Pain & Pleasure

Unfortunately, I am starting believe (or fortunately, who knows) that pain and discomfort produces some of the best art.

It might be that in pain, we grow. If we do not encounter discomfort, how can we move beyond where we currently are? Think about it - few people seek out growth when there's no impetus to. If one does not detect a problem, it is highly unlikely that they will invest the time and energy into creating a problem to solve. That's just not how animals, let alone sentient beings operate. We avoid pain like the plague, but I am confident in saying that pain has produced some of the greatest treasures in art, philosophy, and religion. Van Gogh, Socrates, and Jesus Christ (for crying out loud!). That's not a definitive list, but those are easy examples.

From pain often comes heightened awareness. With our senses attuned to life and living, we evolve as a species. Hopefully, our evolution takes us in a positive direction. Sometimes, pain re-doubles itself, becoming a looming, oppressive mass in the universe - sometimes pains take on a life of their own and they get away from us....

I say all that to say, in some ways, we have to be grateful for pain. Because it alerts us to the fact that some needs aren't being met. If we are smart, and if we are able, our responsibility is to then learn from the pain, and press toward pleasure.

That is my wish for you - whoever you are.

Ashe.

It was given.

Because It was Given: (First draft)

It cannot be taken from me.

The space and place and time was predestined for me. For me.

(sing) What God has for me, it is for me. What God has for me, it is for me.

(speak) So the womb was ready when the two were not.

The conditions were set, the deck was already shuffled and cut and the card on top of the deck….

God delt: Me.

So here she comes, breached, but finally, born.

Life, undeniably, poured into her lungs.

But life, after first week breath became a ground for death and dying. In so many ways.

Taking pieces of her, from where, she knew not.

Til one day, being all grown up she began to feel that some thing was missing.

No longer holding, playing with, a full deck of her own.

But what was missing?

Laying down one night it came to her:

Awareness. Consciousness. Wisdom herself opened her eyes; saying without words: This ain't you.

You're living, but not alive.

This ain't you.

You were not made in lies, but in truth; but you've been ingesting lies. Spit them out.

Know this here, take this, eat this: LIFE.

While you are eating, drinking, let me tell you:

It was always yours. This time and space and place was made just for you.

Carved out of God, emptied out, hallowed, inside God, for only you.

Child, if only you fully knew.

How unalone you are in this space…. Please try to know and believe. Believe.

It cannot be taken away - you in God and God in you.

Eat this, drink this, savor this, daily. Momentarily.

Really, momentarily, my dear.

[You are, have been, always will be- forever- loved.]

Fear of Success?

A brief reflection on when some clouds parted today:

I was speaking to a friend recently and the subject of subconscious obstruction of one's self, also known as self-sabotage. I think everyone does it, at one point or another in their life - but at the time, it may feel like normal. But what happens when self-sabotage becomes your way of life?

I suppose it looks a lot like listening to the self-criticisms may of us carry around. I imagine that one form of brain-washing is to constantly repeat a message to a captive - this message is repeated to the point that the intended brain absorbs it as their internal dialogue. The brain-washing is successful when the captive assumes that what they're hearing is factual, and they act according to this "knowledge".

Well, that's how self-criticism can work. If you spend enough time listening to all the negative thoughts you have about yourself, you just might start to act on them. And that's where self-sabotage begins. Soon, the sabotage becomes a way of living. You act on the words you say to yourself, and your actions prove that your self-critiques were right. Vicious cycle, isn't it?

But without the track playing endlessly, can a brain-washed person remain brain-washed? Can they somehow become... themselves again?

During this conversation with my friend, I had a small epiphany. It has been said that often we are not afraid of failure, but of success. I have always had a hard time digesting that saying; I mean, if success was within your grasp, why wouldn't you grasp it? There must be some reasonable explanation for why "you" are not going for whatever it is that "you" want. But that was just it.... the conversation I'd been having with myself went something like, "You're not going to be able to x,y,z, because you are a,b,c".

