I am not a risk-taker by nature. Most people would say that's a ludicrous statement. I am, after all, about to board a plane to Senegal, Africa, for a six-month family sabbatical. I have agreed, reluctantly, to accompany my husband, an auto-didactic architect, to a country where there are no building codes so he can construct an earth architecture house with no pedantic constraints. Though he has researched this alternative building method with passion and aplomb, I realize early on in his presentation to us that this is really about a basic need to play with dirt, which appeals wildly to our two small children. He has always tended to color outside the lines, which to him were blurry to begin with, however, this particular divergence seems to be the manifestation of a mid-life crisis, albeit an admirable one. Relieved that it hasn't involved a size two, twenty-two year old blond (my antithesis) or a long unquenched desire to play electric guitar (my nemesis), I agree to support him. I hear the adventurer that I long to be say, "Sure, honey, that sounds exciting. Let's do it." What I am really thinking is, "over my dead body." And that's exactly what I envision: my malaria-stricken form, sweaty and prostrate on the bed, surrounded by my teary children reaching out to touch me one last time, their small fingers widening the holes of our faulty mosquito net.
These macabre visions are unfortunately nothing new. Where Richard sees the beauty and potential in the open flow of living something unknown, I imagine the thickness, the dark what-ifs that we may not have control over. I can't help it. As hard as I try to dive into life the way my husband does, I am more likely to be waiting at the side with an outstretched fluffy towel when he resurfaces. But I trust him, his instincts and talents, and so I almost always acquiesce to the bigger decisions in our lives, like moving to Africa. I credit myself with at least recognizing the value of being led out of my comfort zone from time to time. It's the smaller, seemingly insignificant choices that always pose the bigger problem for me, the ones that are my decision alone, that don't effect anyone else. I tend to be the one who sits on the sidelines and watches, who stays behind (because someone has to), or if I do go, to be the slightly resentful designated driver.
For this particular adventure, I volunteer to pack for everyone, not out of kindness, but because I am terrified of what might be forgotten should anyone else do it. My knowledge of Africa has been authored, filtered and pre-packaged by the American press and I can only conjure up insurmountable images of sick, skeletal children, flies buzzing at their sticky eyes, razed, burned villages, women in dire need of a sympathetic god. But Richard assures me that Senegal is a diverse, democratic and stable country where we will be welcomed, a country of progress and equality. Everyone there is poor by our standards, but tragedies are managed and gorillas (both Pongidae and human) tend to exist in the more tropical regions of Africa, far from our arid and peaceful destination.
Two weeks after we arrive, Richard has fully adjusted, my children have nearly adopted, but and I am still somewhat adjacent to this new culture. We decide to take a short trip with six French friends to the Sine-Saloum Delta, Senegal's only functioning area of protected waterways. After surviving a four hour drive along the hot sand route to avoid traffic and vertebrae crushing potholes, I sit outside our solar powered eco-hut taking in the views while my husband and children nap. This gives me a chance to reflect on the arsenal I have packed. I run the list through my mind: insect repellent, anti-itch, anti-nausea, anti-diarrheal, sunscreen, snacks, vitamins, extra water, toilet paper, clothes, flashlight, candles, matches. Yes, I am comforted by the prophylactic protection I have provided for myself and my family and I begin to relax. As I sip on a bottle of filtered spring water imported from France, I hear laughter echoing from the river basin down below and decide to explore. Our friends have all changed into their bathing suits and are splashing in the river. Because it is low tide, there is an area of open shallow water and then a large part of basin lies exposed. I watch as they swim across the river to the delta and begin to walk among the birds and close to a large cluster of dense mangroves. Their distant voices call to each other and travel up the slope, reaching me long after the words have dissipated. On a whim, I run back to our hut, strip and search for my bathing suit. I will join them. Exhilarated, I pull out ziplocks filled with gels and creams, clothes rolled around glass containers, shoes stuffed with socks to avoid a potential hiding place for scorpions. I reach the bottom of the bag and then search through the second small duffle which I already know holds mostly food reserves. I sit down hard on the floor as the realization comes: I have forgotten my bathing suit. But this is Africa and so I uncharacteristically ad lib. Donning matching underwear and bra and a large beachtowel, I run down the path, descend the rickety stairs and come to a halt. By the time I get there, they have already swam back and are lying on the beach, panting out their enthusiasm. "SOU PEAR" one says as he passes me on the stairs. "C'etait incroyable" another rasps, wiping droplets from his flushed cheeks before bounding up the stairs with the others.
Oh, I think to myself, I missed it. Maybe next time. As their voices fade, Africa and I are alone for the first time. I let the towel go and walk into the river to wet my feet. I can't see the bottom. The air is starting to chill and I am tired. Dangerous, perhaps. My book is waiting. It's just as well. Still, I can't help but take one last look across to the wide expanse on the other side. Is the shore near or is it far? The flat bottom of the river is bubbling up visibly in the distance, birds hovering, some picking their way along the massive flats, mangroves swaying at the edge of the shore, waving to me. I look back down at my feet in the water, inch in a little further. Sun descending. A small current swirling and chirping. Something darting between my ankles. Feet in the water isn't much, I think. A small shiver. And I dive.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Dream Catcher
We all have messages that we have carried forth from childhood, ideas that our parents repeated time and time again which infiltrated our consciousness and became like genetic myths, familial foundations. Like a dream catcher, I guarded the most important of those ideas and filtered them as I went through my life, letting the ones that seemed irrelevant or untrue fall away as I shaped my own opinions, made my own choices and discovered my own truths. The one message that stuck, the words that guided the first twenty years of my adulthood, came from my father. “Do what you love and success will follow.” It sounded simple enough. Only I got it all wrong. Not that the message itself was faulted, it served my father well--he was a successful businessman and hotelier. But I had assumed that, by “success”, my father meant money, and that his model of success would help shape my own. The only problem was that pursuing what felt natural to me wouldn’t necessarily bring me the paychecks I envisioned. Because my passions erred on the creative side, I was constantly at odds with myself. I wanted to be a writer, an artist. But I was young and my words were trite, my story ordinary and unformed. Young girl moves to New York after college and instead of creating art, sells it. Writes on the side, but doesn’t yet have soul or depth or material to draw from and the rejection letters begin to pile up. It was a fresh life, a struggled beginning. I eventually opened my own business, a textile showroom that specialized in hand-made fabrics. Ah, finally . . . success. It was a beautiful business with a shaky financial model and it failed, miserably, within three years, ushered gently to ruin by the financial repercussions of 9/11. What went wrong? Wasn’t I doing what I loved? Well, not exactly.
