Once Upon A Time

I remember my first encounter with the power of story.  I was in second grade, and so deeply engrossed in Danny’s adventures with his pet dinosaur that I was unaware of my little classmates transitioning from their desks to the carpet.  I finally surfaced to realize that not only was Mr.Bollinger scolding me, but the entire class was staring at me.  This may also have been my first memory of the power of blush as it flooded my chubby cheeks, a sensation I would never completely outgrow.  Oh, the shame.  I put my head down on my desk and sniffled silent tears behind my foggy Coke bottle glasses, feeling so embarrassed: how could I be so absent from the world around me?  More to the point, how could I be so present in someone else’s?

I think we live in a world created and sustained by story.  We each have our own, whether or not we fully own it.  We may or may not ascribe to a faith that is, at the end of the day, a story on which we stake our lives.  Places have story, like the golf club I visited in Kitale, a social club once used to hold slaves as they were shipped from Uganda to the awaiting slave ships in Tanzania.  Do the club members sense ghosts as they sip their club specials and watch their children swim?  Even the air we breathe, story: I write as my nostrils once again detect the noxious black smoke of the pyre behind our playground, the daily burning of the plastic bottles strewn across our compound, collected and transformed into a toxic, oxygenated cocktail.

I think story is as tangible as water.  It has weight and volume and viscosity and takes up more space than anything on earth.  You can see it, and touch it, and transform it into Kenyan chai, and ice, and steam for your facial.  But it’s impossible to really hold onto, or put parameters on: story has no clear beginning or end, but continuously transforms and enlarges us as we share it with others.  Our individual little droplets become puddles, and creeks, and rivers, and oceans.  Together, for better or worse, we have power.  We can sustain, create, teem with life.  We can form the boundaries of the land, cut canyons through prehistoric rock, resurrect arid fields of dying crops.  Or we can poison entire communities with disease, flood families onto rooftops in hope of rescue.  We can become hot sewage or hot springs.  A single drop can short a fuse.  But a hydroponic plant can generate electricity for an entire community.  Alone, our little ounces will eventually, inevitably evaporate.  Together, like water, the sky isn’t even our limit.

In a funny way, my first month here in Kenya has been for me the ultimate “Danny and the Dinosaur,” a complete departure from my own world into an epic narrative on the other side of the world.  This is a saga in which few women are allowed dialogue, a world in which orphaned children live in the quiet shame of not yet knowing their own history, about the wells from which they were drawn.  A story that's left my heart broken and my mind reeling as I scramble to find the hope I profess to believe under the rubble of the marginalized lives my beloved kids are currently living.  I don't have answers, and if I'm honest, I don't expect to find any that will effectively change their lives, or make me feel any better.  But I know that we need water to survive.  So maybe we need to be the water to survive, to become drinks for the thirsty and currents to shore for the drowning.  It seems the least we could do for one another; it seems the least we could do for Saida.

To learn more about you can become involved in the lives of the world's most vulnerable, visit villagevolunteers.org or halftheskymovement.org 

   

With Ears Wide Open

Church Commute

I’ve always considered myself to have a relatively sharp sense of hearing.  I’ve found it to be helpful when empathizing with some of my patients with autism, and I’ve found it to be a big fat pain when trying to sleep through the night in Chicago.  I’ve been known to wear earplugs to spin class and preach the dangers of noise damage to my rockstar baby cousins; I thought I got it.  What I took for granted though, what I never fully considered, is that I’m from a generation and culture abuzz with noise.  So without that ambient cacophony here in Kenya, and maybe for the first time in my life, I am actually learning to listen.

Cheeky Mischief

I’ve learned how distant funeral drums sound from the neighboring farm as they pay their respects well past sunrise, several consecutive nights in a row.  I’ve imprinted the melody of dozens of African children singing together, out of key, but in their finest Christmas outfits.  I recognize the sound of the cows coming to join us in our field as we play, and the pathetic mewing of the mama cat that wakes me each morning to beg for my breakfast.  I’ve memorized the giggle of each of the children as they squirm under my tickling hands, and their whispered voices as they tell me their Swahili secrets, unaware that by its very nature, their secret is safe with me.  I recognize the sound of the generator kicking in just before our power returns, and the nighttime scratching of rodent feet on my tin roof.  I’ve been taught that the sound of a siren implies someone has already died.  I know the rhythm of our Swahili hymns sung in church, seemingly repeatedly hundreds! of times.  I know the haunting sound of someone suffering from cerebral malaria as she incoherently wails from her hospital bed just meters from my own.

