Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Homecoming Thoughts

1.12.07
Coming home. I think my eyes have been covered by a thin veil that makes every ice edged ivy leaf and dried blade of grass shimmer with beauty. I watch the hills and lake and wintry trees slide by on that familiar drive to town and imagine truthfully that I may have never seen such splendor. None of the oases and cliffs and busy street markets of Africa or the grand art museums and architecture of Europe touch me in quite the same way as this somber, overcast morning of frost and dry grass. This is my home and right now, home is more awe-inspiring than any distant corner of the world.

This desperate connection to the place I was born and raised extends far beyond the landscape. It is the people who make this space so unique. Again, my eyes may still be shrouded but I see in each rosy cheeked face the potential, and especially the desire to achieve wholeness. I sit in the coffee shop surrounded by strangers, sipping tea and absorbing the gentle voices around me. An old man with one crossed eye is teaching his grandson how to play chess; a large man in Carharts studies a fish and game manual over his latte; two women share intimacies and wild hair, cupping mugs of steaming coffee. I suck it all in.

This leisure is like a drug to me: it lures me into comfort and appreciation, giving me the illusion that I can’t live outside of such a fulfilling space. I try to absorb it so that I can understand how to bring back to Africa this concept of easy living, this engagement with one another, and do it without the props of easy Saturday afternoons or hot coffee shops.

11.12.07
The season is folding into itself in sheaths of cold air. I pull my scarf closer around my neck and experience the shift with joy in my cheeks and a knot in my stomach. I open a new journal today with decidedly less hope than my last, but with a vision perhaps more open to the realities I am facing. Coming home has been both an enormous gift and a challenging shift in perspective. My spirit soars into this cool space but I find with every homecoming that elements of this American life become harder and harder to accept. I’ve dreamt of this: crosswalks and snow, coffee shops and bookstores; but the abundance of the season, the excess of it sometimes sickens me- especially because I am a part of it.

I just received an email from Yann who fears that famine will strike his country in the next year due to poor rainfall. I contemplate while sipping my latte and try to avoid reaction by thinking about the fresh tracks I’d like to carve the next day. But my mind drifts back and I remember images from a photobook at Powells. Emaciated children, men, women from the Sahel; they could have been my neighbors; they could be his family. What kind of person am I that I want so badly to turn my head, to believe that this doesn’t exist? That I succeed in doing so?

My reaction to these clashing realities is inertia and a sense of only being halfway in my experiences, whether I am in the States or in Africa. I get lost, my head and heart swinging in an endless pendulum between what I want and what I know. I tip and sway out of balance because I can’t seem to find the reconciliation between myself, my hopes and the situation of this world.
23.12.07
As always, I find peace in the small moments, joys that bring me back to the unconditional knowledge of who I am regardless of the relentless questions and challenges I put myself through. My grin spreads across my face as I arc my first turns in two seasons. Knowing that my body remembers the movements and adjusts so easily to steep terrain as I slalom through fir tree tips reminds me of that woman who is strong and sure and always knows where her next move will be. Watching the fire on a cold winter night while neighbors, friends and family share stories, laughter, and music reminds me of how easy it feels to belong to a community, and of how simple our joys can be. Sledding through the trees by the light of the full moon, tumbling from the sled as dark silhouettes spin above my head shows me again the laughing child who sees potential for celebration and discovery around every bend. Hearing from you, the people that read this blog, makes me realize the worth of the journey I have chosen. I am truly blessed.

Thursday, October 4, 2007

9.30.2007 Belief

Ramadan. The month of fasting is upon us, everyone around me is burning the sins out of life by ingesting nothing from sun up to sun down and praying five times a day. Mali seems to take this moon cycle with the same half hearted enthusiasm it takes towards work and love and friendship. Custom says you should act in a certain way, so you act accordingly.

I have never in my life been so confronted with my own belief systems and my expression of these belief systems as I am here. Surrounded by fasting Muslims and a Christian boyfriend, I begin to imagine that there are holes in the fabric of my own belief, one that I have constructed in much the same manner as a quilt, pulling one thread of what I call truth through a variety of fabrics to create something that I find comforting though perhaps not beautiful. With no set religion, no name to idolize or figure to pray to, I stumble through the halls of divinity, keeping myself upright by my own personal ideas of right and wrong, celebration of humanity, and inexplicable faith in a certain order that exists in the world we inhabit.

Last night, feeling particularly lost I went for a run. Night was creeping along the dirt avenues as I came upon the Islamic Relief Community Center. In shorts and a tee-shirt I felt significantly out of place and I picked up my pace as I ran past the young boys in long robes and the one woman dressed all in black, showing nothing but a thin slit of skin around her eyes. As I passed I heard the prayers I have heard at least twice a day since arriving in Mali, sifting in and out of my consciousness. A young boy must have been learning the chants, because a fresh, soft voice was emerging from the speaker that usually only emits the scratchy cracking intonations of old Imams. I was drawn by this voice, a clear, timid, learning voice that fell over the dirt soccer field and the haphazard gardens and semi constructed buildings and smoky cook fires. My steps slowed and despite myself I turned around to listen. The older Imam was instructing the young boy, and his voice came across encouraging in a guttural, lilting Arabic. The words meant nothing to me, but the sounds filtered into the evening and soothed me. I slowed to a walk and then stopped, watching the quick feet of the soccer players, noticing the gentle violet flowers on the weeds about my feet, remarking the slowing of my breath by the rise and fall of my chest.

I stood there, quietly realizing as I do every so often that this is my divinity. This unbelievably fleeting yet constant moment when nature collides with humanity and I am caught in the middle, lifted into awareness by my own physicality, the effort of my body in motion. These moments when I watch a young person realize his or her own potential, when the color of the sunset catches on bat wings, when a bead of sweat drips down the hollow of my back while making love, when the rains come hard and fast, when my hibiscus flower blooms, when someone I care for does something they can be proud of, when my own hard work pays off. These waves of appreciation, wonder and joy become my own forms of prayer.

I can not say that I am any closer to accessing the level of faith or devotion that many people around me these days seem to possess but in these rare moments, I feel alive and purposeful, and aware in a way that I cannot explain, nor will try to. I am happy to be constantly on the lookout for new ways to celebrate this life, grateful for the freedom I have to choose my beliefs, and respectful of the paths that others choose.