When I looked closely at my life, I had accumulated things, had a resume, was an entrepreneur. But I wasn’t happy and I didn’t have much money. And so I began to think about my father’s message, “Do what you love and success will follow.” As I married and had two children, I began to understand that success comes to us in many forms. For me it came with the realization of a dream and the subsequent learning that came from it's failure. It came as I saw my children grow into miraculously unique individuals and continues daily as I guide them, stepping gingerly out of their way. It came as I learned that being kind to others in the smaller ways that may not seem significant actually set us on a path to greater generosity. Our recent decision to return to Senegal in the hopes of building earth homes for those less fortunate than us came naturally but unexpectedly.
That first six-month venture took us by surprise. We left the United States with the idea that we needed to construct something solid and sustainable for our future. Our personal economic situation mirrored that of the world's global crisis and we saw the writing on the wall. We were fortunate enough to have gotten a small windfall from our textile business. It was a gift that held more promise than we knew. With that check, we had two choices. The first was to stay in Savannah with few pending opportunities and watch the money dwindle within months. Our lifestyle had been authored in more prosperous times and we knew we could no longer sustain our habits. Or we could take a portion of those funds, go to Senegal and build an earth house that would be all ours. No mortgage, no bills (off-the-grid energy and water meant a self-sustaining environment.) It would mean giving up small luxuries like a washer and dryer, dishwasher, TV and countless others we take for granted. But it would also mean discovering another culture, exposing our children to the "otherness" that could assist their world view. And it would mean that Richard could realize his dream of building something from nothing. So we left. And we built. And we learned that what we were doing could help countless others. We could train them to build with earth and solve an enormous housing crisis. Success had come to us in the form of a simpler choice, seeing that we could help others by doing what felt right.
What we didn't know was how rich we would become. Rich with a sense of accomplishment, rich with ideas, rich with support, rich with culture. A richness of welcoming greeted us in the Senegalese people and stayed with us daily, grew into friendships, partnerships and encompassed us with it's growing familiarity and hospitality. We were given an understanding of the true richness of the Muslim religion, of it's family-based value system and focus on selflessness, kindness and generosity. Too often we take what we are told by the press as "the truth", only to be shocked by the realization that we know nothing, that there is an altogether different truth that shares the stage with the extremist's version. Sadly, this more important and widespread Muslim truth takes backstage to our fears, which in today's world seem to be ravenous, insatiable and fed all too often. Our fears have become obese. But we are learning, I believe, to be hopeful once again, to re-evaluate our needs and let go of what isn't important, holding on to what really matters, like family, love, spending time face-to-face with friends, taking stock of our lives. We witnessed this hope in the response we got from posting our video, "A Turning of the Soil." The support and encouragement we received from friends and strangers alike was astounding and helped me to understand that we are doing the right thing, that I have achieved success and a sense of purpose in this venture with Richard. I have achieved fulfillment on my own in being able to write again. I have achieved a larger love in my desire to return to Africa. This is just the beginning of a nascent chapter in my life and how exciting that I have only an outline of what's to come!
Unfortunately, there are a handful of people who do not support me, who have criticized our choice to go back to Senegal, who don't (or refuse) to see that it really isn't a choice, but a responsibility to follow through with our ability to help others. They attempt to debunk the illogical reasoning behind the decision. There was no decision--Life has led us to this place. Finally I am happy and fully able to understand my father's message. More importantly, I am able to employ my dream catcher, holding on dearly to those who support me, fiercely guarding my belief in myself, in Richard's talents and the merits of this project and letting go of those who doubt and fear. In the center, where the eye of the dream resides, I will continue to hold my father's message "Do what you love and success will follow." And I will add to it and repeat to my children time and time again, "Live your dreams, both big and small. They are your greatest gift to the world."
When I looked closely at my life, I had accumulated things, had a resume, was an entrepreneur. But I wasn’t happy and I didn’t have much money. And so I began to think about my father’s message, “Do what you love and success will follow.” As I married and had two children, I began to understand that success comes to us in many forms. For me it came with the realization of a dream and the subsequent learning that came from it's failure. It came as I saw my children grow into miraculously unique individuals and continues daily as I guide them, stepping gingerly out of their way. It came as I learned that being kind to others in the smaller ways that may not seem significant actually set us on a path to greater generosity. Our recent decision to return to Senegal in the hopes of building earth homes for those less fortunate than us came naturally but unexpectedly.
That first six-month venture took us by surprise. We left the United States with the idea that we needed to construct something solid and sustainable for our future. Our personal economic situation mirrored that of the world's global crisis and we saw the writing on the wall. We were fortunate enough to have gotten a small windfall from our textile business. It was a gift that held more promise than we knew. With that check, we had two choices. The first was to stay in Savannah with few pending opportunities and watch the money dwindle within months. Our lifestyle had been authored in more prosperous times and we knew we could no longer sustain our habits. Or we could take a portion of those funds, go to Senegal and build an earth house that would be all ours. No mortgage, no bills (off-the-grid energy and water meant a self-sustaining environment.) It would mean giving up small luxuries like a washer and dryer, dishwasher, TV and countless others we take for granted. But it would also mean discovering another culture, exposing our children to the "otherness" that could assist their world view. And it would mean that Richard could realize his dream of building something from nothing. So we left. And we built. And we learned that what we were doing could help countless others. We could train them to build with earth and solve an enormous housing crisis. Success had come to us in the form of a simpler choice, seeing that we could help others by doing what felt right.