And suddenly, what the saying made sense. I had come to believe the track that was playing over and over - and now, I did not, sometimes, do not, know who I am without that track playing over and over and over. If the tape stops... who would I be? I don't even think I might recognize the inner landscape of who I am without that internal dialogue droning on and on.

So there it is: the fear of success is deeply rooted in having a skewed picture of who you truly are. If you've become used to living with a false sense of yourself, what does it take to get back to your true self? And more importantly, do you want your true self back?

See, brain-washing serves a purpose: to distract you from your true mission, whatever that is. But whatever mission you serve as with your new self-identity serves the purpose of creating some cognitive cohesion for you. The brain-washing only sticks if there's some functionality to it. This is perhaps by negative internal dialogues are hard to shut up: the message has stuck, and you've found some way to function with it. It's become a part of how you interact with the world, and you have a hard time imagining what life should be, or could be, without it.

But I leave you with a verse that a minister shared with me, and a few other friends recently:

John 8:32: "And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." So, here's to the hard work of getting to know the truth. And as you know the Truth, as you encounter it day by day, along the journey of life, It shall make you free. Yes, it will change your state of being, it will MAKE you free.

Free, indeed.

Being thankful

1 Thess. 5: 16 - 21 (nrsv)

¹⁶Rejoice always, ¹⁷pray without ceasing,¹⁸give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. ¹⁹Do not quench the Spirit. ²⁰Do not despise the words of prophets,^{* 21}but test everything; hold fast to what is good;

See the definition for quench here, in particular 1a & 2b.

I am aiming to not quench, or allow to be quenched the Spirit. The Spirit of God as the independent Entity that It is, and the Spirit within me (the Comforter - also called Advocate and Helper that Jesus tells us of in John 14:26). In order that this Spirit be allowed to thrive in my life, I will name all the things that I am thankful for, I will rejoice because of them (and because God is simply worth being thankful for), I will pray consistently, and I will remember to hold fast to what is good.

What I am holding fast to. The good things. What I am thankful for:

• For the health of my family, both by blood, by water, and by spirit, I am thankful.
• For health in my body - I have felt mildly unwell, I have been uncomfortable. Yet, God has preserved my health by and large, I am thankful.
• For the love and support of many people, I am thankful.
• For a sound mind, and the ability to manipulate my faculties and functions (yes, yes, I realize that sanity is all in mind of the beholder *smile*), I am thankful
• For the ability to further my education, and learn from esteemed and intelligent scholars, I am thankful.
• For the means with which to have shelter, connection, and sustenance, I am thankful.
• For the ability to laugh, chuckle, smile, smirk, and gaze with benevolence, I am thankful.
• For the mind to even be thankful, I am thankful.

What are you thankful for today? I promise you, you have something to be thankful for - this list is certainly not exhaustive! But it is a start!! And despite some of the rain clouds (and snow clouds) that rolled over here today, just remembering that there is much to be thankful for brings some peace, some stillness, some calm back into view.

It's funny how practicing these small things, like praying over things you can be thankful for, are for your good. Yes, God is pleased when we remember that the picture is bigger than what is on the immediate (though, the immediate can be of immense importance) horizon; but I believe that when we commit to the simple practices (like this one) the blessings the practices bestow upon the practitioner (or worshipper) are manifold.

In blessing, you are blessed.

Be blessed dear hearts. Vaya con Dios.

Things I'm thinking On...

Instead of inundating you with words, I thought I'd share with you some things I am thinking deeply on, with pictures and a few captions explaining what the images are about (in my humble opinion) and why I care (in brief!)

Journey with me, if you will....

Firstly, Libations: In Ghana, there is a tradition of pouring water, or a pure liquor (so, not a cocktail, but a singular liquor, gin or schnapps), and saying a prayer at the beginning of any important event: an important meeting of important people, for religious gatherings, baby out-doorings (introducing a child to the community) and other events of import.

