Inner Life

Inner Life
In the small blue and white chapel, with soft candle light, we sit in silence before The Eucharist. Worry of future career, desire for a demanding, meaningful job just falls away. My sisters are successful and educated, but their careers don’t make them.
What matters is here; whether in a blue or a yellow or a pink chapel, whether by candle light, solar lamp, electricity, or kerosene. It is here, before the Eucharist. It is in prayer, in meditation, in silence. I once read that if the inner life is a abundant, it will spill into the outer. So, whether I join the Foreign Service or USAID, or go for a higher degree, or just go back to my hometown and become a social worker, it doesn’t really matter. If my inner life is abundant, it will spill out. “My cup overfloweth”
Sometimes, I am disappointed by what I’ve done since high school. I know I would have been able to do anything I wanted. At other times, I am extremely grateful. Save a few instances (including some time in grad school…), I have been following not a career but a life. I have not been pursuing the thing I want to be but the person. I’ve been pursuing the inner life.
II. Today, I was distressed by my inability to play volleyball or football well; frustrated by my inability to integrate into St. Catherine’s the way I think I should, my inability to know everyone in town, my lack of fluency in Runyancore. Today, I was ashamed of my lack of expertise, knowledge and know- how. Some say we are like clay pots. Although shiny, perfect, manufactured jerry cans are more popular, I, alas, find myself to be degradable, heavy, and awkward. The valuable thing is not the pot but what is inside. If inside my awkwardness, lack of knowledge, lack of perfection there is light: peace, joy, love, hope: then it will be valuable.

Naked Life

The following poem speaks to the extremities of 3rd world living; many of the preservatives and layers of comfort are removed, leaving you with naked life. A doctor friend was doing rounds on a plastic surgery ward when she was in residency. She said it was really cool to see a liposuction because she was able to open up a very obese woman and see that, under the layers of fat, she had a very cute figure. That's what Uganda is; life stripped of the layers of comfort. Underneath, when you look past the blood and guts; it's beautiful.

Pain, heat, light
Sharp, searing, and sudden
Aggravation, like nettles
Joy, likewise, overwhelming, pure
Inspiration, simple
Food, whole
Corn syrup, preservatives
Missing
Rottenness, freshness, waste
Reality
Layers of comfort,
Enveloped humidity
Predictability, schedules
Sealed indoor structures,
Fatty cushioning
Sucked away
Exposed abdominals
Feel every sensation
Store nothing
Beauty today

Friday Night With The Guys

It’s late on Friday night, and I am sitting in the dark with a group of Ugandan men. There’s a lot of talking, a lot of laughing, and a lot of food. I will have three exhausting days and nights of this before I return to my sight, ready to teach at my all girls’ school. What on earth am I doing? Has the malaria medication finally gotten to my brain? Have I broken down, unable to take the isolation of living in a convent? Not at all; I am working with the Kazo Parish’s Catholic Men’s Associations.
Ok, now, quick quiz: Answer each of the following with either “men” or “women:”
Which group has a shorter average lifespan in Uganda and all around the world? Men. Who is more likely to commit suicide, be killed, die in a motor accident, or be involved in risky sexual behavior? Men. Who is less likely to seek health information or to be involved in positive community groups? Men. Men in Uganda and all around the world are not only at risk for numerous health problems but seem to be critically ignored by many organizations, including the Peace Corps. They, however, are leaders in our communities and in this nation. They are the ones who make decisions regarding money, reproductive health, and social structures in families and in communities.
In training, we were repeatedly taught that men in Uganda were simply bad. We women were taught to wear long skirts and to avoid men. For the first few months at site, I did this. I taught life skills at my girls’ only school, lived in my convent with nuns, and tried to avoid men. I realized, however, that I could not teach life skills to the girls at my school when their fathers were waiting to sell them for cows when they came home. I could not just ignore men in my school when the president of our PTA had over ten wives, at least one taken from our school, and some teachers were caught sleeping with the girls. I wondered, what is happening to Ugandan men to make them act this way? I read some statistics in our Uganda Statistics book and learned that more boys under the age of 12 reported experiencing sexual abuse than girls in that age bracket. I also see that many boys are subject to harsh physical punishment and have few people teaching them about the meaning of manhood.
When one of the sisters I work with decided to start men’s groups in different parish villages, therefore, I was excited. I then asked Jolie for resources and she sent me a training manual for working with men in relation to gender and HIV.
We now conduct weekend seminars in different villages where groups of men have agreed to host us. We begin by asking what the meaning of a man is; we analyze the social construction of gender with these men to discover helpful and harmful gender behaviors. We then move on to topics such as HIV and domestic violence. The men, so far, have been very appreciative and helpful; they have also invited us back. This means a lot because we do not provide them with transport or accommodations—in fact, they have to provide those things for us.
My father lived and worked in the Middle East in predominantly male centered societies for nearly fifteen years. I remember talking with him about relationships between men and their wives in such communities. He would tell me that men do not marry four wives and beat their wives, etc, because they hated women or because they were trying to be cruel. He simply said that many of them did not know how to have healthy relationships and to communication with their wives. He said that many men asked him for advice on such matters and wanted to have genuine loving relationships at home.
Following one particularly lively session regarding domestic violence, Sister Margaret and I overheard several couples talking afterward. Men were surprised that their wives cared about how much they ate at home and their attitudes during meals. Women were surprised that their husbands felt bad when they did not speak to them before meals. Both sides had simply never talked about it before.

