Sparks from the Fire » Sao Paulo

Siyahamba – Sao Paulo Installment 2

Peter Link — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 18:51:38 +0000

(If you missed the other installments of this article, simply visit Siyahamba -1st Installment and Siyahamba – Cape Town-Installment 3)

Letter To Norm Bleichman, Executive Producer written from Sao Paulo, Brazil
April 26, 2009

Hey Norm,

Well that was one of the most beautiful and touching days of my life. What special people the church people are! Well, God certainly pulled out all the stops on these folks. Just beautiful. I curse the language barrier, but somehow we all cut through it.

(Watch the video we made… Siyahamba Project on YouTube)

Flavio Colombini, our Brazilian videographer, has been a total pro throughout the entire experience – always on time, always helpful and always concerned about the project and my welfare. He found me this terrific girl – Daniella Volker – who has followed me around, driven me to and fro and been my personal guide for the weekend. She was my translator today at the session and just did a great job. I was able to keep ‘em laughing even through an interpreter. A good team.

We finished the church service and took about 20 minutes to set up and then got right to it. Daniella’s mom made a large banner that stretched across the front of the church behind the podium which said, “Nos Cantamos Na Luz Do Senhor”. (We are singing in the light of God.) Our lyrics for the day. Note the change.

The translation done in Boston did not scan well because “Deus” (instead of Senhor) is pronounced as a 1 syllable word in Portuguese, not two. And we need a 2 syllable word here to fit the melody. Several people and I met last night and discussed it. I made sure that Senhor was not any less reverent a term for God than Deus. They’re interchangeable, and the line sings infinitely better. They were all so helpful.

The church was packed and the constantly powerful emotion of the day was how touched and proud they all were to be a part of this. One little man in the back of the church, after I had played them the track with the rest of the churches singing on it, raised his hand with tears in his eyes. “You mean we were picked to sing last before the finale?” he asked through Daniella, my interpreter. I explained that this was, in fact, so. The entire room of people buzzed with excitement and pride. “Why?” they asked. Once again I explained how we were going to many places around the world and doing this to show the unity of the church and also that the hymn worked very well with a bossa nova feel and besides, I just love Brazilian music.

Once again they buzzed all in Portuguese, beamed with pride and some openly had tears in their eyes. They were all so excited once they heard about how they fit into the project. We had all ages, Sunday School children, teens and adults 20-90. They are a truly joyful people and that spirit filled the church all afternoon.

They are not all the best singers in the world. They have a few monotones and some of the kids never really found the key. They speak and sing with a kind of dark, rich nasal quality. But the spirit was there, the Portuguese language is one of the most musical languages in the world and the recording went beautifully. It was a bit noisy outside the church, so we had to shut the windows on the street side and it got very hot as the afternoon went on. As we did take after take, everybody was sweatin’ and workin’ and just givin’ their Brazillian all. Just beautiful people.

It’s definitely the “real sound” that we talked about, of real people singing in church, of congregations and not necessarily polished church choirs. It’ll be fine. It’s church. Sometimes one of the little kids comes through with unabashed gusto, loud and all off key and it’s actually sweet, it’s real — like I said, it’s church.

Afterward, they served a great lunch out on the patio and everyone stayed till 4:00. A happy family. For the last 45 minutes they asked me if I would talk to a few of the church music committee about New Music In The Church. I said I would and then the entire church went in and sat with me and asked question after question. They were all so interested in progressing and growing.

I made sure they understood that I did not work at the world headquarters, that I was just a free lance working for the church – that I was just a normal guy. It was a fascinating discussion that I’ll tell you more about when I see you.

So another good day on the Siyahamba Project. 5 cities down/1 to go. So glad you’re coming to Cape Town. Flavio is going to back up all his video, give me the video master and I’ll upload it onto the ftp site before I get on the plane to South Africa.

Got all the release forms all signed. The only thing we didn’t do was read and film the release statement. Seemed a bit bogus to read it in English to a non-English speaking audience. We’re covered with the forms.

So all is well. It’ll be nice to have a couple of days off here and spend some real time with these great people. Then on to Cape Town…

See you there, my friend.