Why libations? Well, for a paper I have to write. Also, because the principles behind libations make me think of the ways in which American Christians (and a lot of Christianities) venerate the saints who have passed. It could be said that Jesus is our greatest ancestor. Now, venerated ancestors don't just happen, they become ancestors through living exemplary lives. Much the same way that we (Americans, Westerners, Western Christians) uplift exemplary Christian figures - they become persons we admire even in death, we learn from the way they lived, emulate them even. In fact, we are supposed to model the life of Jesus! I am contemplating our fear of connecting ourselves to this tradition, in which ancestors (those who are great ancestors, and those members of our family who have simply gone on to the next life) are called upon so that they can continue to be a part of the community of the living. We, Western Christians, invoke Paul, Peter, the disciples, the early Christians (of Scripture, and of historical records), when we refer to our books of discipline, our doctrines and creeds, when we sing hymns and so on. Why do we avoid our connection to the bearers of our traditions? (Yes, I'm speaking to you Africans in the diaspora.)

Bonus on the Image: This image might actually be of Dr. Kofi Asare Opoku, who we did meet while in Ghana. He's awesome.

Secondly, Adinkra Symbols: One, they intrigue me because of their very existence. Often, we faun over Chinese, Japanese, Korean calligraphy.

I instantly was in love with this iconography - can't be dyslexic with adinkra symbols. And I love that there are proverbs and sayings behind the symbols. Like so much of West African culture, each image has a meaning, and various applications and connections to other aspects of the culture.

This lovely symbol is called nyame nti (by God's grace).

I think it mimics a kind of large fern tree that I have actually seen in Ghana. And the real tree just raises in me the emotions of flexible strength - it looks like the plant danced out of the ground. Perhaps, the tree says to us, by being flexible, by stretching and bending to reach the light, we can still grow tall. Don't be deterred! Just keeeeeeeeep reaching!!!

Lastly, for the Womanist Warrior in me, I have been contemplating pleasure, emotion, passion and love as a Black woman. I am thinking deeply on the meanings, workings, effects of pleasure in all forms. One particular pleasure I've had on my mind is... unabashed, unfettered, unencumbered love for the self.

What would it mean for me (and for you, if you're in this camp) to fully love every single part of me - and to be in love with the me God gave me.

Note/Credit: this picture comes from the fantabulous Mickalene Thomas. Check her out here (fore-warning: some images are racier than others, ie: breasts, hips, expressions of erotic ecstasy).

Also, what does sexy really mean? And what are our (Black women's) fears, hopes and dreams around the topic of romantic love, and/or sex (coitus!)? And how do those fears, hopes and dreams make us operate in the real world?

Do I have answers to all my questions? No. But am I having fun turning the thoughts over in my mind? Absolutely!! Let's strike up a convo about it - I'm itching to have conversation partners on these topics.

to call

walk in, set down your keys, flop onto the bed

knowing that there's something else you should do

besides lay down your sleepy head

looking into the inside of your eyelids

... you sigh as you drift off instead

and you see her about a year before

smiling back at you, easy and light hearted there

priceless lips, shining eyes

you long to see this girl again

and you see yourself about a year before

holding on to hope and believing that everything good was coming

confident, without a care

if only you were still that man

That one wakes your conscience,

Back to reality, but your eyes refuse to open

So you keep watching

Remembering that now the picture is dimmer

Fuzzier. The sound quality is not that good.

The lips are still priceless, and you still feel hope

But you wonder, is she still that girl, am I still that man?

That one moves your heart

And your eyes obey.

If you ever hope that you're both still in the right place...

You have reach out and call.

One nostril at a time

A few years ago, around this time, I had a yoga instructor named Beeker. During one session, we did a breathing exercise that required us to breathe from one nostril at a time (you can find out a little about nadi sodhana here, it's a really calming exercise). This technique in breathing is a controlled way of doing something that our body does naturally, that is, using one nostril predominantly for inhalation, the other for exhalation; the nostrils change roles seamlessly throughout the day.

When I began this post, I thought about Beeker's exercise because my sinuses were changing shifts: deciding who would be clogged, and who would do the breathing. (It really felt like a changing of the guard, and my brain perked up because it was so excited to get a full dose of air.) This foretaste of freedom reminded me of one of my goals this year: Do one thing at a time, and do it well.