What we didn't know was how rich we would become. Rich with a sense of accomplishment, rich with ideas, rich with support, rich with culture. A richness of welcoming greeted us in the Senegalese people and stayed with us daily, grew into friendships, partnerships and encompassed us with it's growing familiarity and hospitality. We were given an understanding of the true richness of the Muslim religion, of it's family-based value system and focus on selflessness, kindness and generosity. Too often we take what we are told by the press as "the truth", only to be shocked by the realization that we know nothing, that there is an altogether different truth that shares the stage with the extremist's version. Sadly, this more important and widespread Muslim truth takes backstage to our fears, which in today's world seem to be ravenous, insatiable and fed all too often. Our fears have become obese. But we are learning, I believe, to be hopeful once again, to re-evaluate our needs and let go of what isn't important, holding on to what really matters, like family, love, spending time face-to-face with friends, taking stock of our lives. We witnessed this hope in the response we got from posting our video, "A Turning of the Soil." The support and encouragement we received from friends and strangers alike was astounding and helped me to understand that we are doing the right thing, that I have achieved success and a sense of purpose in this venture with Richard. I have achieved fulfillment on my own in being able to write again. I have achieved a larger love in my desire to return to Africa. This is just the beginning of a nascent chapter in my life and how exciting that I have only an outline of what's to come!
Unfortunately, there are a handful of people who do not support me, who have criticized our choice to go back to Senegal, who don't (or refuse) to see that it really isn't a choice, but a responsibility to follow through with our ability to help others. They attempt to debunk the illogical reasoning behind the decision. There was no decision--Life has led us to this place. Finally I am happy and fully able to understand my father's message. More importantly, I am able to employ my dream catcher, holding on dearly to those who support me, fiercely guarding my belief in myself, in Richard's talents and the merits of this project and letting go of those who doubt and fear. In the center, where the eye of the dream resides, I will continue to hold my father's message "Do what you love and success will follow." And I will add to it and repeat to my children time and time again, "Live your dreams, both big and small. They are your greatest gift to the world."
Friday, May 1, 2009
Leah on a Cloud
Leah seems to be very present in my life at the moment and so she is permeating my writing, as well as my thoughts, memories, dreams, even conversations. I can't say why, but I trust that she is helping me work through her death in such a way that I don't feel her loss so deeply. She seems to be ushering me into a new phase of acceptance and I no longer push the feelings and memories down in fear that they will rip me apart. To the contrary, I welcome the visions. For me, they are keeping her alive. It's as if she's saying, "wait, see, I'm still here. I didn't go anywhere. I can still help." When she passed away, my children tried to comfort me and at the same time, make sense of death in a general way and of her loss in particular. Because death to all of us, children and adults alike, asks us to suspend all rationale and seek our own understanding of it's meaning, they each did so in a different way, befitting their individual personalities. They had met Leah and she had made a lasting impression on them. I remember very specifically that she had treated them like people, spoken to them levelly, listening as she always did with real interest and attention. I try to do the same for them these days. It's not my strongest quality, but it's a destination I will reach because I know how good it feels to know you are heard. Leah taught me that.
The following is a conversation I had last night with my 4 year old daugher, Sunny. I think it's worth sharing:
Sunny: "Mama, I don't want my kitty to be sick because then she might die." She begins to cry.
Me: "Oh, sweetheart, your kitty isn't going to die. She just has a little cold. She'll be just fine, I promise."
Sunny: "Will she won't die because she's just a baby and babies don't die? Is it not her time?"
Me: "No, it's not her time. She has a long kitty life ahead of her."
Sunny: "But it wasn't Leah's time and she died. She wasn't old."
Me: "Yes, that's true. She was still young, but her heart was sick and so she died."
Sunny: "Is she sitting on a cloud in the sky?"
Me: "Is that how you picture her?"
Sunny: "Uh-huh."
Me: "Then, yes, that's where she is. On a cloud in the sky."
Sunny: "If my kitty does die, can she go sit on the cloud next to Leah, so she can be petted."
Me: "I think that's an excellent idea."
Sunny: "Mama, will Leah come back in the Spring?"
Me: "Yes and no. She won't come back as she was before. We won't see her and talk to her like before. But when you see flowers bloom and birds sing, you'll know she's there. Her spirit is in all the beautiful things in the world and here in Senegal like the ocean and the baobab trees and our earth house. Leah's spirit lives in all the things we love."
Sunny: "Mama, I think Leah lives in pizza. . . and on a cloud in the sky."
Friday, April 24, 2009
Un pain, Deux Madeleines: His Independence Meant My Letting Go
“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You're on your own.
And you know what you know. You are the guy who'll decide where to go.”~ Dr. Seuss
About fifty yards from our house in Senegal is a small boutique-- a shanty really--with a bright blue door. It is no bigger than my closet, but much better organized and filled with an astounding array of sundries ranging from matches and batteries to spices, detergent, clothes pins and onions. It has a small refrigerator filled with butter, milk and cold drinks, a dirt floor and a narrow counter behind which stands Boubakar, the young Senegalese man who serves us with a big gap-toothed smile. Flies buzz about, deranged by the current of air the single fan provides against the dusty heat, but no one seems to mind.
We wait in line every morning, lingering in the doorway, exchanging greetings with our Senegalease neighbors. "Naka suba si?" How are you this morning? "Dafa tung." It's very hot today. Several hours before any of us wake up, before the kingfishers and starlings begin their morning chorus, the bakery truck delivers fresh baguettes to the boutique, a flour sac full of them, to entice us from our beds. For me, seeking our morning bread, "le pain quotidien," spread with fresh salted butter and local mango preserves, is the ritual that starts my day. Madeleines, those light and delicate French cakes, are Jamie's morning preference. Plain and unassuming, not too dense, not too sugary. One is never enough, but three is always too much, so he has settled on two. He eats them with gusto, wakes up thinking about them even before he is fully in the day.
I began taking Sunny and Jamie with me to the boutique when we first moved here. Still in their pajamas and sleepy-eyed, they would hide behind me while I placed my order. "Un pain et deux madeleines, s'il te plait." One bread and two madeleines, please. Over time, the kids began to look forward to our morning outing, their comfort level and familiarity with Boubakar, with the boutique and with Senegal increasing daily. The hands that once clung to the folds of my dress now reached out to shake someone else's. The eyes once stubbornly lowered to the floor, now took in and reflected back their surroundings. The timid voices and resistant ears once tethered to their native tongue, now tested new words in French and even Wolof.