Coming to America

So; I had the unique experience of going to America for two weeks. How was it?
First of all, I had been looking forward to several things; seeing family members, eating key foods, eating while walking, holding a clean and diapered baby, and being in a place where one can remain clean for over two minutes. Save the family members, none of the other stuff mattered. Furthermore, I could not stand the artificial flavors, corn syrup, sugar, and just chemical yuck I could taste in everything (especially the ice cream I had very much anticipated).
I enjoyed seeing my family members, but I felt a bit guilty around them. Here they are all facing the real challenges of life in the US from which I am free. I am free from their monotonous routines, their real political and public policy concerns, and their concerns of family and children. I also felt like a very irresponsible person. Here I am in Uganda just following my dreams, while my aunts, uncles, and grandparents had all settled down and done something productive with their lives by my age. One of my aunts finally asked when I would be getting a real job, to which I had no guaranteed reply.
Furthermore, my uncle (a successful engineer) was able to upgrade my seat to first class on the way back to Uganda. Between elegant sips of champagne and nibbles of roasted cashews, cheese, and crackers, I was able to glance at the man next to me. He was more of a lump than a man, but he seemed to be in his mid twenties. He talked to his wife phone, had M.D. embroidered on his belongings, and took a very self- satisfied nap in his cocoon. I sat, thinking—If I was really responsible, I would not have followed such crazy dreams; I could have become just like that doctor lump. I am a hot mess.
HOWEVER—after that brief reflection, I read Jared Diamond’s book, Collapse, and it makes me even more determined to pursue public policy and social issues globally. I also heard about the last being first and the first being last in today’s Runyancore sermon. What is the meaning of life? I still, as a crazy, irresponsible idealist, cannot accept that it is to just reach professional and monetary success, have a family, and produce children. What if it is to live a sustainable, simple lifestyle and help, in some small measure, to bring sustainability and peace to others? I read that a person in the developed world, on average, uses 32 times the resources of one in the developing world. That is not success. That is failure that overreaches the bounds of a lifetime or even a generation. And all of the stuff represented in it is absolutely meaningless.
Despite the cheese, crackers, lamb medallions and champagne—I did not sleep well in the first class. I much preferred my economy seat on which I had traveled to the US. I had the opportunity to talk and share photos with an Engineer without Borders working in Nepal, a war correspondent working in Afghanistan and Haiti, and sleep very well without any cocoon.

Grieving Night

When the dawn’s light pink begins to rise, I tend to grieve the moon. I miss the soft light of the stars, I miss the pale reflections of life. They were cold, at times chillingly lonely. Distant hopes were the bright stars, so far that only their glimmers were seen. The sun is a star drawn near. I know that it will bring warmth and give joy; exuberance even, but the night was beautiful.

I went home for my younger brother’s wedding. First the wedding; after grilling my sister- in- law (to be) at her bachelorette party; I think I like her. The wedding, however, was not easy. For as long as I can remember, David has been a part of my life; even when I did not want him there. I remember him stealing my dolls (and drowning them) when we were kids. I remember him wanting to hang out with my friends and I in high school. I remember being the only white kids in our youth groups together, and making our own cracker jokes.

We may not talk to each other regularly, but he knows me very well. I remember coming home and talking about getting an MSW and working for a homeless shelter. He looked at me and just said; “Sarah, I know that is not what you really want.” After several hours of crying and arguing, I knew he was right.

I remember the hot summer we spent at our parents’ house in Georgia together when they were gone and the AC wasn’t working (QT slushies). I remember the pineapple upside- down cakes he loved to make and the coconut curry sauce he was famous for. I remember how he loved to sing and dance around the house. Most of all, I remember not really appreciating him—always telling him to quit singing when we were crammed in the car. Quit dancing around in public. Be more practical in his house decoration ideas. I never really appreciated him for who he was.

The good thing now is that he has someone who does appreciate him—in all his artistic whims. The bad thing is that, in a way, I have lost him and I never really appreciated who he was. No, he is not dead, but he is not the same.