I often find myself frustrated with feelings of being "unfinished", or not as far along as I wish to be. Many times I have to remind myself that it's a good thing to be "unfinished"because if I were done, I guess I'd have the gravestone to prove it. Thanks be to God I'm not quite done.

Having the opportunity to breathe in fully, and breathe out fully reminded me that I really can only take in and put out but so much at one time. There is really only one breath in, and one breath out at a time. I have no auxiliary parts to myself that can function in my stead, so I have every right to take things as they come. Celebrating the moments of full clarity, and appreciating the lessons that times of congestion can teach me. Sometimes those compressed times alert me to how I've taken my usual freedoms and accomplishments for granted.

I wish not to go from issue to issue, but from breath to breath being grateful that I can take it in. And, as the yoga exercise teaches, I can only inhale life, one breath and one nostril at a time.

Quarter of a Century

I spent a lot of time in the past six months wondering who was I becoming, and who I was for a part of my life.

For a few months, I really did not like what I saw when I was looking at the woman in the mirror. So, I had to ask her to change her ways, and that was not easy. Asking yourself to change means that you've completed the prerequisite steps: Getting real with yourself. Thinking deeply about the consequences of your actions. Considering the outcomes that ensued from certain behaviors. And most importantly, drumming up the courage to even say "Hey, I don't like where I am. I want to move on from here." Admission is the first step to recovery (BBM big-smile face)

Looking at the previous 24 seasons of "In The Life Of" (the imaginary show I film of my life) ... I saw that I liked some seasons, and loathed others. I saw some things I wish I hadn't let go of, and others I wish I had (and much sooner!). The process of review was sometimes (too many times) like reading old diary entries: I inevitably cringe at certain passages and ask myself "What the hell was I thinking?". I laugh, I cry, I remember - the way I was, both good and bad. Well, those diary entry review binges usually begin and end within an hour. Going through that for several months on end - is probably not too healthy, but that's where I was.

I was in soul-review.

While talking to one of my sorors, I finally said it out loud: "Deep down inside, I want to be a better person than I am right now." Part of the things I'd been through in the past year were proof that I was human, weak, and capable of acting a plum fool - but that my inner woman was crying out for maturity and wisdom while I questioned what I'd gained from a rather tame life, not going too far to the right or left. Part of me lamented missing the wild and crazy days that are the stuff of undergraduate legend because I was too busy trying to be more grown (mature! although... that's also up for debate) than my years. I suppose some of my more recent endeavors have been a way of acting out, of pushing my own envelope. I was chasing something that was already gone - something that in the end, nobody wants for ever: reckless abandon.

This soul-review stuff was/is not easy. Not for the faint of heart.

This semester brought me to a class on meditation. The greatest little gem I've uncovered so far is that I am who I am meant to be, at any given moment. And that being impatient with myself only delayed growth. Being preoccupied with either the past or the present was keeping me from living in the present. Sounds like common sense... but it's easier said than done. Blessed with this new frame of mind, I began to re-introduce myself to patience with myself. A brand new concept.

The days wore on towards my birthday, and I was not really excited either way. I still felt like something was... well, missing. (Namely, excitement.)

Luckily, God provided friends who would not allow me to be neutral about something worth celebrating. I was surrounded with a lot of people loved me for me. Just where I am, just the way I am. Still youthful, still vibrant, still eager for more, still having lots of lessons to learn. I'd say that pretty good for someone who's only 1/4 of a century old. I am not a finished work yet, and I don't have to be. The changes I'm seeking don't (cannot) happen overnight. I don't have to be "there" yet. Especially since "there" is very likely a shifting target, that changes as I change. This milestone isn't so much a milestone, but a marker. More or less noting that time has passed. And by God's grace it will continue to pass, and I'll continue to grow by basking in the light and love of God.

New Year - New Template!

Woooo-hoo!!

Happy New Year fam-lay!

I'm just popping in so that I could do the one thing I promised myself to do today: work on my blog. That was what I was itching to do all day.

