The Journey of a Nomad Follow your heart and you'll find your dreams.

Gaunt faces pressed against the red metal fence, thin arms extended through the holes, empty palms exposed, displaying nothing but need. Desperate shouts in a foreign tongue surrounded us while the scent of sunburnt sewage engulfed us. As we exited the protective red barrier distress swarmed and stalked us. Disaster driven chaos consumed the city.
Children’s small fingers snagged the edges of our shirts, like sharp thorns on a rose bush – sweet, innocent faces were attached to the penetrating stab of heartbreak. Bleeding compassion, our desires to help were imprisoned by an inability to feed the demanding.
We hadn’t embarked on our journey to deliver supplies. Our objective had been to provide physical support by building houses. We greeted empty hands with empty hands and our intentions felt all wrong. Our financial resources had been poured into purchasing construction essentials, not basic living essentials.
Our regret for not being able to do more was intensified as the children released our shirts, closed their tiny little hands and brought their fingers to their mouth expressing their hunger as if their protein deficient red tinged hair and malnourished bloated little bellies hadn’t been signs enough.
Every unfilled palm was connected to a fatigued human with a tragic story of loss and destruction inspired by the ground shaking event of January 12th, 2010. We pushed forward through the crowd as visions and shouts blurred together into a single grim memory.
The only faces I distinctly recall from our initiation to the desolation of the Port-au-Prince earthquake epicenter are those of the strangers in the crowd hugging that red metal fence. Their final hopes and dreams, their only recourse, their lives depended on us – the volunteers.