Blossom faded
Sweetness forgotten
Burial, Rottenness, worms
Hidden
Seed.
No one knows
Cares
Only Spark, Hope,
In black/bloody matrix
Remains.
Past death nourishing
Small miracle green
Inverse time;
Most precious last
Petals burst
Open
Again
The Psalmist says that those who go weeping, bearing precious seed, will return rejoicing with their sheaves. It seems as though sorrow, death, disappointment, pain are just that; precious seeds. They are hopes that have died and been buried, forgotten or dreams not yet taking root. As the plant world tells us, however, they are unparalleled in value. Tulips, at death, nourish the bulb, as blossoms, post mortem, the fruit. Seeds enhanced, produced, follow. Other sorrows result from unrealized dreams. Seeds which seemingly fail to sprout; requiring soaking, transplanting, years of slow growth; watching; waiting. They become the tallest trees; the most far seeing; useful plants. Those, however, that sprout quickly and grow fast; full of water and shallow rooted; die quickly, leaving little behind.
Happiness, feelings of fulfillment are the bright blossoms in our heyday. Their death marks my true beginning, while embryonic faith, despite pitch darkness, has the audacity to feed on rottenness; growing.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Going Home
I have tried but failed to write about anything else, so I guess I have to tell you what is "really goin' on". A week ago, we had mid- service training. The conference was a bit of a downer-- we all discussed the problems at site, found solidarity in our mutual frustrations, but had no answers for each other. This was followed by the even more cheerless prospect of economic opportunities (?) facing us in the US. The possibility of extending for a third year in another country was briefly discussed, in addition to extending in Uganda. I just felt exhausted the whole time.
I had, however, the presence (or absence) of mind to ask my program director about the possibility of extending in Jordan. I need some definable, specific skills, and, since surrogate motherhood is becoming less appealing as I think of women in our health center's birthing ward (ditch that epidural for a midwife with a big stick), I thought, why not go back to Arabic? Jordan is the only Middle Eastern nation which accepts Peace Corps folks, so, I asked her about it.
Peace Corps Jordan replied with an affirmative the next day, on the condition that I commit to two years, beginning in Oct. 2011 (Peace Corps would send me home for a month in September before going so that I don't lose the rest of my sanity). As I sat, reading the email, tears came to my eyes, and I thought about home. A place I feel in the wind on a dry, cool evening. A place I remember in the smell of olive wood beads when I hold them near. I place I feel as I surrender to the heat in the crammed back of a taxi without working windows. I thought, "This is it, I'm going home."
Listening to the BBC last night when they spoke of an Egyptian woman, who, after being gang raped by 6 men, was arrested for practicing illicit sex also reminded me. Her mistake? Riding in a car with a man to whom she was not related.
I remembered waking with my mother in a crowded market and the obscene remarks and spitting that would accompany the sightest lip of an ankle or wisp of hair from under her veil. I remember wondering if women were really human at all, or just a type of animals, meant for reproduction, without true intellect or souls. Angry, frustrated tears came and then died down as I finished the news program. Later, in bed, I just sobbed.
One professor told us that "Love is not much different from hate. People often love and hate the same person, they often feel hate toward the one they love most. The opposite of love is actually indifference."
About Jordan, there is none of the latter.
I had, however, the presence (or absence) of mind to ask my program director about the possibility of extending in Jordan. I need some definable, specific skills, and, since surrogate motherhood is becoming less appealing as I think of women in our health center's birthing ward (ditch that epidural for a midwife with a big stick), I thought, why not go back to Arabic? Jordan is the only Middle Eastern nation which accepts Peace Corps folks, so, I asked her about it.
Peace Corps Jordan replied with an affirmative the next day, on the condition that I commit to two years, beginning in Oct. 2011 (Peace Corps would send me home for a month in September before going so that I don't lose the rest of my sanity). As I sat, reading the email, tears came to my eyes, and I thought about home. A place I feel in the wind on a dry, cool evening. A place I remember in the smell of olive wood beads when I hold them near. I place I feel as I surrender to the heat in the crammed back of a taxi without working windows. I thought, "This is it, I'm going home."
Listening to the BBC last night when they spoke of an Egyptian woman, who, after being gang raped by 6 men, was arrested for practicing illicit sex also reminded me. Her mistake? Riding in a car with a man to whom she was not related.
I remembered waking with my mother in a crowded market and the obscene remarks and spitting that would accompany the sightest lip of an ankle or wisp of hair from under her veil. I remember wondering if women were really human at all, or just a type of animals, meant for reproduction, without true intellect or souls. Angry, frustrated tears came and then died down as I finished the news program. Later, in bed, I just sobbed.
One professor told us that "Love is not much different from hate. People often love and hate the same person, they often feel hate toward the one they love most. The opposite of love is actually indifference."
About Jordan, there is none of the latter.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
New Volunteers
When I first arrived back from my visit to the US, I went to the the peace corps office. The woman guard asked where I had been and I simply said that I had not been in Kampala. She said,"You're back from the US, aren't you!" I asked how she knew and she replied that she saw the "US glow" on me. For the next three days, I recall more blind optimism, cheerfulness, and flexibility than usual. Then, things went back to normal.
The one year mark, which I just passed, is usually the time when the grime from bucket bathing has built to significant degree, the uphill walking has made us move a bit slowly, the starch overload has given us (women) a bit of bulk, and the personal and professional difficulties of being in a third world country have come out in full swing; in short, most of the glow is gone.
A few weeks ago, however, a shiny new volunteer moved into my village. Yesterday, I experienced an abundant shower of American optimism and youthful ambition-- the new volunteer and I met with motorcycle drivers and talked about STI's, we went jogging on the path that I couldn't travel on alone and tried to buy local fruit, then we made plans to visit a local orphanage and a handicapped child. My village, once again, became a world of opportunity, and my dusty Runyancore dictionary and notes are once again opened. Who knows when we will both be forbidden to jog, when our ambitions will become bogged down, and the facade of being needed will end. At least, however, I was able to take a refreshing plunge in optimism-- even though as I get out of the pool, I have to step onto the muddy, wet, washed out road-- back to Uganda. Now, at least, I might have someone to travel along that muddy road with!
The one year mark, which I just passed, is usually the time when the grime from bucket bathing has built to significant degree, the uphill walking has made us move a bit slowly, the starch overload has given us (women) a bit of bulk, and the personal and professional difficulties of being in a third world country have come out in full swing; in short, most of the glow is gone.
A few weeks ago, however, a shiny new volunteer moved into my village. Yesterday, I experienced an abundant shower of American optimism and youthful ambition-- the new volunteer and I met with motorcycle drivers and talked about STI's, we went jogging on the path that I couldn't travel on alone and tried to buy local fruit, then we made plans to visit a local orphanage and a handicapped child. My village, once again, became a world of opportunity, and my dusty Runyancore dictionary and notes are once again opened. Who knows when we will both be forbidden to jog, when our ambitions will become bogged down, and the facade of being needed will end. At least, however, I was able to take a refreshing plunge in optimism-- even though as I get out of the pool, I have to step onto the muddy, wet, washed out road-- back to Uganda. Now, at least, I might have someone to travel along that muddy road with!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)