Comin' up on the Jesus Year...

I've generally been the youngest in the group, whatever the group may have been… playground, locker room, homeroom class, new job or office, new tribe of friends. And as many of near-peers turn 33 in the year before I do, I get to look ahead this summer to my coming Jesus Year.

You're familiar, right? Even Urban Dictionary has an entry. And it's perfectly succinct: it's the year to get things done.

Over the last couple weeks, between a relaxing vacation, the new dog's ongoing antics, increasing work responsibilities, SIBO diet living, and the wonder of these long pre-summer days and evenings, my personal philosophy has (suddenly) expanded.

Please allow me one bit of back story first. Every family has it's lore and legends; in my family, there's a piece of lore that places me at about age 8 or 9, when my mother was having some normal-for-her, low-level, anxiety-filled, long verbal run-on about life, and challenges, and what does it all mean. When she turned the question to me, I said, "Don't ask me, Mom. I'm just a kid." Everyone laughed. And in a similar episode a few months later (as noted, this sort of out-loud rumination was the usual at home), I quipped back, "God, Mom. The point of life is that you make mistakes, and then you learn." (I do not remember the former exchange; I do remember the latter. We were at Murphy Lake and I wanted to touch the antlers of the stuffed elk in velvet on the wall but knew I was not allowed to.)

So this may have been my own self-stated guiding philosophy about life - from age 9, until very recently.

And suddenly… it feels sudden, having bubbled up in the past few weeks… I've decided that life is now about two other things entirely. It's about losing judgement, and it's about not being first.

I am a very judgmental person; I know how you should live your life, AND why. And I will happily tell you. Or if I don't know you, or you won't listen, I'll happily tell one of my friends. And now that I'm walking a little red dog around the block in a damn raincoat, a sweet little red dog that goes ballistic at the sight of another dog, I'm thinking, "Well, fuck." I didn't teach the dog to bark like that; he's not reactive because of me. But it sure as shit looks that way. And I don't love putting a raincoat on a dog, but he reacts to it a lot like he reacts to the Thundershirt and any way to take the edge off his anxiety is a good way to go. So I mosey along with our raincoats, and realize that I would normally look at me and judge the hell out of me. Uh-oh. Jesus Year. That means I have to start understanding people better. Give them more slack. Really, deeply believe they're doing the best they can with the tools they have - and not just say it.

And secondly (ha ha!), it's time to no longer be first. Who is not first in their own lives? Well - parents, for one. And spiritual leaders. And people dedicated to their jobs as deep vocations and true callings. In other words: the good eggs. The good eggs don't think about being first, and don't think about putting their own desires, satisfactions, whims, needs, moods, recognition and preferences first. The good eggs do make certain their own needs are met - sure, of course they do. But they do so mostly because it makes them better people who can turn around and better be able to serve and love the world. And you know what? For the first time in my selfish little life, that sounds really delightful. I get it. I paid lip service to not being first, but all along, I knew this was my movie, my soundtrack, and you were all supporting players. But this new philosophy - boy, does it take a huge load off. I don't have to be the center of my own universe. I can cook, read, play, love, work and write - like I do, and enjoy, of course - but it all doesn't have to be So God Damn Important. What a relief. To loosen my grip.

I mean - a bit. I'm not letting go, just letting up. I still think you're a huge fucking asshole if you take the outside seat on a bus. Just move goddamn over, dude.

Attitude of Gratitude.

If you know me, we've probably had at least one conversation about the science behind happiness and gratitude. In case we have not: in a nutshell, science has proved that feeling gratitude lights up the same part of the brain as feeling happy; the two are biologically indistinguishable. So if you can't get happy, you can try thinking of something you're grateful for - and tah-dah! You'll be happy.

The trouble is, all the feel-good articles about this phenomenon, found in my hippie magazines, websites and Wholesome Living blogs, focus on feeling grateful for the usual suspects - your health, your family, your job, your sense of humor, your intelligence, the sun, the stars, the beauty of springtime, the ocean, the nourishing rain.