Pete

**If you’d like to watch the production of the Siyahamba Project on YouTube, please click on the link.

Even More Inspiration

Home

Peter Link — Wed, 06 May 2009 18:14:37 +0000

Time to go home. Complete the circle. New York – Sao Paulo – Jo’burg – Cape Town – Jo’burg – Dakar – Home.

No matter what treasures the rest of the world offers, it’s always good to go home.

The ordeal of flying: Time spent in airplane/airports this leg – 24 hours! Cape Town to New York City. 24 hours to get home. Strangest part of the trip was that 23 of the 24 hours were in darkness. We followed the sun, but never caught up until the end, the last hour, and the sun rose over NYC – hidden by the rain.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to get home…

Four movies later and 20 hours fighting a cramped airplane seat, we landed and I was home. Or was I? Grabbed a cab from Kennedy. 7:00 am to 9:00 am – NYC Monday morning traffic in the rain. Two more hours to get home.

Carrying precious cargo: Pillowcases of maroon, yellow and black with elephants of purple and gold, silk scarves for Julia of zebra, lion, leopard to match her hair, hippopotamus sculpture of pale green soapstone that is pure pleasure just to hold the little fat fellow in your hand, carvings and masks in mahogany and ebony, sculptures in rich green verdite of lion and rhinoceros, and la crème de la crème – a serpentine rock sculpted by John Nyakusengwa from Bubi, Zimbabwe, the size of a football with elephant head emerging into life from within.

When I first saw it, I knew not what it was and moved on to others, but it drew me back again and again until I just had to have it – as each time the elephant further revealed itself within its hiding place in the stone.

Precious cargo. Gifts for loved ones who could not go. Memories of Africa. All in a suitcase stuffed with bubble wrap and prayers.

Trying to get it all home…

The worst part: A 3 hour layover in Jo’burg. So tired I could have slept on the floor, but what if I missed my call, missed my plane? Can’t read – just makes me sleepier, can’t walk, carry-ons too heavy, can’t eat, spent all my South African rand, and so I sit and watch the hours go by, minute by minute, going a little nuts.

Trying to get home…

Finally decide to practice what I preach. Consider Eckhart Tolle and The Power of Now. Then I’m all right. I’m not there yet, but I’m on my way home as I watch the beautiful people of Africa all heading off to places unknown.

Passing the time…

Trying to get home…

The best part: Playing “Peek-Around-The-Seat” with a 3 year old black African boy who was fascinated with the American in seat 54A. The game lasted intermittently for 20 hours. His sweetness and curiosity brought great joy to my going home.

With two rolling suitcases filled with precious cargo and recording equipment and two overstuffed carry-ons passing through customs unmolested, I grab a cab, fight the traffic, and then finally stand in the rain in front of my apartment building paying the cabbie, turn and walk through a busy Monday morning lobby. Then the elevator ride to the 38th floor. Then the long walk down the hall to my door. The walk, pulling my precious cargo, seemed to take as long as Cape Town to NYC.

A note on the front door: “It’s open. In the shower”

I clumsily manhandle my bags through the door, trying not to break something in these last 3 steps. The house is quiet. Only the sound of the shower.

“Honey, I’m home!”

For more inspiring thoughts, music you can download,
and information about Peter Link, please visit Watchfire Music.

Even More Inspiration

Luigi

Peter Link — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 18:16:12 +0000

I have a new friend. His name is Luigi. He’s 5 years old. He’s growing up in Sao Paulo, Brazil, speaks Portuguese and not one word of English. Well, more on that later. When we were first introduced, he tried to pronounce my name and couldn’t. “Peter.” When I said it the second time he simply burst out laughing with the surprise and wonder of such a funny name. “Peter.”

On the third attempt he got it right and then laughed again in glee at the funny sound. “Peter. Peter. Peter.” He ran around in circles of joy over the humor of such a funny name saying it over and over amid gales of 5 year old guffaws.

As if Luigi isn’t a funny name…

Actually, Luigi is a wonderful name! Luigi, Luigi, Luigi! Say it again and again. An Italian name for a Brazilian boy.