The six months that we have been here have allowed my children to venture out of their comfort zone and wade into, not just a new culture, but an understanding of themselves in the larger world, their significance as individuals. This time has given them a measure of independence and an appreciation of a world that is at once foreign and familiar. All we did was show it to them, but they have made it their own, taken possession of it, found their way into it, grown from it's offerings.
One day recently, Jamie woke up and got dressed on his own. He came out of his bedroom and announced that today he was going to the boutique all by himself. An early riser, he usually lingers the morning away watching the waves roll in and listening to the birds chant as they tree hop, while Sunny still dreams in the deepest hour. Today was different. There was determination in the air and a new sense of confidence. "Where are my shoes, Mama?" I found them for him and bent to help him put them on. "No, no, I'll do it myself," he said, as he took the shoes from me. Who was this assured little boy? When had he found himself and put aside his fears? I hesitated to let him go by himself, my motherly urge to protect him welling up inside like the tide rising against the shore. I took a good look at my little boy, his eyes fixed, his demeanor calm and confident.
"Can I have some money?" he asked next.
"Well . . . sure," I said, and handed him a coin.
"What do I say again, how do I say it?" I told him in French. "Un pain, deux madeleines." He practiced once, and nodded. "Don't worry, I'll be right back," he assured me. I suppose he glimpsed what I was feeling in my expression, a mix of pride and loss. Not a painful loss, but one that had taken me by surprise, one I recognized as the first of what I knew would be many small letting goes. My first born, my baby boy, woke up a little bit more confident today, with a direction in mind, a goal to be met and a place to go. And I wasn't needed, wasn't invited.
I followed him outside, but he waved his hand over his head, shooing me away, gaining distance. He didn't look back. Once he was outside the gate, I ran to the wall to make sure he was alright. I watched him walk slowly, purposefully, but without hesitation toward the boutique. From a distance, I spotted several people waiting in line. The heat from the morning sun was just overtaking the night's chill and as it penetrated, Jamie shielded his eyes from it's glare. The sun. My son.
Just before I turned to go back to the house, I heard his barely audible voice repeating and receding from my own: "Un pain, deux madeleines. Un pain, deux madeleines. Un pain . . ."
And you know what you know. You are the guy who'll decide where to go.”~ Dr. Seuss
About fifty yards from our house in Senegal is a small boutique-- a shanty really--with a bright blue door. It is no bigger than my closet, but much better organized and filled with an astounding array of sundries ranging from matches and batteries to spices, detergent, clothes pins and onions. It has a small refrigerator filled with butter, milk and cold drinks, a dirt floor and a narrow counter behind which stands Boubakar, the young Senegalese man who serves us with a big gap-toothed smile. Flies buzz about, deranged by the current of air the single fan provides against the dusty heat, but no one seems to mind.
We wait in line every morning, lingering in the doorway, exchanging greetings with our Senegalease neighbors. "Naka suba si?" How are you this morning? "Dafa tung." It's very hot today. Several hours before any of us wake up, before the kingfishers and starlings begin their morning chorus, the bakery truck delivers fresh baguettes to the boutique, a flour sac full of them, to entice us from our beds. For me, seeking our morning bread, "le pain quotidien," spread with fresh salted butter and local mango preserves, is the ritual that starts my day. Madeleines, those light and delicate French cakes, are Jamie's morning preference. Plain and unassuming, not too dense, not too sugary. One is never enough, but three is always too much, so he has settled on two. He eats them with gusto, wakes up thinking about them even before he is fully in the day.
I began taking Sunny and Jamie with me to the boutique when we first moved here. Still in their pajamas and sleepy-eyed, they would hide behind me while I placed my order. "Un pain et deux madeleines, s'il te plait." One bread and two madeleines, please. Over time, the kids began to look forward to our morning outing, their comfort level and familiarity with Boubakar, with the boutique and with Senegal increasing daily. The hands that once clung to the folds of my dress now reached out to shake someone else's. The eyes once stubbornly lowered to the floor, now took in and reflected back their surroundings. The timid voices and resistant ears once tethered to their native tongue, now tested new words in French and even Wolof.
The six months that we have been here have allowed my children to venture out of their comfort zone and wade into, not just a new culture, but an understanding of themselves in the larger world, their significance as individuals. This time has given them a measure of independence and an appreciation of a world that is at once foreign and familiar. All we did was show it to them, but they have made it their own, taken possession of it, found their way into it, grown from it's offerings.
One day recently, Jamie woke up and got dressed on his own. He came out of his bedroom and announced that today he was going to the boutique all by himself. An early riser, he usually lingers the morning away watching the waves roll in and listening to the birds chant as they tree hop, while Sunny still dreams in the deepest hour. Today was different. There was determination in the air and a new sense of confidence. "Where are my shoes, Mama?" I found them for him and bent to help him put them on. "No, no, I'll do it myself," he said, as he took the shoes from me. Who was this assured little boy? When had he found himself and put aside his fears? I hesitated to let him go by himself, my motherly urge to protect him welling up inside like the tide rising against the shore. I took a good look at my little boy, his eyes fixed, his demeanor calm and confident.
"Can I have some money?" he asked next.
"Well . . . sure," I said, and handed him a coin.
"What do I say again, how do I say it?" I told him in French. "Un pain, deux madeleines." He practiced once, and nodded. "Don't worry, I'll be right back," he assured me. I suppose he glimpsed what I was feeling in my expression, a mix of pride and loss. Not a painful loss, but one that had taken me by surprise, one I recognized as the first of what I knew would be many small letting goes. My first born, my baby boy, woke up a little bit more confident today, with a direction in mind, a goal to be met and a place to go. And I wasn't needed, wasn't invited.
I followed him outside, but he waved his hand over his head, shooing me away, gaining distance. He didn't look back. Once he was outside the gate, I ran to the wall to make sure he was alright. I watched him walk slowly, purposefully, but without hesitation toward the boutique. From a distance, I spotted several people waiting in line. The heat from the morning sun was just overtaking the night's chill and as it penetrated, Jamie shielded his eyes from it's glare. The sun. My son.
