trinkets to sell, and beggars stood with arms outstretched,  expecting the clink of a coin from sympathetic Americans.  Weaving through the disorganized streets we shared with rickshaws, cab drivers, and BMW's, we arrived at the prison, sweaty and disheveled from our journey, and slightly apprehensive as we viewed the machine-gun toting guards stationed at the perimeter of the gate.  After a rapid interchange with our driver, and a curious look at the American passengers, the guards waved us tentatively through the gate, following us with their guns. 

After what seemed like hours later, and the temporary confiscation of our passports, we had passed through a triple set of security checkpoints where we were frisked as our luggage containing the 200 sewing kits was thoroughly scanned and inspected.  We were then escorted by a team of 10 military guards, their no-nonsense guns poised, as they huddled us in the center of their posse while we passed through corridor after corridor of incarcerated drug lords, guerrilla fighters, murderers, and thiefs. I tried to still the clamoring of my heart as these men leared at us, their cat calls and whistles barely restrained by the warning looks from our guards.

Finally, we passed through the men's section of the prison and arrived at the area where the women were kept.  They were expecting us, and 300 of them had come out into the open area of the courtyard, their faces expectant and hopeful as they gathered around our team with big smiles.  The matron had selected a few women to take us on a tour of their facility, showing us where they slept and cooked their meals.  The squalid conditions were as clean as possible and here and there were pots of flowers growing on a sill or a colorful blanket folded on a simple chair.  They showed us pictures of their children and told us stories of how they came to be in the prison.  We set up our tables and supplies, and soon were engaged in a lively session of teaching, demonstrating, and quilting as we worked alongside these beautiful women who were so eager to learn something new.

We spent three days with those women, building relationships and establishing trust, as we worked together to create something beautiful.  We left them with a new skill and fresh hope in their hearts, while we came away with the realization that even in the most hopeless of environments, creativity can flourish if nurtured.

My Favorite Room

I have a favorite room in my house.  As I sit here writing on my blog, I look around this room and take note of the things that invite me to come here to this space where my creative energy is nurtured.  Here is my list:

1.  My favorite feature in this room is the large canvas of The Singing Butler by Jack Vettriano.  I appreciate both the sentimental aspect of the painting - it was given to us by our group of friends in Ohio as a parting gift when we moved to North Carolina in 2007 - as well as the composite of a contemporary artist featuring an Edwardian time period.  Every room needs a good painting.

2.  My grandfather's writing desk, in its prominent place in the corner next to a cozy winged reading chair from the 60's, is a treasure.  The simplistic beauty of its cherry wood, worn smooth by over a century of use, carries secrets of my grandfather's creativity with residue of ink spilled from his fountain pen. It's slant-top cover opens to reveal drawers and cubbies to store favorite things.  This desk inspires me to write.

3.  The antique books propped on various tables, their embossed leather covers glowing in the candlelight, reveal a collection of history, religion, travel lectures, poetry, and world maps from the 1800's.  The unique texture of their covers as I hold them in my hands and the slightly musty smell of the yellowing pages can never be replaced by the generic compilation of readings on a Kindle.  Stacks of literary works will always have prime residence in my favorite room.

4.  The golden wheat-colored marbleized walls of this room give the aura of a French chateau in Provence.  The walls are the perfect background for The Singing Butler, as well as the 4-foot wood-framed mirror with peeling white paint which my parents displayed in their first home during the 1940's and which I now call mine.  Across the room, a column of hand-painted vintage plates from my grandmother's china cupboard keeps watch over the library table with its Grecian pillars.  This room is the color of inspiration.

5.  No favorite room is complete without a gleaming wooden floor, covered with an Oriental rug.  While I have always had a soft spot for fine rugs, this one is an exceptional find from the Winston-Salem Rescue Mission where I discovered it under a pile of bedding in the warehouse for $12.00.  An Oriental rug lends a feeling of royalty to the humblest of cottages.

6.  The last thing about this room I love is the eclectic collection of vintage chairs, designed to be snuggled in and placed strategically next to lamps for reading and writing.  With a vintage leather footstool to prop my feet and an engraved silver coaster on which to rest my wine glass, these chairs welcome me to relax after the rigorous routine of a busy day to enjoy the solace of their cushiony depths.  A good chair is an inviting presence in a room.