I know it's Valentine's Day, but I am not touching that in this post with a 10-foot virtual pole. It's just not where my head is. I'm looking forward to: my BIRTHDAY! *confetti*

In honor of my birthday, I'm making steps towards becoming more of the kind of person I want to be. I once read (somewhere out there) that one does not begin to grow into the person they wish to be until they decide what kind of person they want to be. It's important to decide how I wish to be in the world, and make steps towards being that kind of person. The rest, all that I set out to do, should fall in line with it naturally, and harmoniously.

I have spent my allotted time on blogging. But I enjoyed it. Especially finding this cool template!

Tell me what you think - and come visit me on twitter!
www.twitter.com/sacredissexy

God is good - all the time. Peace.

Support System - We all need one

I have a confession to make: I need a support system. I need the voices and words and encouragement of my loved ones to make it through the trying times in life. Whenever I am really down, and I can't sleep and I'm in a bad way, I'll wait up til my Mom is about ready to leave for work in the wee hours of the morning (right around the time that Jesus is getting ready to go to bed), and I'll call her to unload some of my troubling thoughts. Sometimes I'll phone my Dad and talk to him for a while - he's often pretty good for a laugh, and he reminds me not to be too hard on myself. I also miss talking to my s.o. - we talk so frequently that he's the one person who I pretty much count on as a steady presence.

Having the ability to text has pulled me through on a few occasions, but my ears always strained to hear a human voice that I could easily recognize and easily understand.

One of the main things I've been struggling with is being disconnected. It took some time to be regularly connected to the internet, and then even more time to get a mobile number. During all of that time, I hadn't heard the voices of any of my loved ones. When I finally figured out how to dial out to America, hearing Isaac's voice on the other end made me realize just how homesick I was - and how much I'd put off feeling homesickness. But once I recognized that being in touch or out of touch could help or hurt my state of being, I couldn't un-know that.

I have a second confession: being out of touch made the troubles I faced that much harder to bear. I could not just pick up the phone any time and speak to my mother. And emails sometimes were too tedious (they didn't relay my feelings in the right way) to send. I needed real-time reactions. Talking to one of my best girl friends on video chat (when it is possible) has seemed one of the best things to help even out my experience. But imagine, that's only 40-some minutes out of 7 weeks....

We all need each other, to varying degrees. It is often the people around us that keep us going, and give our lives deep meaning.

So, stay in touch, even if you sometimes think you don't have the time to do so. You never know who needs to hear from you, and who you need to hear.

White Girl

One of the graduates of the Hope Tailoring School (HTS) a mother of two girls: Faith and Favor. At first, I figure that Faith (the elder sister) was shocked a little at my appearance, but most often, babies and I get along. Favor, who is just 2, for many weeks just didn't want anything to do with me up close. I get along with Favor's mom pretty well, from her Mom I discovered that the little girl called me "azungu" which roughly means "white person". Very few Malawians (that I've seen) are my shade of brown, most are a medium to dark brown. Being that she was very little, I figured okay, I don't speak her language and I don't look like everyone. But still, somewhere inside it hurt. One of the young ladies in the neighborhood who I've befriended explained to me that I must look very strange to the child: my hair is very dark, but my skin is very light and the whites of my eyes are very white, instead of the cream or even pale brown of most people here. So in essence, I'm a cartoon character that walks and talks - just great. (Fortunately, the toddler has come around and accepted that I am not going to eat her...)

But then I noticed, many other kids calling me mzungu (the singular form). Then I went to Lilongwe and the street vendors were trying to swindle me because I was mzungu - I ended up slamming the postcards back down on the table and telling them off. How dare they talk about me right in front of my face, all because I wasn't falling for their scheme?? When I got back from Lilongwe, and re-entered the rhythm of the northern region, I began to be sad once again. Even if I was a mzungu in Lilongwe, I was amongst many other foreigners of all nations and the people were used to seeing different shades of humans - I was still a foreigner but I was no stranger than the next foreigner, and at least there were street lamps and paved roads to make me feel closer to home than the dirt roads I'm now used to. Coming back to the north, I was sinking into feeling even more like an outsider than when I left.

