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.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
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.
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