8.25.2007 Writers Block

In the hours that lean towards morning, I write. Into the darkness my words tumble and lose themselves piece by piece, turning and spinning in and out of one another like taffy, stretched between the vendors hands while the sand grits salty between your toes at the boardwalk. Colorful bits without cohesion or sense. Nonetheless I write. The night provokes me and I chase after my words with greedy fingers, stabbing at ideas and bringing them gently to my mouth to taste, roll around my tongue then spit onto a page. If only I could follow one of these ideas to its end, I say. If only I had time to write, to read, to sing. In this dark morning, I push excuse out onto the street and sit for a moment, just me and my words. The more we sit together, the more I become afraid of them. I try to listen, to let them flow but the longer I listen, the less adequate I feel with them. Rather than sit with them, I feel as if I am sitting in front of them, on a pedestal, being asked to perform, being marked for each misspelling and fragmented sentence and… my personal challenge: the unfinished thought. The words I cant drift so smoothly in, but soon begin to infiltrate. These two words change the music, and my words saunter off, hand in hand with my doubt, winking over their shoulder at me, my hands stuck in taffy. Maybe tomorrow night will be better.

Tuesday, October 2, 2007





Life has filled in; all the small moments filter together and there is never a day that I dont have ups and downs. Words escape me in the afternoons and evenings... so here are some photos. I took a trip to Burkina Faso mid july, to refresh my brain and heart from my first CFH training. here are some photos of the kids I met in the village and a sunset that took my breath away. More words/thoughts/poems/dreams to come.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

4th of July in Bamako

It is hot like any other fourth of July however this year there is nothing to make me jump up, scurry to the downtown boulevard, throw my blanket or chair between the masses, and shout hurray America, while watching the parade flap by. This time I wake up, do my sit ups, eat some cereal, enjoy the fresh milk, and step outside to admire the explosion of white and red flowers that push up against the street. A brief three minutes of quiet before I hop on my bike and pick my way through the puddle strewn street to my office.

It seems strange that today is the first day I notice the sticker on our guardians motorcycle: a smiling Bin Laden with his fist in the air. Underneath it, there is something written in Arabic and another sticker that seems to imply something about uniting Muslims. Though I respect his choice of religion, I recognize a certain ruffling of my patriotic feathers looking at this sticker. I think today I understand a bit better why Mustaphes’ greetings to me have been so short and why he rarely looks me in the eye.

Today, the day speeds past and I do my best to ignore the fatigue that pushes against my eyes, I try to gracefully hear my officemates comments about Bush and Libby and all the other crazy fucks who come from my country. Today is the first fourth I have ever experienced with an urge of my life to wave a flag.
Instead, I say quietly ‘ you know, today is my countries birthday’. My comment is immediately answered by ‘of course I know, its all over Yahoo, I never see July !7th marked all over the web…’ Bashfully I ask if July 17th might just happen to be Belgiums’ independence day. ‘Yes, but do you think Yahoo is going to post that all over? I mean there are so many countries, why do the states get… I tune out, try to focus on my spreadsheet.

The day rolls on and I look forward to the end with anticipation. My boyfriend has just arrived from Ouaga and I have decided to grill up some fish and drink some beer in celebration of his arrival. The more I think about it, the more I realize how much I also want to celebrate the fact that I am American. With the deepening of my experience here, and the progressive acceptance of the not so positive world reputation, I feel increasingly more and more American. Today more than ever I am more inclined to want to celebrate this day, one that I have only enjoyed as a party in the past. Since I was old enough to understand my nations role in the world I have turned my nose up to the flag waving and audaciousness of this day.

After work, I ride home, joyous after having sweat and happy to see my boyfriend. We take cold beers up to the roof and joke, popping peanuts into our mouths ( I like the way the dry brown skin slips off between my fingers) and admiring the green spreading over the hills to the north. With the help of my roommate and his girlfriend, the fish gets grilled, (Yann is ecstatic to get the head, while we are all happy to avoid it). When we finally sit down at the table, and lift our glasses in a toast, to good food, arrival of friends, celebration together, I again quietly say it is my countries birthday. I am here and I am for some strange reason, proud to be an American.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

My name is...

One comment I often hear in the emails and notes that you send me is that people have a hard time imagining exactly where I am… there is no concrete way to give you a taste of my life here, besides my words, so here is a little montage of who I am here and what I am surrounded by. I hope it fuels your imaginations and sparks your interest.

My name here is Amie. Ahhhhh like a long, sighing, breath: opening, inviting, warm. Meee pulling your mouth into a smiling finish. Two nights after I arrived in Bamako, as I picked my way in and about my neighborhood semi lost, I was helped to find this name by some neighbors who soon became friends. A name; a friend; a breath; a smile; an inevitable entry into this world. When I walk down the street it rings after me like a song. The children who chant it, the friends who call, sometimes it sounds sharp and hard in their mouths, in a way that makes you realize they have been saying this name for centuries, and makes you wonder if it really fits you. Other times it sounds like a laugh, especially when Djelika says it- A sweet sound that makes you feel as if we have been sharing a joke, though the only things we can say to each other are hello, how are you, there was peace in the night.


I live on a growing street. It is young, though somehow far from fresh. Despite the fact that not six years ago, there was a forest standing where my house now asserts its’ cinder block splendor, Mali has quickly moved into this street and adapted itself to the needs of it’s inhabitants. My concrete fortress is beginning to soften with the growth of bouganvilla, oleander, trumpet vine and hibiscus flowers I have planted out front; I keep trying to bring back the forest with my greens, the quiet and peace of my familiar Oregon woods but by seven in the morning, the street begins to shift and move, shuffling feet along the dirt road in front of me; the workers arriving with their shovels slung over their shoulders, the banging of pots and pans as the family down the street begins another day filled with selling morning fateyers (small fried patties made with bean flour), couscous, sauce. From my roof I sit facing north towards the street and the hills beyond the houses. There is a light, scattered frosting of green over the white and orange shadowed cliffs. In the evening, Venus rises above these cliffs and glows bright in the sky. Together they are like a beacon of the peace I keep trying to attain… visible, constant, just a touch out of reach.

The people around me are alternately wonderfully new, happy, and warm, and suffocating, challengingly different. I find a tender balance of wanting to share all with these people and needing to take time, space to myself. The gangs of little girls run around barefoot in their underwear: Baini, Fatu, Maimouna, LaVeille. skinny, with little faces, beautiful eyes, and high voices. Baini has an extraordinary beauty, an loves to dress up in whatever fancy dress she can find, though clothing is really an optional luxury here as 9 times out of 10, and entire arm and chest will be bare, or they will be wearing nothing but underwear. These girls all seem to be about 3-5 years old, according to my eyes, though it is possible that they are actually 6-7, all of them very alert, talkative and smart. Most girls don’t go to school. The boys play soccer and do Karate, a grinning mischievous bunch.