And I don't mean that it is trouble to be grateful for those things. They're wonderful! They do fill me with gratitude. They are beautiful moments in daily life that can indeed inspire an attitude of gratitude.

But sometimes, the trouble is, we never talk about how it's also OK to be grateful for things much less epic, and much more worldly.

Like the Veronica Mars movie that came out this weekend.

And you can call me superficial, you can call me a pathetic fan girl, you can roll your eyes that I'm going to claim this is a worthy example of an attitude of gratitude. But I'm doing all three anyway.

The movie made me so happy. They did a great job delivering a story for the fans that was still smart, funny, true to the characters, and a great mystery. So here I am - grateful to love things in the world - movies, songs, books, slices of tart cherry pie from Lauretta Jean's. By being in the world, in both the sacred and profane, I get my regular doses of gratitude - and they light up that happy part of my brain that otherwise doesn't get too much attention.

Bring it on, bring it on, yeah.

Sexist and Classist

If you don't ride public transit - and preferably the bus - there are parts of yourself that remain hidden. Parts of yourself you might not even know exist. But start riding it, on the regular, and you'll discover those parts. Oh, they will come out, like it or not.

So I may have already know that I am a bit sexist and a bit classist, but this week on the bus, I realized both anew in two moments where my thoughts bubbled over before I could control them, subvert them into something kinder, spin them into something reasonable. I saw my own truth and there's nothing to do with it but share.

The first was a packed bus; not quite standing room only but almost. All seats taken and some folks standing. Standing on the MAX light rail train is one thing; standing on a bus is another. It is significantly more uncomfortable. The first 7 seats on the bus, 4 on one side and 3 on the other, are reserved for Honored Citizens - seniors and those with disabilities. The seats flip up for wheelchairs, or are intended for those with limitations.

As we get fuller, at a stop, the bus driver says, "I have an Honored Citizen here, if you are not an Honored Citizen, please give up your seat." And what happens?

The three seats on the left: a dude, healthy, fit, age 32 or 33, and his girlfriend, similarly healthy. Next to them, an older man with a cane.

The four seats on the right: a very heavyset older man with probably developmental delays and three women, between 30 and 40, healthy and fit.

What happens?

Two women on the right start to stand up; one is clearly a fake-out stand up - she is waiting to see if anyone else will go for it. The other woman really was going for it, and she stands, takes hold of a strap, and the Honored Citizen has a seat. And my mind EXPLODES.

The youngish guy? Didn't even flinch. Didn't even think to get up. Chivalry, I've decided, is dead. I glared at his girlfriend with a mix of pity and rage as I left the bus a few stops later and I think my message was received.

The second was a very young mother, she couldn't be a day over 20, climbing onto the bus in the pouring rain with a whining toddler. They got the last two seats, near me, and upon settling it, she pulled out a soda bottle and opened it, then opened his baby bottle, filled it, gave it to him, and his quieted right now. I was horrified. I don't even let myself drink soda, diet or regular anymore; I know it's a chemical and sugar poison for the delicate human body - much less a toddler's! I was also most horrified that it was a Mountain Dew. What trashy parenting, I thought. Mountain Dew! Might as well be cocaine.

Then I saw that it was a Sprite, and I immediately on the heels of my Mountain Dew judgement was the thought, "Oh, well, maybe the little guy is sick. You have to have Sprite when you're sick."

As if my experiences are universal, as if my having Sprite as a kid on the couch with a cold means anything, and as if I know a damn thing about being a mother at that young age, riding the bus in the rain.

Try it: ride the bus for a month. It's a forced mile in both someone else's shoes, and in your most ill-fitting ones. Not bad to see, once in a while.

Grapes of Goodness

Well if raw grapes didn't go well, you probably think I am crazy for giving red wine a spin - but I'm not crazy, you are, because wine went just fine! Two nights in a row!

Hallelujah for adult pleasures of the alcoholic kind. With no sugar in your diet, you need a little something indulgent. I just keep marveling at it - no sugar. No item made in a store, or by a restaurant, or in a package, because that's going to have sugar. And I'm now three days into month two! It's been very good to my wallet - and very tough on my social life. But exploring menus of some of my favorite places means that Podnah's Pit BBQ (no sauce) and Ox are on the list for this month.