Just before I turned to go back to the house, I heard his barely audible voice repeating and receding from my own: "Un pain, deux madeleines. Un pain, deux madeleines. Un pain . . ."
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Keur Leah
Construction on our house is coming to an end. In a few short weeks, Richard and the earth team will stop the building process and begin the laborious procedure of covering the walls with layer upon layer of lyme and palm oil. The long awaited rainy season is imminent. It will give clues to it's arrival, they tell us, with thicker air, softer skin, fewer micro-dust tunnels whirling down the open corridors, and skies that will fade from blue to a full spectrum of grey. It will tease those who have planted their crops, anxious for the first drops to inaugurate the growing and feeding cycle. The abundance of produce will help relieve the absence of money from tourists. One day someone will say "today, it will rain," and inevitably, it will. We will be gone by then and so our job is to protect what we have built so that, when we return, we can continue. The growth will resume.
Now that the mounds of dirt and wells of mud have reunited to form their walls as Richard intended, I can see a real house, imagine walking from room to room, living a life there. Before we leave, this house, which started as an idea and now has a presence, needs a name. There are no street names or numbers to identify homes here in Senegal. The wealthy French give their large beach-front villas monikers like "Eucalyptus Shores", and their friends successfully pick their way along the sandy lanes until they see the large, bold letters on the surrounding walls outside the security gate. The locals simply identify their homes by their family name. "Keur" in Wolof means both "heart" and "home", so a typical Senegalese house might have a small sign outside the front door which says "Keur Diop" or the heart and home of the Diop family. We first started thinking of names for the house when it was still Richard's dream drawn up on paper, before we ever set foot in Senegal. But the hard lines of a computer rendered plan couldn't possibly have hinted at the soul of this house, couldn't have told me how I would feel standing in it's rooms, envisioning it's future.
When we first decided to come to Senegal, I remember calling my friend Leah to tell her. Senegal was a place that was important to Leah. Her love of Africa was immense and she wanted to discover as much of it as possible. Among her many accomplishments, she had served as Director of Development for Asheshi University Foundation in Ghana. She had done substantial fundraising from their offices in Seattle and had visited the University in Ghana as a strategic consultant. We had long, in-depth phone calls during which she reiterated her desire to be a political ambassador to Africa one day, a role I feel would have fit her perfectly. Ciss, her boyfriend of many years, was a native of Senegal (a lovely fact that has never been lost on me) and together, we concocted dreams of long visits split between his family and our house, converging the coincidences of her world. She was the most diplomatic person I have ever known. She was optimistic, pragmatic and yet a dreamer in the most extraordinary ways. That's why I knew she would be a champion of our project. In addition to her desire to experience Senegal, Leah was very sensitive to the environment. Her dream was to one day build an eco-house with a small footprint, a house that was a responsible reflection of who she was--solar panels, geo-thermal heating, a green roof planted with water filtering species. A house of her own that was comfortable and beautiful on the inside, discreet and unpretentious on the outside. Much like Leah herself.
"That is just soooo cool," she said when I told her on the phone. I could feel her smile. "An earth house, I'm just so impressed. When can I come? No, first I want to hear all about it." I knew she meant it. She was the person who taught me how to listen--patiently, lovingly listen. She interrupted me only when she couldn't contain herself and needed to know something in further detail. "Now wait. So explain how the bricks are made." After an hour, I hung up feeling like we had made the best decision of our lives, her support and enthusiasm lifting me up to a place where all my nagging doubts lay in a puddle in the past. I could only envision our future as Leah saw it--and it no longer felt scary. She had brought sense to it, extracted it's virtues and grandness and held them up for me to see. This was perhaps Leah's greatest attribute--her ability to break down what felt like huge barriers to our dreams and successes. How many people did she help realize their potential? I hope to find out one day. She made her living as a life and business coach, but those of us who were fortunate enough to know her as a true friend, or sister, or daughter, know that she served as a catalyst for great change in our lives at least once. Helping me put aside my fears about this adventure in Africa and promising it's success was her last great gift to me. She passed away, suddenly and unexpectedly, on January 9th, three weeks after I arrived in Senegal.
There are days now, very few, when I don't think of her. That's what time and our ability to heal will do. Then there are those moments in the void, when I realize she will never come to Senegal, that I will never see her again, and I feel cheated, for me and for her. But mostly, I sense her spirit near, in the way I look at things differently since her death. I think less about what I have lost and more about what she gave me in the 25 years I knew and loved her. All those collective memories, conversations, shared experiences, inspirations that make up a friendship are like a pleasant aura that stays with me. All I have to do is turn to it and she is there, reassuring me once again that it will all be ok, that ideas and dreams are meant to be lived. I feel her spirit every time I sit down to write and the words just won't come. "Well, you can't just give up," I hear her say. And so I don't.
And neither does Richard when the work gets hard and the days get long. It all seems so obvious now in a way it couldn't have before we lost Leah. Our house here, with it's simplicity and bare beauty, it's openness to possibility, feels to me like the essence of Leah, like I could turn the corner and she would be there, admiring the openings toward the sky. It is our sanctuary, her sanctuary in Africa. In her honor, and with the promise that its walls will echo with her laughter and its doors will welcome with her arms, our house will be called "Keur Leah"--Leah's heart, Leah's home. It was built from the earth, and one day, many years from now, when it is no longer inhabited, it will be broken down to it's basic components, back to the earth. I think Leah would have liked that idea.
"When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die."
~Mary Elizabeth Frye
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The Answer: a Follow-up to "The Broken Vase"
"Forgiveness is the needle that knows how to mend" ~ Jewel
When you live in a foreign country, cultural differences are often hard to surmount, especially when we come to a relationship with preconceived notions of how the world should function, of how people should behave. I am certainly guilty of imposing my own morals on others, of judging other's actions as either "good" or "bad" according to my deeply ingrained value system. But what if there was another possibility, a different way of esteeming others that allowed us to suspend our own beliefs and simply wait for an answer?
