Holy Ground: a poem.
from my book of poetry and art
Hi friends,
This week I’m sharing an excerpt of poetry from the book I created to sell for my fundraiser to get me back to the Middle East to volunteer as a photographer, designer, and visual storyteller in Palestinian refugee camps. You can read more about the trip here.
More information about the book after the poem…
Holy Ground
We circle ‘round in plastic lawn chairs
in the middle of a narrow cobblestone street.
My feet are dirty, caked with miles of stories
and hard heart and farm work
I’ve encountered over the last few days.
I slip off my sandals and let my bare feet
rest on the dry pavement.
Not because millennia have seen these stones,
and not even because Jesus may have walked here,
but I sense this is holy ground.
Sami waddles out toward us
with a tray of tea, sage and mint leaves
and thin lemon slices suspended in the glasses.
I don’t trust the experience of a person nor pilgrim
who has visited Bethlehem
and doesn’t know Sami –
his contagious smile, most jovial personality.
The size of this town
lends itself to bumping into him
a couple times a day.
If you accept the invitation to his pop-up cafe
outside a storage room where he brews his drinks,
you can feel like an old friend
sharing tea in his living room.
Here in the streets of Bethlehem,
here in Palestine, here in the Middle East,
tea is an invitation.
Tea makes time and space to exchange ideas.
To connect, rest.
To hear one another, be heard.
To learn, perhaps embrace a new perspective.
To engage storytelling.
I count this holy ground too.
After tea there should be the city square
with the famous church and mosque
and best falafel around — ask anyone.
Across Manger Square from the Nativity Church
rises the Mosque of Omar.
Conviction stands tall in this place.
The city of Bethlehem is a city divided,
but not in the city square.
Entering the Church of Nativity for the first time
I am concerned primarily with seeing
the site where Jesus was said to be born
into a humble cave to young,
Brown, refugee parents.
I’m paying attention.
You wouldn’t know Jesus
by seeing this place.
I don’t think the shrines and altars,
all ornate and lavish,
would have been his style.
I knelt and prayed anyway
on the holy ground.
On the way out, I take notice of the low door.
You have to hunch over,
near squat to enter into the building.
It was built as a tiny entrance
to keep people from riding their horses
or driving their carts into the church.
The door has remained small,
now called Door of Humility,
where one must bow down to enter.
Out through the door, the light
pierces my eyes and the call to prayer
from the mosque reverberates
off stones all around, and I bow.
I bow not toward the manger or the mosque
but to step into the square that represents
a coexistence of Muslim and Christian faiths.
A city that represents light in the darkness.
A compassion that reaches across borders
and languages and conflicts and
cultures and fights for freedom for everyone.
I bow back into a world where faith
now lives in people, and not stone buildings,
and certainly not in concrete walls.
There’s a wall that cuts Bethlehem to pieces:
separating farmers from their land,
families from their loved ones,
employees from their workplaces.
Things and people that belong together
are separated on purpose.
Vast stretches of the wall have art on them.
In one place: “Make Hummus, Not Walls”
and “Blessed Are the Peacemakers”.
In another, a famous Banksy stencil of a girl
floating
up,
up,
up over the wall
on the string end of a balloon bouquet
to what we hope is freedom.
Seeing this, I harken back to
an iconic photo of the Berlin Wall, the word
FREEDOM is painted beneath the swinging legs
of hopeful Berliners as they wait atop The Wall
for the time to break down decades of division.
I am dreaming of a Bethlehem liberated
the way Berlin was on November 9, 1989.
We can be many things at once
like this sand and turquoise city: interrup-
ted by walls.
Moving slow, even ancient.
Home of the most home.
Bowed over with creed,
overfilled with depth and wonder.
And yet, things fall apart.
And yet, living, breathing, creating, and always,
an absurd hope in reconciliation for the world.
Ear to the holy ground.
About the book.
This book is a creative mashup of my photography and poetry in zine-chatbook-flipbook form. I promise it will whisk you away on a journey with me across the Middle East through its four original poems and dozens of full-page color photographs.
It has 50 color pages, and is 6x6 inches. The printing and soft cover are visually and tangibly beautiful quality (I am a designer with high professional standards, after all!) All images and writing is mine, and I also designed, edited, and published it. The whole enchilada, I made it. Two of the poems are new works that have never been released here on Wandering Home, and many of the photos will be new to you too. You’re in for a treat!
Here’s a peek inside at the introduction and a few spreads:
I’m asking for $500 for this book that I’ve poured much of my creativity into because I want to offer you a quality, tangible gift for this level of donation. This is an investment in the future of Palestinian refugees and my work in the camps this summer.
I’m only printing a small quantity of these this one time, so contact me directly if you want one! Just reply to this email if I can put your name on one and can count on your support of my trip this summer in this specific way.
If you’ve already donated and asked for a book, you have my deepest gratitude. I can't wait to get the book in your hands in mid-May. Thanks for partnering with me in this way.
Grateful,