In other exciting news, raw veggies went well this past week too - and after a month of cooked baby food veggies, THAT was a joy indeed. Raw grated beets, raw romaine lettuce, some tahini and olive oil - the only thing that made it better was that it was made by a friend. Having something cooked for me, and not something I cooked for me, may have been the true pleasure.

And the final week's note… I am a creature of habit, undeniably. And so, how soon I have come to a (near) nightly dessert of banana, peanut butter and honey… far from the days of cake. Do I long for the days of cake? Yes and no. I do, for I am a Captain on Team Cake (this is a lifetime appointment; my friend Bill is a Captain as well).

But at the same time, I'm feeling so remarkable off sugar and grains that I don't have the uncontrollable cravings I thought I'd have (and that I've had when restricting foods for all the other than totally gut-health reasons). And no chocolate for over a month? I swore that would not be possible. But when you take away sugar, and grains, what good is chocolate? Who craves a plain chocolate bar? Chocolate covered almonds, chocolate cake, chocolate pudding, cookies, frostings - sure. But since the overarching mental motivation and deep, almost spiritual feeling I carry, is one of rejecting sugar and grain for right now, the chocolate love takes a serious (and seriously unexpected) back burner.

And I tried making coconut flour waffles. They looked like waffles, they felt like waffles, I got to drench them in butter, and so life's been pretty dang good this week.

Oh, the places you will go!

Or rather: oh, the foods you will eat!

In the last week, I've introduced strawberries, pineapple, lentils, red leaf and butter lettuce, full butter instead of just ghee, coconut meat, hazelnuts, raw whole almonds, a banana, fresh crab meat, Brussels sprouts, HONEY and aged white cheddar cheese. HONEY deserves all caps. It's a glory. And so outrageously sweet! It never tasted this sweet before.

One of these things did not go well - but all the others did, for the most part! I bet you can guess which one. Yup; it was the cheese. Within an hour to 90 minutes of eating it, I had terrible stomach pains that first felt like a side ache, and then a dull ache, and then everything passed uncomfortably. It is sensational to be both this aware of one's digestion, and able to pinpoint exactly what is causing what.

And there I was in last Monday's entry, waxing poetic about venturing out into the world… which I did, but only a little. I met some friends at a bar for one drink (which typically means 2 or 3 drinks). I successfully sipped chamomile tea the whole time and no one really cared at all; we still gossiped and caught up and laughed and debated. I also went out to lunch for a work event, and managed to eat a restaurant meal, only slightly modified (leave off the cheese, please add a poached egg). I suspect that the vinaigrette had some sugar in it, but if it did, how much - really? A pinch or two? Everything else in the meal was menu-approved. I also made it back to working out, just today; a huge challenge, but the first day back is always the worst.

And so yes, this process - it's tearing down my identity still, the same way I felt last week, though I AM feeling a little more like myself. Being back to 99% health (a slight sniffle remains) certainly helps. The mental clarity helps. I'm off caffeine now too, and I'm sleeping well, rising well, and have no energy crashes during the days - at all. That's actually a little disquieting when I think of it!

But there's one other little piece, that I first thought was due to deprivation. Then I thought it was due to illness. But now I think there's no explanation for it other than living my life without sugar, and the sugar highs and lows that occur from using food to fill time, to create breaks, to reward and to self-comfort. And that is that I'm way more emotional. If something makes me want to cry or tear up, I used to be able to choke that back damn well. And now, these last few weeks, I can't. I have to let the tears come, and let them flow. They may not last long, but it's like I have no choice - and it's pretty damn scary. For a control(led) freak like me, knowing the world is coming in, ready or not, is both terrifying and marvelous. Meaning: I marvel at it. This partnership between body and mind is indeed a marvel, isn't it? How about yours?

Sweetness.

The illness is 90% kicked. I feel almost normal. A little lingering cough, still having no problem sleeping 9+ hours a night, but overall: I'm back.