Aysa returned with Sorna two days after we confronted her with her theft. We welcomed her and all sat down at the table . . . waiting for her answer, the one we expected, the truth as we knew it. For me, it seemed like the only way to mend what was broken. I was obsessed with hearing her say it . . . that she had stolen from us. I felt like a juror who had all the pieces that led to a sure conviction, but wanted a confession to ease that sliver of doubt that plagued me in my sleep. But she didn't give me what I needed. She neither admitted her wrongdoing nor apologized. She trembled, she cried, she bristled at our insistence, our prodding for the truth. Bou, her accuser and best friend, remained steadfast, telling us once again what he had seen her take from our house. She obviously felt cornered by us and betrayed by Bou. And yet, she only explained her difficulties at home, tears streaming down her face, anger in her voice. Her mother was expecting again, a difficult pregnancy which only added to her depressive tendencies and kept her in a silent torpor. This will be her sixth child. At that moment, all I wanted to do was cross over to the other side of the table and sit next to Aysa in the witness stand, put my arms around her and retract my verdict. Instead, I told her that I understood how scared she must feel, that if she could find the courage to tell us what happened, there would be no consequences, only forgiveness. She remained silent. We asked her to consider her relationship with Sunny and Jamie. For their sake, we hoped she could learn, could move forward with a second chance to be a part of our lives. We told her that, above all else, she and Bou needed to work out their differences, preserve their long-standing friendship. Emotions were high, polluting the air above us all and so we decided to leave the table and let the day pass, unresolved. Aysa sat on the beach ten yards from Bou. They didn't speak. Richard was pensive. I felt sullen and frustrated. Zorro was emotionally taxed and tired from translating. Jamie and Sunny ran on the beach, unaware of our problems. I proceeded to plague Zorro with questions, certain that he had the answers. I was seeking his cultural and spiritual point of view as a Muslim. Surely he understood her better than I. Why had she stolen, why had she refused to admit it? What was she scared of? He explained that stealing is one of the worst offenses in the Muslim religion and is highly punishable. She was terrified of the consequences. More importantly, he wondered why it was so imperative for me to have all the answers. He suggested that perhaps there was no resolution, that the truth lay in our individual ability to just forgive. He left me with this, literally, and took Richard back to work on the house.
Later that day, in the afternoon, I saw Aysa and Bou talking quietly on the beach. I wondered about the shape of that conversation, about it's path. These were children who were calling to each other across their divide, a lie on one side and a betrayal on the other. Red rover, red rover, let Aysa come over.
After they talked, Aysa asked me if she could borrow a small woven mat. When I handed it to her, she took it outside and laid it on the ground. Through the open door, I saw her gather all the children--Sorna, Bou, Jamie and Sunny. She lined them up in two rows and led them to pray namaz together, Jamie and Sunny unquestioningly following their rhythmic movements. Stand, kneel towards the sun, sit back on your heals, touch your forehead to the ground, one foot up, then the next towards the sky. Their grace as a group, their uniform movements, their individual reasons, were like watching a slow dance: show your humility, ask for forgiveness, reconcile your differences. As the only witness, I stood watching silently, reverently. My answer had finally come.
"Allah Akbar," I heard Aysa say. "God is great."
When you live in a foreign country, cultural differences are often hard to surmount, especially when we come to a relationship with preconceived notions of how the world should function, of how people should behave. I am certainly guilty of imposing my own morals on others, of judging other's actions as either "good" or "bad" according to my deeply ingrained value system. But what if there was another possibility, a different way of esteeming others that allowed us to suspend our own beliefs and simply wait for an answer?
Aysa returned with Sorna two days after we confronted her with her theft. We welcomed her and all sat down at the table . . . waiting for her answer, the one we expected, the truth as we knew it. For me, it seemed like the only way to mend what was broken. I was obsessed with hearing her say it . . . that she had stolen from us. I felt like a juror who had all the pieces that led to a sure conviction, but wanted a confession to ease that sliver of doubt that plagued me in my sleep. But she didn't give me what I needed. She neither admitted her wrongdoing nor apologized. She trembled, she cried, she bristled at our insistence, our prodding for the truth. Bou, her accuser and best friend, remained steadfast, telling us once again what he had seen her take from our house. She obviously felt cornered by us and betrayed by Bou. And yet, she only explained her difficulties at home, tears streaming down her face, anger in her voice. Her mother was expecting again, a difficult pregnancy which only added to her depressive tendencies and kept her in a silent torpor. This will be her sixth child. At that moment, all I wanted to do was cross over to the other side of the table and sit next to Aysa in the witness stand, put my arms around her and retract my verdict. Instead, I told her that I understood how scared she must feel, that if she could find the courage to tell us what happened, there would be no consequences, only forgiveness. She remained silent. We asked her to consider her relationship with Sunny and Jamie. For their sake, we hoped she could learn, could move forward with a second chance to be a part of our lives. We told her that, above all else, she and Bou needed to work out their differences, preserve their long-standing friendship. Emotions were high, polluting the air above us all and so we decided to leave the table and let the day pass, unresolved. Aysa sat on the beach ten yards from Bou. They didn't speak. Richard was pensive. I felt sullen and frustrated. Zorro was emotionally taxed and tired from translating. Jamie and Sunny ran on the beach, unaware of our problems. I proceeded to plague Zorro with questions, certain that he had the answers. I was seeking his cultural and spiritual point of view as a Muslim. Surely he understood her better than I. Why had she stolen, why had she refused to admit it? What was she scared of? He explained that stealing is one of the worst offenses in the Muslim religion and is highly punishable. She was terrified of the consequences. More importantly, he wondered why it was so imperative for me to have all the answers. He suggested that perhaps there was no resolution, that the truth lay in our individual ability to just forgive. He left me with this, literally, and took Richard back to work on the house.
Later that day, in the afternoon, I saw Aysa and Bou talking quietly on the beach. I wondered about the shape of that conversation, about it's path. These were children who were calling to each other across their divide, a lie on one side and a betrayal on the other. Red rover, red rover, let Aysa come over.