Today, I could barely take it. After a round of church that just did not feed my soul at all (actually, besides the praise and worship time, I'm not exactly loving church), I just wanted to be alone to let the feelings melt away and just have a moment to myself without anybody around, doing nothing. Since the power was out (apparently this was a scheduled event), that wouldn't be too hard. I should have just walked straight from church back to my abode, but I didn't. I tried to attend the youth meeting after church, but I found myself lost in a flurry of words - I was at the point where I could care less about appearances. It's not that I needed to understand, but that nobody cared if I understood. So, I closed the latches on my cupboard of feelings, and I left the meeting without a word.

As I was making my solo exit, I was confronted by one of the youth who was on holiday from schooling Blantyre (in the far southern region). He could tell from my face that I was drained. I tried hard to explain that I just wanted to go home and rest a while but he really didn't take my word for it. Actually, he said it's not good to be alone when one is feeling so bad because that only makes it worse. Knowing myself quite well, I knew that I really did want to be alone, but he wasn't hearing that. So, we took a walk, because I just began walking in the direction of my place. Eventually he wore down some real answers from me - after a bite to eat, and getting a few nagging things off my chest I felt better somewhat.

Then.... then I went to the Mzuzu University campus with two of the girls I see most often, and there it was again. The eyes. The jeers... white girl, white girl, white girl. I could feel myself sliding back inside myself again. I'm so tired of it.

I never considered that when I came to Malawi people would call me white. Did I expect some kind of "welcome home" attitude? Maybe I did - somewhere in the back of my mind I guess I harbored this expectation. That's what all the celebrities said they felt, that's how they were welcomed. But I never considered that their complexion may've been darker than mine... I never considered that they appeared more African than myself.

It is one thing to be called white by children, but a whole other thing to be called white by adults. Even from afar, even when people don't know if I speak Chitumbuka or Chichewa I'm a white person. I was even asked more than once not to speak, or not to appear to be with the native person so that they'd get a good price on a taxi. Just because I speak English, I'm not Black - I'm not a daughter of Mother Africa. I never considered just how outside I would feel for things I just can't control.

English Imperialism - a reflection on unintentional solitude

I'm feeling a little deceived. Actually, I'm feeling overwhelmingly under prepared for what I am supposed to be doing here. This feeling is rooted in a few things, only one of which I'll treat in this post.

1) I am without the previous resource map.

2) Not having a car is really a hinderance to getting things done in a timely manner. My patience with Malawian time is starting to run thin - what was charming, and bearable in the beginning stages is starting to be a hinderance. I want to get things done, and move somewhere without having to be crammed in with strangers who sometimes smell pungently of the day's work, or the km's of walking.

3) Sometimes I feel like my task is nebulous. If I have boundaries, I can ignore them or change them as necessary. Not having any bounds, or few pointers as to what I am to do with my time actually makes it hard to know when to say no or yes, and why. What good reason do I have to refuse a trip to pray for the sick? Am I supposed to be doing something else with this time? Who knows?

4) Getting adjusted to the different personalities all around me - recognizing moods appear and disappear is interesting. When a culture's seeming homogeneity melts away is when the real relationship building happens.

5) This former British protectorate (as they say of themselves) has done a poor job of leaving a proper legacy of English learning.

As I have been informed, although English is the language in which most subjects (aside from the language courses, Chichewa or French or whatever) are taught, most people do not use English at home. And even if they do teach "in English" at school, it is often broken English, and the students learn just enough to get by on exams. So, although most people who make it through secondary school, and especially university, know English well enough to write and read, they are not comfortable speaking it. Mostly because socially they have no need to.

This has created a problem on several fronts for me.