Baby Train

I am also learning the sounds of silence.  I know the hungry silence of famished children as they shovel platefuls of rice down their throats.  I recognize the sudden silence of oncoming thunder that usually precedes the rain.  I know the commanding silence of the police checkpoints: engines off, music silenced, drivers anxiously rifling through their pockets for the bribe demanded of Kenya's finest.  I know the suspicious silence of a quad of little boys who are invariably getting themselves into mischief.  I’ve witnessed a tangible, aggressive silence as it transformed inquisitive daughters and tender wives into silent shadows of the bully they call daddy and husband.  Theirs is a deafening silence that demands our response.

This evening as I was finishing my dinner I overheard the kids laughing and singing at the top of their lungs.  I couldn’t resist running back to see what they were up to, and found them on their dusty porch in the dusk, having a dance party.  The musical accompaniment to their sweetly piercing voices was an imaginary keyboard in the form of a plank of wood.  They were a quite a sight.  But even more than that, they were the most perfect, joyful sound I’ve ever heard.  And I was happy to listen.

A Day At A Time

Travel is the best way we have of rescuing the humanity of places, and saving them from abstraction and ideology.     Pico Iyer

Saida

When faced with the prospect of having no control whatsoever, I default to organizing.  Something.  Anything.   In light of this truth that I’m (again) begrudgingly admitting, I’ve developed a bit of a routine here in rural Kenya.  I begin my morning by savoring my first of many cups of chai: it’s deliciousness enables me to forgive the sudden abandonment by my old friend coffee; oh, how I miss it.  I try to absorb as much nourishment as I can, both of the body and the spirit, knowing that I’ll need every last bit of it to do right by the kids.

Atoti, rarely without her pet bucket

I cut through the hospital and head over to the kids’ place, where I am greeted by shouts and squeezes and smiles.  They’ve been up and at it for hours; they are machines.  We spend some of our morning in the classroom, which is a bit like herding puppies: puppies that literally swing from the rafters and climb the wire walls.  Their love of learning makes the choice of content a moot point: they want to know everything.  When they write in their workbooks, the eldest help the youngest, and they all fight for the rusty razor blade to sharpen what remains of their pencil stubs.  If we make it an hour before I’m peeling them off the architecture and shooing them outside, it’s a miracle.  We’ve taught each other all the outside games we know, though they’re just as happy to tumble all over each other, and me. 

Sometimes we break for the local sorghum porridge ugi, but always we break for lunch, during which time I usually sit and stare vacantly, half in wonder, half overwhelmed.  I am outnumbered, outdone, knackered.  But already I love them.  They are teaching me, stretching me so much.  They make me laugh, and make me take deep breaths, and give me hours and hours of things to think about each day.  They are full of themselves, full of one another, full of life.  And I get to know them. 

Moses, x2

Our afternoons are even less structured, simply because I’m not too proud to admit my capacity.  Occasionally we return to the classroom where we have lots of thoughtful conversation, always directed by them:  “Are there lots of Satan worshippers in America?  Do white people have babies?  Do you have babies?  When will you come back to us?  Does Princess Sophia live near you?  Can you drink the ocean?  Do any kids look like us in America?  Why are your legs so big? [sigh]  Are your sister’s legs as big as yours?  [SIGH]  Will you please please please bring your family the next time you visit?  What’s the mother tongue of your tribe?  Take my picture!”  

Big Legs Sure Are Cozy!

The bulk of our time though, is usually spent outside, in a heap.  Personal space is something we’re working on, as I usually have no less than half a dozen pairs of hands on me at all times.  They are counting my freckles, and stroking the underside of my arms “You’re so soft”, and chewing on my bracelets, and braiding my hair.  If they’re not coloring my toenails with pencil, they’re erasing them.  There’s always at least one pair of knobby elbows leaning on each of my legs, while others rest their heads on my shoulders.  It is endearing and exhausting.  They insistently share with me the treats that occasionally arrive in the form of a fresh stalk of sugarcane, which is, incidentally, pretty fun to gnaw through.  I chastise them for terrorizing the giant lizards and for giving chase with shards of broken glass, to absolutely no avail. 

When evening finally arrives, they don’t appear any less energized than they were 10 hours before, but I am mangled.  I eventually return to my quarters, where I will spend the
 remainder of the evening, a mosquito murderess, alone.  It is usually very quiet, and always very lonely.  For all the smack-talking I do about our overuse of technology, I sure do miss being in touch with everyone I love.  I wish more than ever for a closet in which to debrief with my best friend Kat, the way we used to when we worked in the Robert Taylor housing projects in Chicago.  But I know that this is what I signed up for, and I also believe that my relationship with the kids is worth the temporary but complete disconnect from everyone I love.  Which I will remind myself tomorrow when one of them lunges into my hair immediately after trash diving for snails.