But I digress…

I played with Luigi for about an hour and a half waiting for his parents to finish a meeting. He showed me his two-wheeler bicycle and his helmet which was too small for him. It was also too small for me as I tried it on amid more gales of laughter from Luigi.

When not climbing all over me he ran – up and down the patio, back and forth, for no obvious reason, just to run. Ah, the energy of youth! Then he rode his bicycle — up and down the patio, back and forth, for no obvious reason, just to ride.

Between each journey he would come back and talk to me. At first he was a bit mystified that he could not understand my words and looked at me curiously as if I had an unfortunate deformity. That lasted about thirty seconds. Then he just got over it. He would tell me about his bicycle and I would say, “Oooh” and “Aaah” and “Wow” and “Uh huh”. Then I would talk and he would listen and then laugh and go ride his bike again or run across the patio and back.

He told me about his new school, his new shoes and something else that I never got a word of. We were instant pals. We played Rock, Scissors, Paper and Battling Thumbs and then I hoisted him up on my knees facing me and held on to his arms and we played One, Two Three, a game I played a thousand times with my own son, where I say, “One, two, three” as I bounce him on my knees and then suddenly drop him through my knees only to catch him just before he hits the ground.

More gales of laughter. He couldn’t get enough of this game and even the next day when he first saw me came scrambling up on my knees saying “One, two, three” – only in Portuguese. I never told him what “One, two, three” meant. He figured it out with his 5-year old mind and remembered it in his own language.

Every time I saw him over the next few days we conversed like old friends and pals. He helped me set up my recording equipment and we talked at length about my laptop computer. The entire time Luigi spoke in Portuguese, Peter in English. The most amazing part of the experience however, was not that we conversed, but that Luigi, in fact, never even knew that we were not speaking the same language. He never questioned it. He just accepted it and moved on. Lesson for the world; lesson for the ages.

In the course of our three day friendship I did teach him one word in English. “Hello.” Whenever he first saw me, he would run up and say it – and then, erupt into gales of laughter – and then say it again, just to try it out.

I’ll probably never see Luigi again. I’m off to Cape Town and he’s decided to stay here in Sao Paulo with his parents. Yesterday when we parted, it was not easy. Somehow we both knew. When he came back for a second hug as his parents waited to go, he was a bit tearful.

As we hugged goodbye amid the tears, he whispered in my ear, “hello.”

For more inspiring thoughts, music you can download,
and information about Peter Link, please visit Watchfire Music.

Even More Inspiration

Relationship With A Tree

Peter Link — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 18:23:22 +0000

I took a long walk through Ibirapuera Park in Sao Paulo, Brazil yesterday. I’d compare its beauty and size to Central Park in Manhattan, the only two differences to me were that everybody was playing soccer instead of baseball and then, the trees.

There was one, especially, that was huge, whose roots went on above ground for 50 yards or more. The children stood fascinated and played under it and seemed drawn to its majesty, climbing its roots as if it were a favorite grandfather that they could maul and hang on to.

The tree struck me as simply patient with all these crawling little “bugs” and also a little proud to be admired so. I stood and gazed at the spectacle for several long moments and it reminded me of another old friend who was also a tree.

Many years ago, in my wild and ever-searching youth, I found myself walking alone in a dense forest in New Hampshire late one summer afternoon. The temperature was in the high 90s that day and so the shade of the woods was welcomed and perhaps about 10 degrees cooler. I came upon this tree. It wasn’t as big or famous as the Ibirapuera Park tree; it stood rather lonely perhaps among others.

Nothing in particular made it stand out except that it had several exposed roots that caught my attention. I stopped and stared for quite some time and as I was doing so, suddenly had the distinct impression that the tree might be as curious about me as I was of it.

I walked over to a patch of soft grass about 10 yards from the trunk and sat down to get into the experience. After a while, as the sun would cut through the leaves intermittently and warm the grass, I lay down on my back and stared up through its leaves and branches into the flickering sunlight.

Once in school someone told me that the spread and size of the branches were matched underground by the spread and size of the root system. I started thinking about this and imagining this root system beneath my body going on, living on beneath my body, reflecting the branches above. Then I considered the trunk, that central point between the two earthly and heavenly extensions.