• I cannot always count on being able to do my job effectively because I have to rely on a more experienced English speaker to translate for me.
• I cannot always go off on my own because I don't know who I will encounter, and to get around town in a reasonable amount of time (read: by taxi, and NOT on foot), therefore the encouraged community walks have been a bit of a challenge. (Side note, but very impt.: most streets, like 98% of them, are not named. Houses do not have names and numbers either. So um... how will I make sense of any map? Neighborhoods aren't even labeled.)
• I cannot get to know people on my own time, and personally - besides some older persons who are more learned for various reasons. This has two effects: it makes me cling to those who can communicate easily with me, usually the "adults", and it drives a wedge between me and the youth.
• Sometimes the youth do not want to speak English with me. I know, it must be daunting to feel that you will get it wrong. But how can I even begin to express that I'd rather speak broken English with someone than not be able to communicate at all with someone my own age. So I have had very few meaningful conversations with young people here.
• Sometimes the youth are (from my perspective) downright rude about their refusal to speak English when I'm around. And I'm getting tired of sitting in a room and being absolutely ignored, both by not having the ability to understand Tumbuka (the local lang), and by knowing that many of the older kids have had enough school to hold a level of conversation that is meaningful. How else do they make it through classes?

That last one brings me some mixed feelings.

One, that I, in my good ol American way, want to be appeased. So, I contend with that reality - my culture has conditioned me to expect that I will be allowed access anywhere I wish to have access.

Two, I reflect upon the feelings of the Korean and African students that come to Drew. I wonder if they feel as left out as I am feeling sometimes. I tell myself that if I were able to speak Korean, or French, I would do my best to include someone else in the English conversation. Because I understand now, just how lonely it is when you know someone has the ability to help you be in community, but for whatever reason they choose not to.

I have to pretend that I understand almost everywhere I go. And I have to live with the fact that most people don't want to be bothered to expose their inadequate (or so they feel) handle on English, or bothered to at least include me on the conversations. I deal with it as I try to manage my Shalom responsibilities, and I have to deal with it when I'm at church on Sundays. Today, even though the message was in English (and I appreciated that part, even if the message was ho-hum and predictable), all the fun collective parts (the singing) was in Tumbuka, and I couldn't get into it. So, my Sunday morning was spent reviewing the past few days in my diary. I have to check out a lot, in order to avoid being hurt, or assuming that I'm just not important enough to make the effort for.

Tonight was the first time I've just gotten up and walked out. After defending the President's American citizenship, by explaining that he was born in Hawaii, and that some racist blokes are just unhappy with a black man being President, I played Solitaire on my phone until I couldn't compose myself anymore. One person, the quietest adopted member of the Nkhata family tried to insist on English for me, but he was smartly ignored. I could see the others process his words, and I could see them pass a look between themselves that said "okay, no". (I read in the Crossing Cultures book, just today, that some cultures express "no" by simply refusing to do something. So, I read the message loud and clear.)

I've felt like walking out a couple of times, but today I just did it. I didn't feel like pretending that I was comfortable in a cloud of words that I could not understand. I was tired of pretending that I cared whether I looked like I was having fun or being a hospitable guest. I just ran out of patience, and the novelty of it all just lost it's charm.

I'm at the point of just walking out when I can't understand anything, and when it's obvious that nobody is going to make an effort to include me. It's a formality that I am around, but it seems a decided move not to even try. And that is actually more bothersome than some of the other factors I mentioned. I can't make people be nice, and I can't insist on having my way. So what I'm on the losing end of this game? It's not the end of the world, and it kinda serves as a lesson to my arrogant assumption that I should be allowed in. "Not every door is going to open for you, simply because you knock" and "not everybody is going to be your friend".

Well, now that I've wrung my brain clear of these things, I can face tomorrow. Perhaps in the sleeping hours, some revelation on the subject will come to me.

*this entry was supposed to be short! egad!!*

Full Moon

When I came to Mzuzu, it was a moonless night. Pitch black, except for the open fires, the few lit homes, and the stars above. Yet people were walking the main road between Lilongwe (the capital) and the northern region, no flash light or "torch", they walked in the dark. I wondered if the people were scared to walk in the dark, but I didn't ask.

In the past two weeks, I have watched the moon grow and noted how some things have changed.

So far, I have gained some extended family from the pastor's house. There are four adopted girls (some blood related, some are children of church members) and some adopted boys who appear and disappear and reappear. We have dinners and lunches together. I have exchanged some dollars for kwacha. I have eaten nsima (a kind of finely ground corn meal, just think of the taste of grits, but the consistency is more like a dough than the chewiness of grits. it's eaten with the hands, like bread - it's their main staple food, much like bread is for American homes). I have cooked some American foods for my Malawian family. I've even managed to get either food poisoning or water contamination - that made me call my mom at 2am (eastern time) crying because I was in so much pain. It sent me to a clinic, twice. As the moon as grown to full term, I have even experienced some unwanted attentions (you know what they say about people's behavior under a full moon), and have had to stand my ground. A lot has happened in the past two weeks while the moon grew larger.