To A Kenyan Clinic

Post-Porridge Smile

I’m beginning to get the distinct impression that I am completely and totally full of it.  When push comes to shove, do I really love well?  When it’s dirty, and loud, and lonely, and overwhelming, do I really make an effort to be gracious, or kind, or patient?  Do I really believe in the power of hope when I watch a shell of a boy stumble and fall as his pants fall off his skeletal frame, too weak to walk any longer without assistance?  Do I still show up for people when all I want to do is hide out?  Do I honestly let go of my cultural bias and white privilege to fully immerse myself into a world where I’m the outsider, the foreigner, the minority?  I hope so.  I want to.  But I’ve never been less sure.

I It took several days and multiple forms of transportation before finally arriving here to the Sister Freda’s Medical Centre in northwestern Kenya.  Originally created to meet the needs of the neediest around, it now includes a hospital, a coed nursing college, a high school for girls, an orphanage, and an educational feeding program for nearly 200 preschoolers from the surrounding slums.  There are a few generously planted acres that feed those of us living here, as well as animals of all shapes and sizes.Though I’m relieved to report the only roommates I’ve had so far have been of the chameleon variety.  Thank you, Jesus.

I was given the tour and a warm welcome, then began scribbling Kiswahili into my trusty notebook.  I’ve learned how to light my lantern during the rolling brownouts, developed an affinity for Kenyan cabbage, and am proud to say I can now fully shower in under a minute.  I no longer have the distinctly foreign luxury of seeing mosquito nets as an exotic novelty, but have come to appreciate their protection, however tangled I find myself each morning.  I am, slowly, adjusting.

More than any professional skill set I thought I’d be using, I spend my days among the children.  In addition to a handful of staff children on the property, there are 9 orphans living here, most of whom arrived as babies.  They average around 9 years old, though very few if any of them know their actual date of birth.  They are demonstrative in their affection, laugh often, and have a voracious appetite for learning; each the embodiment of the kind of person I want to become.  I have a lot to learn.

Out Of The West

I wasn’t entirely ready to say goodbye to Greece.  There’s a lustiness, a boldness of spirit there that I just couldn’t get enough of.  It made me feel empowered, and brave, and so very excited.  For everything.  Excited to breathe deeply of the dirty air, and to get lost, and to love well.  Excited to dance my ass off, and to pursue beauty, and to laugh often.  Put simply, Greece and her people have breathed into me an even more voracious appetite for life, a wild longing of sorts.  And I love it.

There are so many Greek qualities I want to remember, to hold onto, to take with me.  I want to be demonstrative in my affection for those I love.  I want to speak my mind openly, without fear of judgment or rejection.  I want to continue to value and seek learning in all its forms.  I want to continue to discover cities from the back of a motorcycle (thanks, Vasily).  I want to pursue creativity always, believing this to be as fundamental to our development as where we choose to live, or what we do for work.  I want to remember, even through the grit and pain of daily life, what a gift it is to really live.

So while I couldn’t help but feel sadness, it wasn’t without deep joy and gratitude that I made my final European farewell.  Gratitude to Greece for the wildness she brought out in me.  To Europe, for teaching me how to do this thang on my own.  Mostly though, gratitude to my people.  To the people at home who continue to tangibly love me well in their consistent support and encouragement.  And to the people I’ve met along the way, who help me to believe in laughing, and dancing, and getting lost.  Who have been, to me, proof of hope, and magic, and real, live beauty. 

It was the perfect gift, to send me with such a full heart into Kenya, where the blazing equatorial sun asserted itself even before we touched down in Nairobi.  I found my driver, and did my best to breathe deeply of the filthy air as we found our way to the car.  I plopped my exhausted, sweaty self into the backseat as James entered into what can only be described as straight up traffic madness.  Nonplussed, he adjusted the radio and promptly began belting along to the first song he found, “A Whole New World”.  I couldn’t help but chuckle.  A whole new world indeed, I thought to myself.  Bring it on.

To An Enchanted Island

When I left home, it was important to me that I reestablish my belief.  Belief in the goodness and kindness of people.  My belief in the possibility and hope of redemption.  Redemption available, as I'm daily reminded, through desperate grace alone.  My belief in vulnerability as a lifestyle, and maybe the only road to true transformation.  I needed to reaffirm my belief in the power and beauty of the divine feminine, of my own femininity, despite living in a world that daily works to devalue and denigrate us.  I wanted to believe in myself, in my competence and ability as a little woman alone in a big, big world.  Most importantly, I deeply needed to believe again in the audacious power of hope.