After they talked, Aysa asked me if she could borrow a small woven mat. When I handed it to her, she took it outside and laid it on the ground. Through the open door, I saw her gather all the children--Sorna, Bou, Jamie and Sunny. She lined them up in two rows and led them to pray namaz together, Jamie and Sunny unquestioningly following their rhythmic movements. Stand, kneel towards the sun, sit back on your heals, touch your forehead to the ground, one foot up, then the next towards the sky. Their grace as a group, their uniform movements, their individual reasons, were like watching a slow dance: show your humility, ask for forgiveness, reconcile your differences. As the only witness, I stood watching silently, reverently. My answer had finally come.
"Allah Akbar," I heard Aysa say. "God is great."
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Broken Vase
“Trust is like a vase.. once it's broken, though you can fix it, the vase will never be the same again.” ~ Unknown
I tried hard yesterday to recall the times I've stolen something in my life. I came up with two. It took a lot of searching through those shameful memories that we file away in a dark place in hopes that the good things, the souvenirs of honorable deeds and proud triumphs will stack up high enough to render those past mistakes inconsequential and powerless. But try as we might, the good sits only slightly in the forefront, shielding the bad like a dutiful, protective older sibling. Hide your darkness and you will certainly shadow your light.
The first time, at twelve, when my mother refused to buy me press-on nails, I stole some from the pharmacy. I remember vividly the intense thrill of putting them in my pocket unseen. Look to the left, look to the right, in your hand, now hide them. I'm breathing a little easier, shaking a little less. Now move toward the front door casually. No! buy something. A piece of candy, so you don't look suspicious. How daring. It's right here in my pocket and you have no idea. Smile. Pay for the candy. Say thank you. Leave. Keep walking down the street. No one following you. Freedom. Exhilarating! But now what? I remember crumbling with guilt half way down the street with the forceful realization that I'd stolen from the pharmacy that belonged to the parents of a good friend. And how would I explain my long nails to my mother? I hadn't thought this through. I had them, but I would never be able to wear them. At home, as I studied the small tube of glue and the beautiful, graduated sizes of milky plastic ovals through the unopened package, I hated my mother all over again. I couldn't win this one. So the next day, I took them back, or rather, snuck them back, reversing what I had done the day before--taking them out of my pocket, placing them on the hook, once again unseen. The single night that I spent with them under my pillow was torturous.
The second time, I was in my early twenties, working at my first job in an art gallery on Madison Avenue. I had helped edit our first published collection of 19th and 20th century paintings and the book was selling like hotcakes. One day, a client came in when the owner was out and bought three copies. He handed me $150 in cash and left. As I held the money in my hand, it felt comforting, it felt like a solution, like it belonged to me. It was me after all who worked tirelessly cataloguing, assisting the editor, typing, typing, always typing and retyping. And it was me after all who had sold all the books-- caressing the cover, holding the heavy book up to flip the pages, memorizing the most beautiful ones, saying something important about the oeuvre of each artist, then snapping the book shut and laying it on the table, always leaving the art lover wanting more. I had sold dozens and I was good at it. But I was underpaid and underappreciated. My rent was overdue. I didn't know how I would pay for lunch. This was a well-deserved tip, I told myself. I don't remember feeling overly guilty at the time, and yet this second and last memory of stealing had been stuffed way in the back of my mind, right alongside a small pile of painful regrets.
I had needed to conjure up these memories, this part of myself of which I am not proud, in order to see myself as human, far from perfect. I needed to remember that we are all weak at times, that situations can take over our animal instinct to survive, temporarily taint our principles. Mistakes can also propel us forward if we are willing to learn from them. I was trying to understand why Aysa and Sorna had stolen from us.
After months of building a relationship with these girls, the oldest of Jamie and Sunny's friends, we asked them to sit with the kids while Richard worked and I ran errands. It was the first time we'd given them such responsibility and they seemed so proud and eager to prove their capability. We went over house rules and safety and I left, feeling like our relationship had moved in an important direction. When I got home, the kids regaled me with details of a walk on the beach and a cache of unearthed kitchen tiles they had found on the beach. We counted them together and marveled at the different hues of blues--aqua, azure, sky. In the afternoon, Zorro drove the girls home and noticed a white plastic bag on the floor between Aysa's feet. He glimpsed containers of yogurt, a package of cookies, other items from our house. When Aysa saw him looking, she closed the bag quickly. He said nothing and dropped them off. Struggling with how to tell us, he spoke with Bou, who had also been at the house that day. Bou confirmed that he had seen them take things from our kitchen and put them in a bag, which they then hid outside. He said it wasn't the first time, and that money had been taken. We were astounded. The next day, we confronted the girls and Aysa denied all of it, going so far as to blame Sunny and Jamie for eating what was missing. She explained Bou's confirmation away, citing jealousy and child-like malice. I wasn't buying any of it . . . and yet there were doubts, sad refusals in my heart to believe. I asked them to go home, told them to think over what had happened and come back when they were willing to talk. I held back tears as I watched Aysa walk away, proud and confident, defiant, turing her head to look at me with disbelief in her eyes. I spent the rest of the afternoon turning the details over in my mind. Maybe Zorro had made a mistake. But hadn't I seen Aysa quickly put something down when I walked in the kitchen last week? No, it couldn't be, she would never do that. She didn't need to. For months now, I'd been giving her things to take home with her, food that I knew we wouldn't eat--a few carrots, greenbeans, leftover pasta, cookies, vanilla sugar, sachets of tea. I knew that things at home had been difficult for her. Richard had hired her father to help them make ends meet. We were doing all we could to help her and her family. Any yet, the things she had taken were not necessities, they were things that we had and she wanted. In the end, I had to succumb to the reality that these girls who I loved had betrayed us, had stolen from us and damaged what we had built together. It was true and it broke my heart. If only they'd asked, I would have given them anything, anything they wanted. Didn't they know that? Couldn't they feel it?