Up the street is my friend Natogoma. Her father seems to have produced an uncommon number of girls with his 2(I think) wives, and has managed to put them all to work cooking for the entire neighborhood. I have counted at least 17 children living in that house; all have the same soft nose and piercing eyes. One goes to school. Though I’ve only seen him once, I don’t like her father much. In the mornings one of Natogomas mothers sits on a wooden bench on a small piece of elevated ground, serving her couscous and sauce from a tin table with an air of regal boredom. The fingers of her right hand, greasy and covered in small yellow meal are also the ones that handle the money. Aside and below, Natogoma serves her frou-frou with spunk and sass, shouting at the men, her quick voice sharp and laughing. twenty men crowd around with their plastic plates and tin spoons. This circus lasts all day long: rice at midday, mangoes with oil, salt, and chile, in the evenings, chopping onions, . When it finally gets dark, sometimes Natogoma and I go for a yahlah yahlah arm in arm through the neighborhood; somehow on these promenades, I don’t feel so strange, even though we can hardly communicate with each other. The truth is though, that I am much closer with the men on the street. I spend evenings sitting in the dark on a rough wooden bench, listening to the endless greetings and jokes of my friends Madou, Souleymann, Adama, and others. It is nice to spend time, especially since the conversation has long passed the “are you married” stage…. or maybe I like being with them because they never got to the “are you married?” questions. In any case through these guys, I learn the reality of unemployment in Bamako. My neighbor, Mohammed comes over for regular Sunday evening cook offs, and shares his poetry with me.

As much as I would like to say that I feel fully integrated here, my relationships with these people are like waves. They come and go, as I seem to run in and out of my commitment to them. Sometimes I feel as if they are still perriferel to my life. I believe one of the main reasons for this is that since I have arrived, I am more deeply concentrated on work than I believe I ever have been in my life. Another reason for the distance is simply cultural and economic differences. I can’t take them all out dancing with me; I can’t communicate entirely openly with them, and so my relationships with locals only take me so far. Sitting and drinking shot glasses of sugar and tea doesn’t fulfill me socially. I also have a pretty good core of ex-pat friends, mostly from my ONG. I spend my days in the office bouncing jokes, frustrations, limericks, movie bits and recipes with my Belgian friend, Kristien who is working on child protection. We join Maria, the wonderfully down to earth, practical Irish lesbian friend and newly arrived, energetic film maker, Fid for gin and tonics and dancing. I have a fantastic new housemate from Paris named Nico. He is typically French in all the right ways ( appreciation for good wine, food, conversation) and typically not in all the right ways too ( very open, fun, and no zeeeece eeese sooo enyuant French accent.)
He makes the token guy in our group for now, and I am surprised he puts up with us as he does.


So, there you are, take a bite: a tiny morcell of my experience; roll it around on your tongue and taste it; see if it brings your closer to me. I hope it does!

Friday, May 18, 2007

Marks of life in Africa

18.5.07

This evening I took a shower and shivered as I stepped out of the cold water. Rubbing my body dry I notice so many little marks: the dark plum skin colored scar on my shin where a microbe had dug itself a home in my flesh, just below it the skin is lighter, more the tinted brown of the flesh where I burned myself on the exhaust of my motorbike. This scar actually kind of pleases me as it reminds me of the shape of a bird in flight on the distant horizon. My belly and legs are mostly white, while my face and arms are darkening more and more. Even the zits on my face from the incessant dust and heat seem unfamiliar to me.

Here and there I notice physical changes but I can not begin to list the changes I feel brewing and steaming inside me. I find that there is often a battle fighting itself inside my brain. I find that I am continually trying to come to terms with myself here and it’s a precarious job. The constantly cheery Shey that is so familiar to so many is coming across one of the bigger challenges of her life: balancing the physical, mental and emotional trials of life alone in a brand new culture with her vision of herself and her value in the world. I find that living here puts all my moral concepts of myself into a different context. I work hard to keep from losing track of who I am and why I am here.

Since the VA school shootings, finding this balance became more difficult. Now, however, I am beginning to realize all the things I can do for myself to keep sanity.

Two weeks ago I went back to Burkina Faso to visit one of my best friends, an Italian named Elena who is the only one I truly feel close to here; I also went to visit a guy who has been slowly breaking into my surprisingly hard core with poetry, patience, and passion. I fell ill the last two days I was there and spent the following week trying to recuperate. This week of particularly low energy and uncommon bowel movements turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I still worked, but spent lots of time at home, by myself, sleeping, reading and writing. I slowly came to understand and accept how much space I need here. Being sick, I was able to say no to the constant stream of friends, acquaintances and children who come by regularly. Finally I was able to say yes to myself. I may be developing in a way that is less African than I would have imagined myself but
after three months of accepting and incorporating so much of myself in others, I found myself drained, lost, and ultimately paralyzed. I’ve learned that I can feel loneliest when I am most surrounded by people. I am finally coming to terms with the fact that to be who I need to be, I need to take time and space to myself.

So now I read, I spend time writing each day. I wake and run and relish the sweat that is bold enough to drip off my face at 7 AM. I sit on my roof at twilight. I watch Venus shine over my head as the sky fights to find a color somewhere between orange, violet and black, finally settling on that deep underwater blue that makes me dream of being a whale. I try different mangos: relish the tangerine flower opening after I have cut a checkerboard in its flesh, and pick strings out from my teeth for the rest of the day. Tonight, I will dance till I can’t feel my legs.

So as each day unfolds before me, the marks and scars will undoubtedly change me in some way or another, but ultimately, one day I will come back home toting some version of myself. What a wonderful chance I have to dig into that self; I believe I will find many mysteries, and just as many solid elements that do not change.

RAIN

4.22.07

THE RAIN CAME. Like an answer to me, the smell like home so fresh and metallic. I lay on my roof. Soaking the heavy crush of water into my cotton cloths, watching fingers of lightning creep across an angry sky. Viens of electricity filling my body, willing me back to life like the pound of a heart attack.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Reaction to Virginia Tech Shootings

Right now I am reeling from the news of the Virginia shootings and trying to find a safe place to settle and collect my thoughts. It is strange; I have no American compatriots here and never really cared to find them until things started happening at home that I felt the need to discuss. Its not easy when every European I talk to seems to think "serves your bastard country right" and every Malian I speak to has no idea what the hells happening. I rattle along, everything looks good on the outside, but I know that inside the straight backed exterior there is a piece of me mourning for the people of my country, mourning the state of my nation; the one that is so keen on directing the rest of the world that it seems to have troubles facing itself.