And so, the big report: new foods today. Oh, my sweet lord in heaven above - it was the day for applesauce. No sugar, no additives, just pureed apples. But it feels like I'm cheating on the diet, it was so damn sweet; even though this is not a cheat - this is a step I'm supposed to take. (Soon, a peeled ripe apple. Then a full raw apple! I'm already dreaming of pineapple.)

And I made the GAPS Diet "bread". Drumroll… puh-leese. This is not bread. It is eggs, butter (or coconut oil) and almond flour baked into a dry teething biscuit.

That said - don't get me wrong - I'll take it. It feels akin to a carb. Like I'm biting into something filling. And I made them very lazily; I can do better. A good friend, by way of giving great support to me, said, "Just think - at least you know how to cook!" I keep hearing her say that in my head, and she is right. If I have to eat simmered  meat, at least I know how to make the best simmered meat possible. If I have to eat vegetables cooked to mush, at least I can make a killer silky butternut squash puree and sweet, soft, salty carrots in coconut oil.

So if I put some of my baking smarts to work, I can make this "bread" taste better and have a decent texture; I started browsing some GAPS Diet sites, and holy cow! There are some real dessert recipes on there! I may get through this three, five, ten, twelve months yet. (But dear universe, please don't let it be twelve months. I have weddings to attend and vacations to go on; I need to have a little fun.)

But all this here is the frosting. This is all the show. The details, the food. The three cheers for being done with antibiotics (today!) and on to straight dietary treatment.

Because beyond all that, the truth is, I'm stripping away how I identify my Self. Food, cooking, baking - for myself, for others, for little daily rituals I partake of and invite others to partake of with me - if you take that away, as it seems I have, what's left? Who am I? And how do I interact, out there in the world? It can't be chamomile tea dates forever, and I can't keep hiding at home for much longer. Now that I'm feeling well, I have to venture out there and so far, the Me without refined sugar, without grains, is a tender little Me. I cry at the drop of a hat. I feel prickly-alive. I feel so aware of the Right Now.

So I'm poking my sensitive little foot outside this week; stay tuned.

Climbing uphill

Health-wise, I'm walking uphill, getting better, back to normal, my usual peak - but I'm walking extremely slowly. I have a three-day weekend and my biggest ambition for it is to catch up on laundry, and try to see Philomena. I'm not pretending I'll feel 100% come Tuesday; I'm being realistic. Maybe this is what happens when you've been eating mostly simmered meat for seven days.

But today! No more simmered meat! I sautéed it in ghee! And finished it in a hot oven. With some spaghetti squash mixed with sauerkraut, and half an avocado, it was the greatest meal of my life. Well, not quite. That was probably here. But it looked like a real meal - colors! textures! And it tasted like a real meal - flavors! Different from each other!

I forgot that yesterday I ate two boiled shrimp with my bone broth and simmered meat. Today, I ate three. Sweet as sugar.

Tomorrow, I will add a little bit of carrot juice! And cold olive oil, and by late in the day or Sunday, I'll try baking almond meal bread.

It's hard to describe both why I'm committed to this, and how I'm actually able to stick with it. It's very unlike me. That I've completed seven days, and am planning to keep going, is about as unlike me as a weeklong backpacking trip, or a weeklong vacation without any email.

But somehow - I'm doing it. Maybe it is taking the antibiotics each day, five times a day, that make me think that a Chips Ahoy, a tortilla chip in bean dip, a Twizzler, or any other of the million snacks that sit out at work, in beautiful glass jars, aren't worth it. Maybe it's my theory that sleep begets more sleep; discipline begets more discipline, on and on. So in this case, each day that passes successfully in turn strengthens my resolve to stick to the diet's rules, with even more commitment. Maybe it's that despite physical exhaustion, I feel an incredible mental clarity without sugar or grains or, sigh, chocolate. Maybe it's that somewhere in the soft, quiet, deep self, I know that this will heal my gut and I'll be able to enjoy a renewed healthy relationship with all kinds of food.

As I embark on a weekend of sweet, sweet rest - here's to hoping!

Tender

My word of the year is Nourish. (What's your word of the year? Any time you're faced with a decision, you just plug it in. What could do I right now that would be the most nourishing choice?)

