Translating Kindness and Wonder

I once heard a story about a charity foundation that donated hundreds of latrine seats for houses in a developing country. When a group of inspectors from the foundation came to check on the results of their generous donation, they found the toilets piled up in an empty lot and a community that was furious about the enormous pile of garbage that the foreigners had sent them. It turned out these particular latrine models had a floor piece with a drawing of footprints in front of the toilet seat, meant to indicate that people should sit down to do their business. But the graphics of the foot placements were too far forward, meant for a population where the average person was around 5'8". Most people in this particular village were under 5 feet tall, so when they tried to put their feet on the marks and then sit back, they literally fell on their butts.

This tragicomical story resonates with me when I think about my own personal project: to bring kindness and self-help teachings to my country of origin. The idea is not new, and there are self-help books originally written in English that have been translated to Spanish on sale worldwide. And yet, access to knowledge is still limited because translating is not just a matter of words: it's about crossing cultural differences.

I know this first hand because part of my journey is to share my knowledge with my loved ones, especially my family back home. My mother, in particular, is an avid reader. Let's say I find a Spanish translation of a book I enjoyed and order it online to be delivered to her house. A few days later, we sit to discuss it, and she tells me how it has not been easy to read or how the book seems to not make sense in some parts or processes. When we go into the details, I usually realize that what doesn't translate is not the words: it's the cultural context that doesn't fit.

"Lost in translation" is a phrase that applies not only to the difficulties of finding equivalent words to bring knowledge from one language to another, but also to make sure that the meaning and understanding can cross the cultural differences and make sense to the person on the other side.

For example, one of my favorite strategies for asking the Universe for help is called the Placemat Process. This simple activity is part of the teachings of Abraham Hicks, and it is straightforward to do. All you need is a piece of paper and a pen. You draw a line dividing the paper into two columns. The first one you may call "things I'm doing," and the other one would be "things the Universe will do for me." The first column is a To-Do list, where you list down small, simple actions that you will take to accomplish some tasks. For example, you may write down "I'm doing the laundry for whites today," "I will clear my desk," or "I'm calling my mother." Then in the second column, you list the things that would be easier and more gratifying for you if the Universe took care of them. For example, "tonight's dinner shows up," "I receive an email from the investors," or "my sister sends me a text."

Here's the part that gets lost in translation: once you list the things you want the Universe to do for you, you leave the paper behind, never to look at it again. The activity is called the Placemat Process because an easy and ideal way to do it is to write down the lists on the paper placemats that many restaurants in North America offer. That way, you write your lists, enjoy your meal, and then leave the placemat behind at the restaurant. But here's the thing: most places in other parts of the world do not offer paper placemats. So there are not many opportunities to write down the lists and leave them behind after having a nice meal. And that is indeed the most crucial part of the process: to not carry the list with you, instead the point is to let it go and leave it behind somehow. When I have seen the process described in Spanish translations of the Abraham Hicks books, it doesn't read very clearly, because it assumes that the reader frequently encounters paper placemats, and it makes sense to doodle or write on them. That's when cultural translation becomes a fundamental step to bring this wonderful process to people worldwide. For example, it could be called "the Universe List" instead of the Placemat Process. It can be explained as grabbing a piece of paper, writing down the lists, and immediately disposing of the paper in the recycle bin or in a sealed box with a slot in it set up for that purpose that is then put out for recycling every few weeks. The point is that the corky and funny "Placemat Process" name doesn't translate culturally to countries where most restaurants have reusable plastic tablecloths. A different name is essential to ensure that the translation goes beyond words.

In my case, I've decided to approach this task one small step at a time by writing review and summary pieces in Spanish while keeping in mind those cultural differences. Maybe someday I will get to collaborate directly with the authors to bring adequate translations of their wonderful work to a new audience. I hope that at least one small part of all this beautiful knowledge can reach an audience that wants to have some more kindness and wonder in their lives.