I realize that right now I am living in one of the poorest nations of the world; here the people work hard under hot sun for the amount of money Americans spend on Starbucks each day. I see so many physical manifestations of poverty here, yet when I think of the states, of the place I am still proud to call home, I sense poverty of the spirit, that manifests itself in ignorance, preoccupation with pettiness, and occasional explosive displays of violence such as the one that just happened. In one way, this knowledge brings me closer to this new home of mine, helps me appreciate the simplicity of physical human need, and the human warmth that shines through it on a daily basis. In another way I feel paralyzed and suffocated by sorrow and hopelessness at the state of this world.

I have chosen one tiny path, and am trying my hardest to follow it but every day I come across more things I could fight, the constant question of 'why: "Why the discrimination? Why the inequality? Why the poverty? Why do I have the right to food and education and health when this right is denied to so many? Living here brings me face to face with these questions every day and I am trying hard not to lay all the answers on my own back. If I do I will surely drown in them and lose the thread of the tiny path I am trying so desperately to tread gently and consciously.

Gifts

3.30.07- Village
I write by the light of a ¾ moon. Light that makes my paper glow and my words melt together. I am listening to the voices of men who tell stories around the glowing coals of the teapot. I bathed under the stars this evening, watched the first star rise from the gentle violet haze of sunset. Venus glows. The voices rise and fall. My breast matches the roundness of the moon.

Here I drink tea till the sun goes down then lay my mat under the tree, crawl under my mosquito net and let the rolling voices of the storytellers lull me to an easy sleep. I awake at four in the morning to watch the women trickle towards the well. Through the early grayness and sleep fogged eyes, I watch the women gather. One bends, lets out the long rope, then stands tall and pulls her left hand high into the air, while making a loop with the rope in her right. like an African sun salutation, this action is repeated until the black rubber water holder emerges dripping fresh clear water and is dumped into the bright plastic bucket, and lifted to the head. The chickens begin clucking. The days work has begun but I drift back to sleep for another 2 hours, until the young girl comes to summon me for my morning shower. The luxury of the bucket of hot water is intensified by the knowledge of hoe much has gone into creating this one steaming bucket of water. I thank gracefully and effusively, though still faltering and at a loss for words. How could I possibly explain the poetry of hot water patiently lathered over my skin as the sun rises in Bambara?


4.9.07 - NIger Pirogues
The pirogues are long, smooth, elegant, like ancient swords slicing through fine colorless silk. Their reflections are just as real as the boats themselves, easing from a skinny point, shuddered by ripples to a wider shadow that melts somewhere into the smooth dark underwood of the boats. The effect is of one entity, gracefully connected forever to its shadow. Men stand wide legged on the bow or the stern, guiding with a long pole. The body bends at the waist, the pole lengthens, becoming horizontal as it pushes against the river bottom and glides forward. The body straightens, the arms raise, the pole grows tall. This vertical diagonal movement leading to the smooth horizontal glide looks to me like a slow graceful dance.

4.15.07

These gifts are all I can part with right now. the reality of my life here is far more complex, and goes far beyond the sensual pleasures of what I observe. So much of me is deep and getting deeper, trying to figure out who I am, where I am, establishing a sense of self in this brand new place. I am treading water, watching the ease with which the boatmen navigate the shallow river, and trying to find solid ground on which to pose my own two feet.

Something about the depth of what I am experiencing makes it hard to write the whole truth of it. I think that is because the whole truth includes race and economics and gender and education and ultimately, identity. It is not easy to write about these while living them as well. Nonetheless, I find these everyday observations are not only the salve to ease the entry, but also portholes through which I may perhaps enter a stronger sense of who I am here.

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Ups and Downs and in Betweens

2.25.07

I flip flop between a deep gratitude and commitment to being here and the challenging helplessness of being separated from my friends by a massive gulf of economics. It is difficult to feel like I am a true part of the community here, when I recognize that most of the other women my age are married and spend 80% of their days cooking and cleaning, or they are young, unmarried, and waiting for the right man to come along and offer them enough money to marry. As much as I would like to put myself at their level, I would not ever choose to trade places with these women. I appreciate my education too much, my outlook, my support system, the knowledge that at any given time I can have a good meal, sleep in a nice bed. I work hard every day to see the best of the world I live in and on most days, I find it easy to do. Nonetheless, behind the brilliant fabrics and entrancing music, there is also always the reality that most of the children here wear no shoes, their bellybuttons stick out; they have runny noses; My friends either wake early to spend all day stoking the coal fire, cooking rice and sauce that I buy for 20 cents.

The feeling of distance is compounded by the house that I live in. I may have mentioned that it is big. It is massive, brand new, shiny and bright and even has turrets that stretch along the wide expanse of roof. There are five bedrooms, six bathrooms, three big living spaces… a small kitchen. ( though something makes me think that Malians don’t use showers like we do in the states—every shower rains directly onto the toilet.) Luckily for me, I can close off an entire section, leaving me in a home that feels more homey, but this space is still bigger than the cabin I grew up in with five other people. I feel a bit ashamed to invite friends over, having seen their quarters.

Nonetheless, I make do with what I have, and am beginning to really appreciate the space and small solitude I find here. Now I have Hibiscus and Gardenia in the courtyard, I’ve planted Bougainvilla, a yellow trumpet flower, an Acacia, a Ficus and a delicious smelling flowering tree in front, and am fighting the goats to keep them from enjoying these before I do. I would like to start a vegetable garden, though I am hesitating because of the many community gardens around my neighborhood.

One Sunday afternoon, while on a run, I stopped and tried to ask how I could help at one of these gardens. The woman who was watering, a thin, old woman named Sita asked me to come back the next day. Now, after a long days work, I try to stop by the garden. I pick green leaves off the vines, leaning over the patch, trying to keep my back straight, trying to avoid thinking about my hamstrings, loving the fresh earth smell and the continuous automatic movement of my hands. No one in this garden speaks French, so I barely get by on laughing greetings and silence. It is a wonderful test of patience to stand quietly next to someone, accepting their presence with little communication. I work with a woman named Amounata Coulibaly, she has hands that are rough like my mothers. And strong arms. After only 20 minutes, I begin to feel quiet and patient, meditative, almost, though my hamstrings are crying. Amounata brings over a cup of water and pours it over my hands, waiting as I scrub at the dirt between my nails.