I spent a long time trying to imagine where the brains of this tree were, if in fact it had brains. But something had to govern this magnificent creature. There had to be some central point of processing for this amazing expression of life.

This tree had stood there, alive, with its other tree friends for many decades here in this forest. This was not a well-traveled path, so it had probably seldom been visited or admired by the likes of me. So this was as special a moment in the life of this tree as it was in the life of me. My awareness of this newly found friend deepened and I began to consider the life essence that poured through it from roots to trunk to branches daily.

Year after year its leaves would drop and rot and become the earth that collected the nutrients from the water and other dead and rotting things around. This became its food and drink. In essence, it lived off of itself. It was somewhat self-perpetuating. How clever of you, oh tree.

I began to understand its food system, but where oh where did its life essence come from? It was then that I got it. As I lay on my back in the grass and dirt in the sun and shade, I realized that he got it from the same place that I got it. His life essence was the same as mine – not similar, but exactly the same. This tree expressed itself differently than I – I was mobile, he was not – its body looked different than mine, but then he had a different purpose than I. The possibilities and plausibilities were overwhelming.

It all became simply too much to consider for my young mind. But this one thing I knew for sure that day while I too was rooted in the earth: My friend, the tree, and I were the same. Essentially the same. He (it) seemed both masculine and feminine, but then again so am I. He was amazing in his processing power to grow, to change with the seasons, to weather the storms, to get along with his neighbors (do trees fight?), to shed his skin, to bloom and fade, to be born again and to die.

I deeply considered springing roots right there and then and staying. Oh, it seemed a simpler and better life in the moment. Besides, how could I possibly get up and leave this new-found friend? I considered a name for him… “Tree.” And so it was. Perhaps he lived by another name, but “Tree” seemed somehow appropriate for that day. What a concept! Why not just spring roots and stay, Pete?

I must have fallen asleep for a time. I only know that I awakened as the bugs began to eat me from beneath. It was then that I began to consider the realities of my choice. Would I really eat of the dirt? Would it not get cold when the sun went down? Would the bugs win? In my imagination my relationship moved from neighbor to guest. I realized that two and a half hours had passed. It was time to go home.

I said my fond farewells, promising to return again and again. Of course I never did. “Tree” waits for me still.

Perhaps not.

For more inspiring thoughts, music you can download,
and information about Peter Link, please visit Watchfire Music.

Even More Inspiration

Sao Paulo, Brazil

Peter Link — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 22:50:31 +0000

We came around the corner of the mountain range flying in at about 6000 feet. I pressed my forehead to the window as the pilot announced our landing. Suddenly there was Sao Paulo sprawling before me – city of red clay roofs, city of skyscrapers, city of poverty, city of joy. Here was a city like none other.

Flying into most American cities looks and feels about the same. The similarities speak to man’s tendencies to copy one another. Most of them lay out pretty much the same – some bigger, some smaller. Then there’s Rome. Now there’s Sao Paulo.

People, people, people. All of whom I do not know, have never met, will never meet – living down here in South America – a place I seldom consider. I am, once again, struck with the smallness of my life, the largess of the world around us. I have lived all these years; this place has been here all that time, yet we never knew one another. A new window opens to my life and my heart rushes in the excitement of it.

I spent the rest of the day in the hustle and bustle, the hassle and the traffic. Oh my god, the traffic — worse than L.A. Crawling across this sprawling city I am most taken with the creativity of the graffiti. Modern street art thrown up on ancient walls. Colorful, Latin, bold, fascinating. Wish I could stop and study it. Wish I could meet the artists…

There are too many poor people in this world. Nothing new here, but seeing it is experiencing it in a way we sheltered Americans seldom do. What will Cape Town bring? That’s where I go next. To the shanties of Cape Town. I must focus on the joy of the people.

The day had not the romance I expected. I didn’t fly all those hours to drive all day in traffic, but the corner turned this morning into the valley of Sao Paulo and those red clay roofs was a moment I shall never forget.

I’ll take what I can get.

For more inspiring thoughts, music you can download,
and information about Peter Link, please visit Watchfire Music.