I met Valisa last spring when she showed up to Ultimate frisbee practice in the Vanogan she was living out of. After practice we looked at the artwork she was carrying around hoping to sell so she could get her van fixed. We bought 3 pieces of her work which is a mixture of paper cutouts and painting that are imaginative, beautiful, and a touch Egyptian. Exotic. (When I get a digital camera - I was using Dave's - I'll take a picture of my favorite piece). Valisa then invited us on the first annual memorial hike in the Gore Range that weekend to remember her husband. A year prior she was a newlywed hiking with her husband when a tragic accident took his life. It was a freak accident as he was an avid outdoorsman - he fell off a narrow trail and over the edge of a cliff. Her present and future were snapped away from her just like that. I could tell that she was regrouping and dealing with her devestating loss by following her heart. She mentioned that once her van was fixed she'd be heading to New Orleans to volunteer, helping those who lost everything in Hurricane Katrina. Then I open the Vail Daily today and read a moving report from Valisa in New Orleans. It's her voice - heartfelt, soulful, loving, inspiring.
(Apparently you need to login to VailDaily before seeing the article. It's just a login, no money or anything. It's worth it. )
Here I give you a snippet:
". . . Sometimes it’s not even worth going out. You want to escape for a moment, but instead you come face to face with the reality of Katrina’s wrath.
We take pictures to show the world. We send them out, like cries for help, but the only answers we get is our president in the French Quarter saying it looks just fine.
“Go east, Mr. President,” we plead, but he strolls down Bourbon Street smiling. “Go east,” we repeat, and the papers say this story is over. We are only five miles from the Quarter, only five miles, and no one cares — as long as the world can drink their hand grenades and hurricanes, they would rather forget about our hurricane.
It's clear when you ride through the mess of twisted homes, that this is so much bigger than we had ever planned for. This is almost nine months after, and still you dodge debris on dark and lonely streets.
Katrina’s magnitude magnified America’s need for a more diverse disaster response. The feeling that diversity is still needed has kept me down here. Frankly, I don’t feel that disaster relief should be a business, or a campaign issue.
I have been lucky enough to fall in with a group of people with the motivation and the know-how to create a new kind of disaster relief.
When you come into our camp you see what’s been missing. You see survivors and volunteers mingling in the dining area. You see fresh carrots, organic milk, and smoked chicken. You see sunflowers planted around the port-a-potties, and hearts painted on the signs.
People feed as much off the ambiance as they do the food. A woman looked at me one day and said, “You know what you guys are doing here? You’re preventing suicide.”
They come here for some reprieve from their struggles. Our kitchen has become a bright oasis in this bleak and torn landscape. And it isn’t just the flowers and the pretty signs, it’s the volunteers. Everyone feels free to express themselves.
I find myself smiling while I work, and that kind of light-heartedness spreads. Serving lunch a few days ago, an elderly resident offered me his plate and grinned. He said, “I don’t get to smile much these days, but I get here and I just can’t stop.” . . . please read more and see her photos
(Apparently you need to login to VailDaily before seeing the article. It's just a login, no money or anything. It's worth it. )
Here I give you a snippet:
". . . Sometimes it’s not even worth going out. You want to escape for a moment, but instead you come face to face with the reality of Katrina’s wrath.
We take pictures to show the world. We send them out, like cries for help, but the only answers we get is our president in the French Quarter saying it looks just fine.
“Go east, Mr. President,” we plead, but he strolls down Bourbon Street smiling. “Go east,” we repeat, and the papers say this story is over. We are only five miles from the Quarter, only five miles, and no one cares — as long as the world can drink their hand grenades and hurricanes, they would rather forget about our hurricane.
It's clear when you ride through the mess of twisted homes, that this is so much bigger than we had ever planned for. This is almost nine months after, and still you dodge debris on dark and lonely streets.
Katrina’s magnitude magnified America’s need for a more diverse disaster response. The feeling that diversity is still needed has kept me down here. Frankly, I don’t feel that disaster relief should be a business, or a campaign issue.
I have been lucky enough to fall in with a group of people with the motivation and the know-how to create a new kind of disaster relief.
When you come into our camp you see what’s been missing. You see survivors and volunteers mingling in the dining area. You see fresh carrots, organic milk, and smoked chicken. You see sunflowers planted around the port-a-potties, and hearts painted on the signs.
People feed as much off the ambiance as they do the food. A woman looked at me one day and said, “You know what you guys are doing here? You’re preventing suicide.”
They come here for some reprieve from their struggles. Our kitchen has become a bright oasis in this bleak and torn landscape. And it isn’t just the flowers and the pretty signs, it’s the volunteers. Everyone feels free to express themselves.
I find myself smiling while I work, and that kind of light-heartedness spreads. Serving lunch a few days ago, an elderly resident offered me his plate and grinned. He said, “I don’t get to smile much these days, but I get here and I just can’t stop.” . . . please read more and see her photos