I have a full time guardien whos name is Lamine. Though it was a rough start, we are beginning to understand each other. I had a really hard time at first, trying to establish a relationship that was both friendly and firm. Defining limits and setting boundaries was not easy, when I felt that I had no more right to all the things in my house than he did. I’m still not very comfortable with the power dynamic here, but feeling it out and trying to accept the fact that I am expected to pay people to do things for me, rather than do them myself. Now, even though he falters in French and I, in Bambara, Lamine has become one of the people I trust and, one with whom I feel comfortable being only OK with rather than great. He is kind of like a little brother who looks after me, tapping on my door in the morning to tell me that a new hibiscus has bloomed, then standing back and chuckling in a bubbly boyish way at my obvious excitement. He makes tea like a professional and an addict; I enjoy coming home to sit in front of the house, watching him transfer the dark liquid from one shot glass to another, then to the small silver pot and back again. He uses small, precise movements, pulling a thin thread of tea into the air with a dramatic flair. White foam mounts in the tiny glasses, and he sets the silver pot on the coals to warm as he rinses the outside of the glasses, then pours a steady half glass and hands it over with equal amounts of ease and pride. The tea is sweet, bitter, hot, and I suck the last bits to get some of the foam.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Song of my home

Bamako. Beautiful, and graceful in a very dirty, haphazard, unexpected way. It calls to you in the stretched fabrics, freshly died and drying the sun, colors: rich and clean and full. It calls to you in the ballad-like songs of guitar and Kora, in the call and answer greetings, in the voices that rise and fall throughout the music. Long notes that make you imagine stretches of sand and sky. Bamako. The rough roads, the small boutiques, the faintly fishy peanut sauces and sticky rice, always still a bit dirty. The women who wash: Straight backed and long pushing and scrubbing and dipping, legs straight bent from the waist like chairs folded in two. Bamako. Small grass huts: the constant, rhythmic pounding of bassins--fabrics... glimpses of shirtless men in grass huts, legs spread out, facing each other, each pounding one after another with heavy wooden mallets, held in both hands. One raises his mallet while the other crashes his own down upon the bright colored fabric, pounding it into a smooth glossy sheen. The array of huts at dusk: the sound emerging like music. Wood on wood, pounded by so many hands, the music held together by the soft, low grinding of the mill where the women gather to collect flour. They crowd around carrying half gourds on their heads, chattering and laughing, the grainy grey flour falling from the dull metal mill. Bamako. The dirt pitch and makeshift goals- two long beams, stuck in the earth, with a string tied across the top. Swift colors darting, grunts and calls, and the ball rolls fast from one to another. Teams sauntering past, laughing, joking, running. Bamako. Little ones with protruding bellybuttons. Wide eyes, patient faces, runny noses, sticky hands, smooth shoulders. Voices that imitate my own with uncanny accuracy. "TooBahBoo” the sound that follows my footsteps when they glimpse me from the street. Bamako. Wide grins and teeth, smooth heads, skin like night, but deeper, smoother. Muscles that move like the music, quick hands that sew together the bassins, creating patterns around which the dye emerges. Tie- dyed with plastic bags and scrap rubber. Under the trees, smooth skin melts into the night, hands move automatically assured. Bamako. My home.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Patience & Honesty

2.17.07 Patience & Honesty

It is Saturday again and somehow I have slipped into a routine of living here. Without realizing it, I slide through the days. I can’t believe that another week has passed; I am slowly becoming accustomed to this place, learning to live in it and trying to be realistic about the stretch of my own arms while my eyes and heart stray daily into the multitude of temptations that come with the emergence of a new life.

There are so many things to say. Monuments of sensation are being constructed on rickety foundations in my mind. While the days melt away, everything that is new slowly sifts itself into the common activities of daily life. Perhaps it is fatigue, but I feel as if the shiny lacquer that glosses everything that is slowly being covered by a fine layer of orange dust. Now, I remember that one of the duties I have chosen for myself is that of housecleaner: with my writing, I intend to wipe my finger through the dust and uncover pieces that still awe me. By doing that, I intend to build a stronger foundation based on honesty to myself and to the new place I call my home.

Right now, unfortunately, the difficulties are what keep coming to me. I know myself well enough to realize that one of the biggest reasons for this is fatigue. I have never, in all my travels, jumped so deeply into a job as quickly as I am doing right now. The day after I arrived, I went to work, and have worked every weekday since, including moments today and a significant chunk of tomorrow. I go to work by 8:30 and generally return home around 5:30. I am still trying to situate in my new home, which means that time spent not working on CFH is spent trying to get my house together. I must clarify that “get my house together” is a very broad term. It encompasses spending a lot time getting to know my neighbors, trying to speak Bambara, figure out prices, clarify boundaries with my guardien (more on that to come), find food, meet women, set up furniture, build a garden, cook, get my laundry done, etc. It means trying hard to get my bearings in my immediate surroundings rather than exploring the hills or the centre ville or the night clubs or the supermarket or the artisan village, or writing as much as I would like to. I know this will all come and I am content where I am, knowing that I have three years here. I have chosen to try holding patience in my right hand and honesty in my left for these weeks. Despite my intentions, they are both proving to be very slippery elements in my driven life these days.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

In the Heart of the Moon

12.2.07 In the Heart of the Moon

Ali Farka Touré, a famous Malian musician has an album called “in the Heart of the Moon”. The music starts slow, a constant rhythm that is patient and calm, repetitive yet playful, elegant in it’s assurance of itself. It has an effect that leads a listener out of the world he knows, floating him away into a realm of .

As a newcomer to Mali, I find myself feeling as if I am being led into the heart of this music and into the heart of the moon itself. It is vast here, without doubt, a grand stage for discovery and beauty. It is also a bit lonely.

I arrived in Bamako after weeks bursting with social engagements, energy, inspiration and play; after weeks of hearing “ You are invited” from every person on the street; after a lovely and lingering disease of twitterpation. Living with an overflowing cup, I come to Bamako to find I can only fill it half way. It is only reasonable that walking into the echoing rooms of my brand new home be a little disconcerting. I feel overwhelmed by the space, by the sound of it, by the knowledge that it is all mine for the next three years, by my position in regard to those around me. I feel as if I have been spinning with my arms outstretched, face to the sky and I stop, let my arms hang and feel the whole world tilt around me. It is only now, listening to the album in the quiet of my home that I take a lesson from the late Farka Touré: to have patience with myself and with my new home.

I feel the need to address the emotional adventure before I can lay claim to the physical one. Soon, I will find the words to bring life to the world that continues to build behind this dam.

Wednesday, February 7, 2007

Goodbye Ouagadougou

2.6.07 Goodbye Oaugadougou

My final day in Ouaga. I walk slowly home; anticipation perks itself on one of my shoulders while reluctance sits firmly on the other. In the three weeks I have been here, I have come to really appreciate the loud music shifting from Maquis, the dirt roads that wind like bumpy veins through the city, the deep smoky barbeque aroma that sometimes mixes with such acrid pollution I can hardly breath, the masses of motorbikes and bicycles that swerve across the roads, and the people. The people, how do I begin to describe the warmth and humor and generosity with which these people have welcomed me into their country?