But the word of today was Tender. Feeling tender hearted, tender spirited. I've been making big batches of beef broth - which is fatty, messy, and smells gross for a while and then turns into smelling amazing. So today I had beef broth and the soft meat and gelatinous parts off the soup bones for breakfast. I had a beef broth, broccoli and onion pureed soup for lunch. And I'm going to have a simmered pork soup for dinner, with bits of mushy butternut squash. I'm not certain the squash is allowed, but I'm dying for it.

My snacks were: one cup of plain, lactose-free, organic yogurt. Three big sips of the juice that my live sauerkraut is sitting in. And three small sips of lactose-free kefir.

And a lot of chamomile tea.

Tomorrow will be identical, in terms of what I am directed to eat. I'm making chicken broth, too, to have something a bit lighter in which to stew my butternut squash, onions and carrots down into mush. Oh, and I can add garlic to all this too! Excuse me one minute.

I keep thinking how this will be in five, fifteen, fifty more days - and I keep trying to stop myself. One day at a time, and who knows how quickly healing will happen? And who knows how I will feel off of sugar for that long? That's the intriguing motivation of this lone day. I'm intrigued to know what it will be like to have no sugar, no fake sugar, no maple syrup, nadda, for a few weeks. I can't imagine I've gone more than two or three days without sugar in my entire life, after the age of about 11 (when I could get my own hands on cookies). What will it feel like? And is that enough to keep me toeing the line for as long as it's going to take?

Last Night in Pommern, August 1.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

I'm sitting watching the sun set, and thinking how I wanted to feel the air and see the light in Africa - would it be so different? 

Yes and no. It reminds me of remote Montana or Canada in clarity and vividness - and yet there is something different. There's a heightened sense of isolation, of danger. Like, something bad happens out here and sister, you're on your own. That gives it excitement - but a wary edginess I can't shake, no matter what time of day, no matter whether I'm outside or in the mission house. 

Maybe Maslow's layer of security makes us soft Americans, but displaying a tender heart is what Pema counsels us to have. Is poverty different in a Buddhist society? Although, things that are part of society here are not stolen - our iPods would be, but that neither the pile outside the clinic nor the bikes, bricks or lumber we see outside the Lutheran church for days are. So perhaps this is as peaceful a place - minus teachers with sticks, of course!! - as it can get. Or is it a detente of sorts? A recognition that you don't take bread out of a hungry man's mouth, even you're starving too - even if you're starving more. 

I've also been thinking today, after the clinic experience, about my possessions - things here, like the little nail clippers I brought and just used, that work so perfectly for their one exact use - and things awaiting me at home, like the exact right clothing for a mood, for the weather, for a celebration or mourning at hand. And people told me, and I expected, to think of my possessions with awe at how much, too much, I have. But you know what? I don't think that.

I think... I'm so grateful to have what I do, and I have long been trying to value it all by only keeping things I love. I already work to implement rules. No continuing to wear something I don't feel great in. No more decor pieces I used to like, or was given as a gift and I feel too guilty to give to Salvation Army. No extras - we currently have only one set of sheets, a half dozen towels, no good china (just one set of dishes I like and use daily), no more clothes than can all fit into my closet at any one, single time (a full ban on seasonal wear that cycles in and out of storage!). 

So I look around here at people who own so little and I don't feel guilty for what I have because I'm not unconscious about it. It's not wrong to possess an item because it brings joy or beauty or function or ease to my life. It is wrong, maybe, to possess an item I don't use, like, or enjoy. 

So it hits me. I expected to discover totally new things on this trip - new realizations, thoughts, conclusions about human nature and history and spiritual life, revelations about the rest of my own life! But - that has - I think - universally not occurred.

Instead, all the revelations - the aha moments - and experiences and ideas here are connected to current ones. I see the through-lines of my own growth and spiritual maturation. What brought me here continues to be experienced here, and will continue when I get home. Everywhere I go, there I am. There's nothing new under the sun, or even inside me. All of the learning, here, is part of what I already wanted out of life, what I already seek - giving up control in order to be freer, calmer, more loving and compassionate and kind. Giving up rigidity in order to experience joy and surprise, to be present in the moment with gratitude. And, I sigh as I write this. It's so fucking hard. 