Now that the trust is broken, the relationship has also suffered, been wound back to the beginning, because I don't really know who they are, maybe never did. Instead of asking myself why they did it, I asked myself why I had done it--stolen twice all those years ago. I tried to put myself in their place, understand the motivation, feel the fear of being caught and the stronger fear of the consequences that would follow an admission of guilt. They were wrong, but they are also human and therefore forgiveable. But reforging this relationship, piecing it back together has to come from first an admission, first the truth, always the truth. By admitting to myself that I was once no better than they, I had found the first piece of the broken vase. If they come back to us with their own shard of truth, maybe we can move forward. In the meantime, I'll be waiting with my small tube of glue.
I tried hard yesterday to recall the times I've stolen something in my life. I came up with two. It took a lot of searching through those shameful memories that we file away in a dark place in hopes that the good things, the souvenirs of honorable deeds and proud triumphs will stack up high enough to render those past mistakes inconsequential and powerless. But try as we might, the good sits only slightly in the forefront, shielding the bad like a dutiful, protective older sibling. Hide your darkness and you will certainly shadow your light.
The first time, at twelve, when my mother refused to buy me press-on nails, I stole some from the pharmacy. I remember vividly the intense thrill of putting them in my pocket unseen. Look to the left, look to the right, in your hand, now hide them. I'm breathing a little easier, shaking a little less. Now move toward the front door casually. No! buy something. A piece of candy, so you don't look suspicious. How daring. It's right here in my pocket and you have no idea. Smile. Pay for the candy. Say thank you. Leave. Keep walking down the street. No one following you. Freedom. Exhilarating! But now what? I remember crumbling with guilt half way down the street with the forceful realization that I'd stolen from the pharmacy that belonged to the parents of a good friend. And how would I explain my long nails to my mother? I hadn't thought this through. I had them, but I would never be able to wear them. At home, as I studied the small tube of glue and the beautiful, graduated sizes of milky plastic ovals through the unopened package, I hated my mother all over again. I couldn't win this one. So the next day, I took them back, or rather, snuck them back, reversing what I had done the day before--taking them out of my pocket, placing them on the hook, once again unseen. The single night that I spent with them under my pillow was torturous.
The second time, I was in my early twenties, working at my first job in an art gallery on Madison Avenue. I had helped edit our first published collection of 19th and 20th century paintings and the book was selling like hotcakes. One day, a client came in when the owner was out and bought three copies. He handed me $150 in cash and left. As I held the money in my hand, it felt comforting, it felt like a solution, like it belonged to me. It was me after all who worked tirelessly cataloguing, assisting the editor, typing, typing, always typing and retyping. And it was me after all who had sold all the books-- caressing the cover, holding the heavy book up to flip the pages, memorizing the most beautiful ones, saying something important about the oeuvre of each artist, then snapping the book shut and laying it on the table, always leaving the art lover wanting more. I had sold dozens and I was good at it. But I was underpaid and underappreciated. My rent was overdue. I didn't know how I would pay for lunch. This was a well-deserved tip, I told myself. I don't remember feeling overly guilty at the time, and yet this second and last memory of stealing had been stuffed way in the back of my mind, right alongside a small pile of painful regrets.
I had needed to conjure up these memories, this part of myself of which I am not proud, in order to see myself as human, far from perfect. I needed to remember that we are all weak at times, that situations can take over our animal instinct to survive, temporarily taint our principles. Mistakes can also propel us forward if we are willing to learn from them. I was trying to understand why Aysa and Sorna had stolen from us.
After months of building a relationship with these girls, the oldest of Jamie and Sunny's friends, we asked them to sit with the kids while Richard worked and I ran errands. It was the first time we'd given them such responsibility and they seemed so proud and eager to prove their capability. We went over house rules and safety and I left, feeling like our relationship had moved in an important direction. When I got home, the kids regaled me with details of a walk on the beach and a cache of unearthed kitchen tiles they had found on the beach. We counted them together and marveled at the different hues of blues--aqua, azure, sky. In the afternoon, Zorro drove the girls home and noticed a white plastic bag on the floor between Aysa's feet. He glimpsed containers of yogurt, a package of cookies, other items from our house. When Aysa saw him looking, she closed the bag quickly. He said nothing and dropped them off. Struggling with how to tell us, he spoke with Bou, who had also been at the house that day. Bou confirmed that he had seen them take things from our kitchen and put them in a bag, which they then hid outside. He said it wasn't the first time, and that money had been taken. We were astounded. The next day, we confronted the girls and Aysa denied all of it, going so far as to blame Sunny and Jamie for eating what was missing. She explained Bou's confirmation away, citing jealousy and child-like malice. I wasn't buying any of it . . . and yet there were doubts, sad refusals in my heart to believe. I asked them to go home, told them to think over what had happened and come back when they were willing to talk. I held back tears as I watched Aysa walk away, proud and confident, defiant, turing her head to look at me with disbelief in her eyes. I spent the rest of the afternoon turning the details over in my mind. Maybe Zorro had made a mistake. But hadn't I seen Aysa quickly put something down when I walked in the kitchen last week? No, it couldn't be, she would never do that. She didn't need to. For months now, I'd been giving her things to take home with her, food that I knew we wouldn't eat--a few carrots, greenbeans, leftover pasta, cookies, vanilla sugar, sachets of tea. I knew that things at home had been difficult for her. Richard had hired her father to help them make ends meet. We were doing all we could to help her and her family. Any yet, the things she had taken were not necessities, they were things that we had and she wanted. In the end, I had to succumb to the reality that these girls who I loved had betrayed us, had stolen from us and damaged what we had built together. It was true and it broke my heart. If only they'd asked, I would have given them anything, anything they wanted. Didn't they know that? Couldn't they feel it?
Now that the trust is broken, the relationship has also suffered, been wound back to the beginning, because I don't really know who they are, maybe never did. Instead of asking myself why they did it, I asked myself why I had done it--stolen twice all those years ago. I tried to put myself in their place, understand the motivation, feel the fear of being caught and the stronger fear of the consequences that would follow an admission of guilt. They were wrong, but they are also human and therefore forgiveable. But reforging this relationship, piecing it back together has to come from first an admission, first the truth, always the truth. By admitting to myself that I was once no better than they, I had found the first piece of the broken vase. If they come back to us with their own shard of truth, maybe we can move forward. In the meantime, I'll be waiting with my small tube of glue.
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