I have made friends with an old woman who sits under one of the makeshift structures that line the outer walls of the Mosque. She wears a sunshine yellow shawl over her shaved head and her hands are dry as sandpaper. She sits on a green rug, and today she has hung a piece of fabric up to keep out the blazing sun. It is still hot when I squat to greet her; I know because immediately the sweat begins to collect in the places my legs touch each other. We shake hands over and over, her rough palms enclosing my one damp hand. I feel desert in her skin. Our conversation is more an exchange of gestures and repetitions than a conversation. In fact, all I understand of what she says is her name “Mariam, Mariam” and my own “Say-la, Sayla” as well as the names of her daughter and grand daughter “Fatimata, Kahdou, Fatimata, Kahdou” we shake hands and say each others names. I think she is telling me that Fatimata and Kahdou have gone back to the cluster of rooms they share with many other families. She will return in the evening, but I will be gone. Mariam offers me a bunch of carrots, a small cluster of orange on the ends of straggled leaves. I try to refuse, I have just eaten and I believe she probably needs them more than I. Nevertheless, she insists, and I take the small bunch, eat a piece and thank her. “Barrakah, barrakah” Thank you. She responds in my own language “mesi, mesi” thank you, merci. I move to leave. She bends her head forward and touches the top of it. I do the same, then touch the top of her head too. Her grey hair bristles under my fingers and she laughs.

As I turn up my road, and walk a few steps towards my house, shrieking bits of laughter fill my ears, and I look up to see two small children sprinting towards me, hands outstretched. One in a dirty yellow shirt with gaps in his teeth, the other in a dress, her hair in five tightly metal wrapped ‘horns’ sticking out from her head, a small mousy face. They giggle up to me, I shake their hands, and they turn around and sprint back to the skeleton of a car they had been playing in while the second shift of two children follow their lead. They run, bare feet over the red dust, towards me, hands outstretched, laughing. I shake and they run back to the car.

There is a certain bittersweet challenge to leaving a place like this. I have developed relationships. I feel, in some way, that I have committed myself to these people, the children in the car, the boys who slack line with me, and play football in the streets, throwing marbles in the dirt, Mariams’ bending head and desert hands. I can’t resist their shy smiles, tentative handshakes and laughter. The exchange is so precious to me, and yet I feel almost guilty for getting to know them then walking away from them. One part of me asks Why not share yourself with these people? Why not open to them, give them what you are, share your own smile? The other part cringes when they say “don’t leave, it makes me sad”. I am trying to find the balance because I am beginning to believe that the life of a westerner in a place like this is bound to be full of such interactions, and the inevitable truth is that, one day, we will all leave. I will always have Oregon to go home to, and I think it is that knowledge sets me apart from these people more than anything else.

I remember an afternoon in Washington DC saying goodbye to someone I cared for. I stood in the arching hall of the metro station, feeling the woosh of air as the trains flew by. In my hand was a fresh, ripe plum. As he boarded the train, and it swept away, I felt the smooth curve of the plum in my palm. I took a bite, the smooth skin resisted a moment before breaking and a sweet, subtle, violet flavor flooded my mouth. I could not imagine anything better than enjoying that plum at that instant, having known someone and shared with him some small part of myself, the fruit now tasted so much more alive. I have come to believe that relationships are what make life sweeter. The moments we share with others are the ones that help us receive greater pleasure and participate to a fuller extent in our lives. I hope that all my interactions will end with the same ease as the children running, laughing back to their gutted car: A smile, handshake, an acknowledgement of each others differences just as much as an appreciation of them. And after, the great appreciation of life itself, as it is, full and sweet and delicious.

Monday, February 5, 2007

Coaching for Hope: Reflections

1.31.07 Overflow

If I could describe the last 10 days in one sentence, I would say it was a glass constantly overflowing. Each new day brought higher levels of inspiration, excitement, wonder, passion, and confidence in the project I am now involved in.
Often, I would make my way home, slowly picking my way through the dirt, dazed and smiling, my nerve endings tingling, my acceptance of joy simply brimming.

I can’t begin to describe or recount all that has happened over the last week, but there are many moments that flash though my head like a slideshow of color and light and movement. I still wonder of is not all just a dream. The office work: accounts, translations, “Bloody f***ing ‘ell” exclamations from my UK counterparts, makes me believe this really happened. Following are a few sketches of the last week:


ABPAM, School for the blind and partially sighted. Three new coaches are leading football training sessions with groups of blind and partially sighted children. One of the new coaches bounces a ball in the center of the circle. The bells inside the ball ring so that the children hear each bounce, then shout the number of bounces. They laugh together if someone misses, and shout excitedly whenever he bounces the ball.

In another corner of the pitch, David rolls a ball towards a small boy who’s excitement shows in the pinwheeling arms, continuous jumping, scrunched up face and big grin every time he hears the ball approaching.

The art session is inside, so I wander into the long room, and see 25 children sitting at a table creating football players out of tin foil. Yacouba Kaboré, a new coach, reaches around the shoulders of one child to help him form the arms and legs of the player, murmmering encouraging words and learning through his voice and touch as opposed to his eyes.

Video clip: HIV/AIDS Session #4, Group A led by Romain and Kafui. I sit apart from the table, surrounded by ten new coaches (two women and eight men). Romain leans against the front table, watching as the conversation bounces back and forth. The topic of discussion is how to properly store and use a condom. Is it OK to use if it has been in your pocket for several months? How do you negotiate sex with a condom? The discussion is animated and everyone has something to add, or ask. This is the type of learning I like to see. Finally, they come to a conclusion. I watch as Romain eases into the next topic, with ten faces eager around him to throw in their two cents and discover where the others stand.

Sound bite: Senior coaches meeting Monday, the 29th. I sat surrounded by the nine faces of local coaches who had made this event possible. Over the past week, I had come to recognize each one, their coaching style, their presence, how they interacted with the group. I had watched each day as they brought dynamism and excitement and skill and respect to their groups of coaches and was now anxious to hear what they had to say about the event. Someone mentioned that Tom would like for the coaches to try and quantify how many hours per week they dedicated to Coaching for Hope. Kafui, a.k.a. Benjamin points his finger in the air and says in his clear, quiet voice:
“There is no way to quantify the time we put into Coaching for Hope; it has entered into our daily habits. There is now no way to take it out.” His comment was supported by a loud chorus of agreement. “It’s in our blood!” “It has changed the way we live on a daily basis” “ Coaching for Hope is a part of our lives; you now couldn’t take it out if you wanted to.”