I think my natural self was watching the interaction between the earth and the sky this whole time. I have felt the weather and the earth's rhythms effect even my mood. I'm listening to my body more than I ever have - it's amazing what your body will tell you if you actually have the time, space, and external silence to listen to it. I have come to understand that Americans don't listen to their bodies because we have so many other inputs, and there's no time to note our feelings, both emotional and physical. We also miss out on seeing the beauty of a constantly changing, but wonderfully familiar world. Crickets will always chirp, rain will always be wet, the sunshine will always be warm, ants will always find a way into the food supply, the laughter of children will always melt a stony heart, and a full moon will always be beautiful.

I took some time to just be in awe of the supernaturally lit sky. The sky is so pristine, and the moon was so brilliant (brighter than truck headlights turned on bright), that the sky around it looked like daytime. Even the most bright colors in the day were visible against the darker shades. The tin roofs of the homes glistened like they were pure silver, and not rusted, unimportant tin. The silver sky jewel is so brilliant that people walk about without a torch, (the light from a flashlight or a cellphone) and speak at a normal volume rather than hushed tones.

All in all, the full moon tells me that two weeks have passed. It tells me that time is going on without much effort on my part, and what is happening is meant to happen WHEN it's meant to happen. I'm grateful for this illumination.

So long, Sayonara, See ya later

Before I went to sleep last night, I went through a mental check list of things left to do. Somewhere along the way my mind settled on that day. June 11th. A knot of fear, sadness, anxiety raced right up to my throat - how in the world am I going to say good bye knowing I'm flying halfway across the globe? (Good googilymoogly!, as Grandma would say)

My brain immediately started flipping through the other goodbyes ("so longs") in recent life. Saying "so long" to my grandmother at her funeral, saying so long to my dear brother in Christ who was moving as far west as I was east, saying so long to my beloved Columbus, saying so long to my parents when they dropped me off on my move-in day in college...

Move in day was so exciting. There was the long car ride up with my parents, and the brain-dead time-space of them helping me move in. But once the sheets were on my bed, and my lamp and radio were plugged in there was nothing left to do but say... "so long". Just thinking about it now... my mother doesn't really cry. But she fought back some tears. And I waved to my parents as they walked down the hall... away they went. Gone, they were. So long. I must've cried for all of 20 minutes or so. Then the freezing air blasting out of the AC took over most of my worries, so did the rumble in my tummy. Hungry and cold, I spent my first night alone, as far away from home as I'd ever been. The next days were much better. I met my co-workers, my RA (who showed me how to turn the dang AC off), and eventually my roomie, no tears.

I remembered that well... and it brought me some comfort. I'd said plenty of "see you laters" and "so longs", even some "good byes" before. Some of them, I said with ease, some with utter relief, some with great difficulty and sadness. This one might be hard, and I might even cry a little (because apparently, tears work better than words), but eventually I'll acclimate to being on an airplane over the big ol ocean, eventually I'll enjoy the beauty of flying backward in time, eventually I'll be excited about landing. I might even cry when I have to spend my first night alone, without TV, without a cell phone, without übertwitter to keep me company during the day - in fact, I might cry at the lack of toilet paper in public toilets. But I will also eventually smile, be angry, be content, be hungry, be very full, be awestruck, be disappointed... all the range of emotions that mean I'm just living life, instead of just being sad.

Beyond those thoughts, I began to look forward to my return. Saying so long to new friends, packing up a summer full of memories and accomplishments and stories, and LOVE! Saying "It's so good to see your face, and hear your voice" to the ones who are keeping my place at the table here at home. So I have that to look forward to as well - and I do love reunions.

*the picture: me, our RA who lived next door to us, and the roomie. good times!*