Upon arriving on Santorini, I was nearly knocked off my feet by the mystical weight of the air.  There was something sanctified, something ancient and very alive here.  This tiny island deep in the Aegean sea has a prehistoric history of habitation, and is speculated by some to be the origin of the lost city of Atlantis.  Even its myth of creation is derived from a divine love, in which Euphemus is said to have impregnated one of the nymph daughters of Triton.  In effort to create for her a safe haven from her father's wrath, Euphemus threw a clod of earth into the sea and created "the most beautiful", now known as Santorini.

Phenomenal (and hilarious) Pandora player

I quickly began to understand why so many Greeks had questioned my intention to do the island alone.  It is a place created and sustained by a special kind of creative force, a force of love.  I remained undeterred though, determined to see this dreamy place for myself.  I hadn't yet allowed my solo status to limit my adventure, so I certainly wasn't about to  stand in my own way of experiencing the loveliness, the lovely magic of this enchanted island.

Though the temperature was quickly descending,  the sunlight remained strong enough to give my freckles freckles, and light the paths I daily hiked.  I befriended a few of the island dogs, most of whom were abandoned by residents who moved off the island.  I discovered favorite places for my favorite foods, and favorite people who embraced me with what can only be described as perfectly Greek hospitality.  They welcomed me into their off-season daily lives, teaching me the Greek origins of all things, and including me in their evening festivities.  My originally planned 4 days slowly unfolded into 10 as I allowed Santorini to respond to some of my traveling prayers, in the gentlest of ways.

Thira

What better to remind me of redemption and transformation than a people who have not only lived, but thrived on the cliff face of a rock for more than 5,000 years?  The warmth and kindness extended to me, as well as the respect and even reverence with which I was treated, a reminder of the power and beauty inherent in being created a woman.  Wholly, uniquely, divinely woman.  Not at all the curse we're taught, but a compelling power, and a gift for which I'm becoming ever more grateful.  So though I did the island alone, I didn't do it lonely.  Santorini gifted me a heart full; full of promise, and full of hope.  And if that's not love, I don't know what is.

...To The Land Of The Gods

Deeply nestled into my friends' home the past several weeks, I required some serious oomph to get myself back on the road.  Once again I prepared myself for traveling solo, and living in hostels, and eating fewer than three square meals a day.  Living as a traveler is always an adventure, rarely very comfortable, and hardly ever cozy; I didn't take my Swiss respite for granted.  With a little wistfulness, I said my goodbyes and shoved some contraband cheese and a bit of anxiety into my backpack.  I was finally headed to the land of Homer, and Zeus, and my personal favorite, Tina Fey's mother: Greece.

I have been given by Athens a most chaotic welcome.  My olfactory senses are daily assaulted by the scents of too much cologne, and cat urine, and the burning diesel emitted from the mopeds careening through the city.  The street vendors spill off the narrow sidewalks into the streets, hawking food, and crafts, and junky junk.  Giant listless dogs sleep on every corner, seemingly unaware that the blazing heat of the Mediterranean summer has abated.  Street performers work the tourist traps, while savvy preteens play their plastic flutes for change they demand should you dare make eye contact.  I can't help but appreciate their confidence.

This is a gritty city with lots of edge.  East meets west, old meets new.  It is the city of the gods.  And while the presence of these infamous immortals can still be felt hovering over this ancient metropolis, they must now share power with their fiercely defiant, 21st century ancestors.  As history attests, the Greeks are not easily defeated.  They are not broken by the weight of their forsaken economy, but continue to boldly celebrate life.  They welcome strangers and are gracious hosts to tourists and refugees alike, but will not sacrifice their culture to outside influence.  They are a people who, instead of being silenced, blast their convictions and frustrations onto every available surface, creating some of the most powerful street art I've ever seen.



Athens has taught me some things, and reminded me of others.  It has reminded me just how much I love losing and finding myself in new cities.  Of how much I love befriending locals and trying mysterious street food.  I now remember how much I love to find a perfectly discreet seat in a bustling plaza from which to watch the world around me.   Entirely anonymous among the crowd, I try to observe as much as I can; parents feeding their toddlers souvlaki, lovers aware of only one another, and elderly civilians shaking the hands of the rookie police officers.

In only a matter of days, I have received no fewer than three marriage proposals.  I have been given a bracelet by a street vendor, accompanied by a special blessing that my presumed wish of bearing many children will come true.  I have received three phone numbers, invitations to both a backyard barbeque and a wedding, and heaps of advice about where to visit while I'm here.  I have become moderately obsessed with hunting their world-renowned street art, often in the least savory but most lively of neighborhoods.  I've made myself quite at home in what appears to be the skid row of Athens, and now know to return to my hostel before ten if I want to avoid the bewitching hour of the neighborhood ghosts.  Athens has invigorated me.  And I can't wait to see what's next.