Coaching for HOPE! Session 1

1.22.07 CFH BF Day 1

We arrive at the stadium at 7:30 am. I greet Roma and Kaba and a few of the new coaches who have already shown up. There is a group of men setting up the tents and our equipment has been unloaded onto the field. Without seeing anything else to do, I begin to set up the goals we have had made. The white paper with “Coaching for Hope” and ADIDAS alternating on the cross bar shines bright against dry grass in the early morning sun. As the coaches trickle in and wander around the area, I greet them and try out my new handshake- the burkinabe way. At the end of a short strong shake, I curl my first two fingers just barely, and put a little resistance against theirs so that when we finish, my fingers snap back into my palm. If it is done right, it sounds like I have just snapped my own fingers and I get a glance of appreciation and a smile, or the louder ohhhhhhh, the all purpose Burkinabé sound: full of laughter and surprise. It is a sound that fits these people well.

The day officially starts with a small greeting and introduction by the UK coaches, and then the session is handed over to the local senior coaches who have been chosen to run all the sessions. My desire to see immediate success in the program conflicts with my desire to see it sustainable and handed over to the locals. I must admit that at first I was skeptical; it’s hard to let go of the perception that I could offer guidance or help to make the process more efficient or effective. Standing by, watching people roam around without seeming to get the coaching sessions started, I itched to do something- anything. I think we all (especially myself and the UK coaches) felt a little disconcerted to let go of the reins. My ideas about how I’d like to see things work were being blown away into the dust and I was being asked to stand around and watch it happen.

By the end of the day, that perception had changed drastically. I went from hesitance and frustration to wonder and appreciation. I watched the senior coaches as they led the new coaches in drills. I listened to the easy, joking laughter and horsing around. I watched each group begin to develop a dynamic among themselves, and through all this, I saw greater confidence glimmer in the eyes of the leaders. By the time they came in for a break and the HIV/AIDS training session all the groups seemed to have meshed and the senior coaches had stepped beautifully into the roles of leadership. They cooperated and supported each other, working easily as a team.

The HIV/AIDS training session boosted my confidence in the process even more. I sat and listened to one of them, loving the chance to see each person discussing their views, the leaders accepting and facilitating smoothly. I could not imagine a better way to do it.

In the afternoon, my excitement cup spilled over as I watched several of the new coaches take a group of 50 students at the Collège St. Christophe for a football training session. Each took their group through a set of drills and led their students with ease. This time, it was the new coaches, bringing what they had learned in the morning session into their work with the kids at school.

Going to a school made me feel like a celebrity. My white skin, my different accent, everything I said or did attracted the attention and adoration of the students. I had boys rapping to me, girls asking for my address, I felt constantly surrounded by a mass of bright faces, grinning into mine. Though it was quite and ego boost to feel sought after, this experience paled in comparison to the joy I experienced watching the senior coaches lead HIV/AIDS sessions and watching the new coaches run drills in the soft dusty schoolyard. This day has shown

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

1.20.07 Market

Come. Step away for a moment. Pick your feet up to avoid brief puddles of mud and charcoal and orange peel but don’t be afraid of the dust that will collect between your toes and fill the gaps in your fingernails. You will feel strange at first, notice the blanched color of your skin, then the smooth dark glow of the people around you. But let that go. Yes, you are different. And when you smile, your teeth will line up in straight rows like the life you left behind; Here, people will smile with all their teeth and you will remark at the gaps, the pink gums, the dark holes. If this makes you uncomfortable, simply let their voices roll around you like a torn, dusty quilt, welcoming you in and holding you softly. While you are here, you will sew your own patchwork and none of the pieces will be the same size or shape. You will not know the pattern until you have finished, and perhaps, you will never finish.

BonJour! ça va! Here you will hear a greeting every five steps you take. And you may notice that the language wraps around words with a slight southern twang. Mouths curl around the vowels to leave each phrase in a smile. You try saying it back “ Bon Jour, Ca va bien! “ and realize before you know it that you are smiling too.

You arrive at the market whose entrance is signaled by nothing but a greater concentration of buyers and sellers. You pause for an instant, a white woman, a white purse, sunglasses, and a friends warning ringing in your head. “ I heard you get ripped off there; someone told me you get hassled a lot if you go by yourself; most whites don’t shop there” But the street unloads before you, a tight dirt patch lined crookedly with rugs and blankets and tomatoes and lettuce and fish and fly strewn meat, and small bags of spice and salt. Here, every vendor greets you. “Bon Jour!” offering up a tomato or maybe even just a smile. One woman finishes her lunch and offers you the last bite of rice. You shake your head and tell her she should finish it, so she scoops it up in her right hand, lining the edge of the metal bowl with her fingers before licking them. The greetings are warm and constant so you take your time to step past the blankets and booths, making eye contact, returning each “Bon jour, ca va!” with your own smile, and “ca va, merci, et vous?” this simple constant gesture makes you feel at home, welcome, and friendly with each person you pass. Often it feels as if you are sharing some secret joke, you nod your head, your cheeks scrunch up in smile, and you realize that the secret joke is the simple, honest fact of your greeting.

In the slow course of your meanderings, you are greeted by a fabric seller. He gestures for you so come inside. Again, you hesitate. You don’t want to buy anything; you are alone; you don’t know this person; you don’t want to show too much interest. But the fabrics that line the entry ruffle in the wind: bright colors, stiff cottons, light flowered tulles. You duck in after him. In the dim light the patterns and colors line each other, rows and rows, each wall covered with different bolts of fabric, neatly folded. The light soaks in through corrugated tin roof and leaks through the elusive entryway. You feel as if you have entered another world, a harem. He leads you into tight, dim rooms, and you become lost in a labyrinth of color and pattern. The roof provides welcomed shade. you duck in and out of “rooms” lifting the light tissue, gently pushing aside the stiff cottons. He offers you tea and you sit down. He is smooth but you relent. You take a small sip of the white drink he offers. It has a light taste of chalk and some sweet herb that could perhaps be allspice. After you wander slowly through each flowing space and meet the young boys who are in the far back corner where an ally separates you from the next stall, you move back towards to front. A piece of dark blue fabric like the middle of an ocean catches your eye. It has dark red jungle green patterns printed on it, and you decide it is worth the dollar he is offering to sell it to you for.

