Day 6 — The Dance of Giving
This morning’s talk was simple and direct: People are proud of you. Your mentors. Your family. Your teachers. And maybe even the world is proud of you.
We are givers. So give bountifully. Honest effort multiplies beyond your understanding. Through hardship we must keep giving. Through fatigue we must keep showing up. There is real magic in generosity.
We sat near the fire in our meeting space, warmed by real flames and something else — a steady reminder of why we are here. Not to be heroic. Not to be praised. But to participate.
Because — this mission is not a spectator sport.
At the Obras, the rhythm has changed. Those first two days we were mechanical— counting instruments, double-checking charts, confirming patient details, finding our rooms — our place.
Now the work flows. The hallways feel narrower, not because they are, but because they are full — full of motion, purpose, and quiet understanding.
It’s a fluid rhythm now. Continuous.
Filling every corner of this container.
The weight of the work is evenly distributed — it does not feel crushing.
There is fatigue. It’s real. Today eyes were tired behind glasses and shields. Our shoulders stiff.
Feet sore. A few more yawns tucked discreetly behind our masks.
“There’s something stimulating…” one surgeon joked mid-case, pausing just long enough to glance up. “Probably my knife.”
Laughter rippled under sterile gowns. Even now, good attitudes hold the line.
Today also felt like it was about tools.
Hands.
Feet.
Instruments laid out in precise metallic rows.
The quiet choreography of gloved fingers.
The hum of cautery.
The steady beep of monitors.
There is intensity in the eyes of these providers — a focused fire that burns clean and controlled.
It is not frantic. It is not chaotic. It is disciplined.
At our lodging there is a painting. All week volunteers have passed by it in the dining area with its bright colors, figures mid-motion, a swirl of bodies and masked figures in ceremonial dance.
Most of us said, “That’s cool. I wonder what it is?” and kept on moving.
The painting depicts the Danza de los Voladores (Dance of the Flyers), a tradition here in Guatemala. The tradition predates the Spanish conquest by hundreds of years and is based around an Indigenous Mayan ceremony blended with Catholic colonial influence. Dancers tie ropes around their waists or ankles and step off a platform, slowly spiraling toward the ground. A
ritual older than the church in the background. Older than the cobblestones outside the door. It is ancient history embodied.
Also in the painting is fire, used to release prayers and mark transitions. Masks represent life’s many characters, with each movement of the ceremony important and passed down. This is a storied tradition carried through repetition and resilience — a community stepping into roles that
existed long before them, surviving by adapting.
This painting is not only about the grand aerial performance. It is about communal participation in something bigger. And the more I look at it, the more it feels like a mirror.
This week we step into the OR the way dancers step off toward the plaza floor — with commitment. Not as individuals trying to stand out — but as members of something ancient and shared.
This dance requires everyone — musicians, elders, children. As medical providers we’re all tied to invisible ropes — surgeons, nurses, patients, families — each of us descending at our own speed, trusting the ground will gently meet us.
By afternoon the rooms felt warm. Not just physically — but alive.
Instruments clink.
Sutures slide.
Hands press gently on marked skin.
A patient squeezes a gloved hand just before anesthesia deepens.
Outside, the city continues its own rhythm of chicken buses, tourists, coffee shops, street vendors, and music. Inside, we keep giving and show up for each other.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just steadily.
I believe there is a sort of sacred magic in that — a new ceremony of our own.
And if you look closely — behind the face shields, past the exhaustion — you’ll see it:
The fire.
Brian Jensen
Team Blogger, Robinson–Jensen Surgery 888