These are some of my favorite things in this favorite room of my house.

The Tree

Once upon a time, there was a Girl who lived with her family in a beautiful cottage in an enchanted forest. All around this cottage were trees who whispered the names and secrets of God. Each night as the Girl laid her head on her downy pillow, she followed her dreams into a land more magical than the one she lived in.

The Father was the tender of the trees and there was one sapling especially that required extra care right from the first moment its roots were sunk into the rich soil of the forest. It was a wispy Tree, lacking the luster of the floral laden branches of the Magnolia trees, or the promising strength and endurance of the towering Oaks in whose shade it was planted. But the Tree, in spite of its frailty, had unusual characteristics that made the Father pay closer attention to this one than all the others.

The Mother noticed this Tree one day as she was meandering down the path in search of blackberries. Seeing her husband kneeling by the Tree, cultivating the soil around the roots, she saw it literally begin to sprout buds before her eyes. Upon closer inspection, it seemed the buds were little eyes that winked and sparkled with secrets too ancient for its young life. She mentioned this to her husband who nodded in reply and kept mulching the virgin earth, adding a fistful of compost every once in a while.

Time passed and with the Father’s encouraging touch and gentle pruning, the wispy Tree lost its wispiness and began pushing its limbs skyward even as its roots sank deeper into the forest floor. The whisperings of the tall oaks caressed its branches each night as its leaves shivered in anticipation of the day when it too would be able to reveal the magic hidden inside when the Father planted it in this forest.

Storms came to the enchanted forest from time to time and one particularly dark and evil tempest threatened to uproot the Tree and send it flying over the tops of the whispering oaks. While the storm was intense and frightening, it was not nearly as disconcerting as the eerie stillness that came later. The Tree felt a spiny finger tracing the outline of several branches, leaving a trail of poisonous words that began eating through its still-tender bark. The Tree looked at the words and became confused. Soon it could no longer hear the whisperings of the tall Oaks or smell the fragrance of the Magnolias as all its energy was being used to decipher the evil letters that had by now covered two of its limbs.

One morning the Girl awakened and remembered something she had seen in the land of her dreams. She dashed out of the cottage and headed down the path towards the not-so-wispy Tree. It stood there in the half-light of morning, two of its branches drooping slightly at its side. Gently the Girl touched the branches and noticed the scrawling letters carved into the bark. Insects had gathered and were clustering around the exposed cambiun layer, causing even greater discomfort to the Tree. As the girl pondered the evil words, they filled her heart with dread. She knew the words were from the Enemy of the forest and would need to be removed before they spread throughout the Tree and caused it to die.

She went in search of her Father, who left his forest tending duties immediately to come to the aid of his special Tree. He pulled a pruning tool from the leather pouch around his waist and swiftly cut off the graffiti-lined branches. He put salve on the wounds where the cut had been made, then knelt to cultivate the soil once again around the roots. As he did this, a miraculous thing happened.

If the Girl would not have been watching, she would not have believed it if someone told her. But as it was, she happened to be the first one to see the tree demonstrate its magic. Little buds began bursting across all the remaining branches of the tree. As the buds popped to the surface, they opened up gently to reveal pools of shimmering gold. The gold spilled from the buds, weaving their way along the branches until the whole tree was covered with a glorious shining of extraordinary luster.

The Father noticed the shining, too, from his place on the forest floor as little drops of gold began to spill around his knees. He looked up at the tree in wonder as the gold began to form words. The Girl stood on tiptoe to read the glorious script that was starting to emerge. It was just like her dream! The secrets of God were written on the branches for everyone in the forest to see!

As for the Tree, even as the gold covered its bark, it grew larger and stronger and taller than it would ever have imagined. And now it knew its purpose! It was to write the secrets of God that the tall Oaks whispered during the night. It was to describe the fragrance of the Magnolias. It was to invite others into this magical place to sit in the shade of its nurturing branches as the lifegiving words caused their dreams to become real.

And the Girl lived in the shade of the tree, her heart illuminated by the golden words dropping from its canopy.