Outside, the street is still hot and dusty. You pass crates packed full of black and white chickens, you pass old men crouched and eating lunch, tires and a mishmash of shiny and rusted bikes. Finally, you are ready to go home. You still have not found the hat you were searching for, so you ask someone where you might find one. This sets off an unexpected chain reaction. He calls “David… David…. DAVID” it comes out sounding Daaahvveeed and from across the way David appears, short and smooth skinned. You explain to him what you would like, and he guides you to a shady bench to wait, then disappears into the market. After a few minutes he returns, carrying a wide brimmed straw hat, just what you had asked for. You haggle the price with him, then start joking with the others who are around. Finally you begin to move away, having forgotten entirely to pay. He gently reminds you, and you laugh together about how easy it is to forget the money when the personal exchange is so full. You hand him the money, knowing you paid too much. But then again you realize how nice it was to sit in the shade while he went searching, how friendly the neighboring vendors were, and suddenly this price comes nowhere close to value of the interaction you have just shared. You pick your way over and though the vendors. They smile at you and you smile back, still white, still a bit of a stranger, but something in you has changed; you feel comfortable here, at home, welcome.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Football in the Streets

1.14.07

Burkina Faso smells like Barbeque and dust, like the Fourth of July mid afternoon when everyone has retreated from the crowds to their houses and begun to relax into evening. On my way from the airport last night I felt cool air upon my face and inhaled the thick, smoky, heavy air. In the morning, I found more subtlety in the air, it was a bit lighter and I could almost sense rather than smell a sweet, fresh undertone of tropical flowers. It is now mid afternoon and the semi charcoaled scent hangs in the hazy, white sky.

After arriving, I had a glass of beer at the house with Jonathan and Elena, two friends who will be staying in Burkina Faso, then crashed under my mosquito net until 11AM the next morning. I awoke to a quiet house, ate bread and jam for breakfast, then went to the market with Elena. It wasn’t until I was walking down the street, passing women in brilliant, printed fabrics carrying things on their heads that I truly believed I was in Africa. Last night, passing the square cement structures, loud colored hair salons, corrugated tin roofs and bumpy dirt roads, the collection of motorbikes and men that congregate at each off-shoot of the main road I easily could have convinced myself that I was back in the Dominican Republic. Today, I know better. The people are different. I try not to stare at the loads that women carry on their heads, at the peacock shaped fabrics that juts of their heads, the smooth, dark skin.

Returning home with bananas and bread, I pause at the gate to my house. across the street a group of boys pass around a soccer ball. I smile, half to myself, half to them and one comes over, passes me the ball. I pass back and he jukes me. He rolls it behind his legs, over the roots of a tree, bounces it against the wall, through the puddle in the middle of the street while I chase after him, low, following his moves, jabbing every so often and missing. It is so natural, this progression into some semblance of a relationship. Soon, we are passing the ball, all five of us. Elena takes the groceries inside and a few more kids gather around the periphery. After a while we have six and start to scrimmage. At first I try to avoid the piles of bird feathers and charcoal and puddles of the street, but soon I am in, and all I see are the green shorts of my first friend, and the blue “Zidane” jersey of my other team mate. We play for a while, till the game gets big and all I know is to pass to green shorts and blue jersey. Everyone else seems to be trying to get the ball from me. More people gather on the periphery, girls and small children. I stop to talk to them; they are more shy. Without football to talk around, conversation is a little more difficult. I bounce between playing, and standing in the shade, smiling at the girls. After a while I go inside, to get a glass of water and my camera. When I come back out, the camera becomes a hit. They gather round and I take pictures of each juggling the ball, then they crowd around to look and giggle at their friends photos, then jump “Et moi maintenant” Now me, now him! Their voices are more rhythmic than European French, they sound rounder, like you could bounce a ball around their words. I teach them to play “Head, Catch” (thanks Mom, great game!) It is easy and I am trying hard to get the girls involved. I throw the ball, say “ tete” and they catch it, I throw the ball and say “main” and they head it. It has been a long afternoon, and I am thinking my job wont be so hard.

Now I look down at my legs and realize that I have already picked up some African color: the streaked terra of dust films my legs to just the inside hem of my skirt and fine layer now lives between my toes. Every time I eat something or take a drink, the first taste is somewhat chalky. Johnathan has come back and is itching to go watch his football team play, we’re headed for the bar. Life is good. Signing off.

In Transit

1.13.07

Paris. Cool stoned skies match the paneled exteriors of stone buildings. The neon lights of shop windows belie a world of color and light and excitement to buy. It is SOLDES season, which means everything is on sale (and still unaffordable). What excites me are the rows of white hemmed windows above, their subdued hues, each a shadowed mystery disguised by uniformity, matching ironwork, and their tall view into the narrow street.

Once again, the busy airport. I feel as if I need to dive into every sight and smell and sound of this buying world. The perfume store lures me with its rows of glimmering bottles; the shopkeeper eyes my ragged backpack and flat shoes. I am a customer to watch not for my wallet but for my bull in a china shop allure. I take a deep whiff of Gualtier. I like the way the name rolls off my tongue when I whisper it to myself, the weighty assurance of gualt followed by a breathy and light eee- eh at the end; it comes in the bottle shaped like a woman and has a scent that makes me think of velvet nights and long, black gowns: something feminine and light without the sickly sweet fruit or vanilla that seems to characterize everything else. With no reason to buy such extravagance I spray it into my scarf and walk gently out of the store. I will carry this scent into the desert where it will be slowly erased by dust.

I admit it: I am basking in the extremes of this western world, giving myself to the simple, yet sometimes extravagant pleasures. Strolling the gardens of Rodin, licking Nuttella off my fingers, filling up on the rich scent of French perfumes, and loving the hot Vermont coffee steaming up to meet my lips. Part of me basks in this as if it were a guilty pleasure. Another part of me already feels disconnected from it, maybe always has. I am looking forward to the transition into a world where I am not faced daily by the names and brands and fashions whose sole purpose seem to be to make me feel like an outsider, like I always need more. I am happy with my secret scarf full of Gaultier and look forward to what happens when it mixes with the scent of fried dough and desert dust.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Home Fire



The fire crackles and fills my small living room and kitchen with the orange glow of dancing flames, soul filling heat, and the soft burning smell of trees chopped by my dad in the woods outside my house. Last night I slept next to this fire, battling sleep while trying to soak in all warmth of my sleeping family. Outside, the moon fell in long, silver beams through the trees and unto the snow. I felt suspended in darkness between the stark, cold light of the moon and the golden glow of the fire, caught in a quiet world without borders or clear definitions. This image seems to fit my state of mind right now: quiet, floating somewhere between the fullness and abundance of home and a certain emptiness of self I need in order to begin life anew.