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.