I stop short here of saying "be happier" though because I don't pursue happiness, as a general rule. I don't use happiness as a yardstick to measure much of anything. I use novelty, excitement, especially accomplishment and completion, to judge success. When those line up, happiness probably follows. But I'm a terrible judge of putting happiness first - usually, I end up overeating, over drinking, oversleeping or oversharing, and the thing that was supposed to make me happy makes me bloated, tired, embarrassed or hung over. 

Far better to use the other yardsticks, and far better to keep a continued, and ever-honed, sharp eye on my possessions as a tool to ensure this feeling of value, appreciation... real gratitude even in material things... is not at all out of place. 

August 1: Last full day in Pommern.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

It's CTC day - and through Meggie's excellent manipulative conversation skill with Edward, she's gotten me out and about, assigned alone to the Clinic, and herself over to the primary school - where she has wanted to volunteer since we arrived. 

CTC means Counseling and Test Centres - the HIV/AIDS clinic that serves seven villages, including Pommern. My energy is too low to do justice in describing the inefficiency with which 62 AIDS patients were seen today, at this monthly clinic. It is actually every Thursday, but each patient is on a monthly rotation - first Thursday, second Thursday, etc. They get ARVs or other drugs. And it wasn't the plain, pitiable, understandable inefficiency of no shelves, drawers, computerized lists of patients, or drug inventory. It went far beyond that and I want to do it justice when I have the patience to walk through it in each excruciating detail. 

After a long morning of work, and a late lunch, Meggie and I said our goodbyes to the tech and athletics team at the secondary school, who made Zumba possible, Adrian and Flavian. And then to Nurse Patricia. Meggie's totally hellish morning in the primary school has moved her to an interesting place - from guilt or pity to frustration that people are not helping themselves. I remember my brother being there, then in another phase of compassion, and finally he moved into a sort of Zen acceptance. Acceptance by attrition, maybe!

To try to do this description justice... first you have to imagine a cold morning, and the cement clinic. People "line up" to be "checked in". I use quotes because they sort of stand or sit around, near the door to the children's ward - no kids here today, so apparently it will be the CTC clinic. Every person has already waited outside on the far side of the clinic - the shaded, coldest area - to be tested (I can't see this happening; is it a blood test? A weight on the scale? Something else?) and given a number on a scrap of paper. Then they mill over to the yard in the sunshine, in front of the children's ward, where I sit at a table with another huge bound book in front of me. 

The nurses bark, "Next! Next!" and snap fingers at each patient to hand over their CTC card. They shuffle in, sit down, hand the nurse their card and slip of paper. (Or they don't, appearing as if they've never done this before. The nurse snaps for the scrap of paper, then, too.) A CTC card is a battered piece of card stock bearing their name, village, CTC number (it's a national registry) and instructions on when their clinic meets (what week of the month, what location).

This second line I'm helping with is to create a hard copy record of who showed up today, and whether they'll be getting ARVs or not. So I write their CTC number down, reading it from the card, and then the nurse tells me their village and their age, to fill in the next two lines. The age is asked for (why is it not on the CTC card!?) and if the person does not know, it is guessed at. Then their mystery number is written down and by science I don't understand, I'm told whether to check "ARV" or "No ARV" on the sheet of paper. 

The person is sent out, back into the yard, to mill around in a large group. No order is kept. 

We get through all 62, recorded in the book - the youngest patient is 9, the oldest is 72 - and most are female. The average patient is a woman in her 30s or 40s.

The young man diagnosed on Monday, in front of me and Meggie? He was in the line.

Then, everyone - the nurses, me, all the CTC patients - are herded to the very front part of the clinic yard. We spread out on the ground and on the few benches, sitting just in front of all the junk that's been mysterious to me since we arrived (rusted bed frames, broken old-fashioned wheelchairs, rotted boards, smashed bookshelves), not just for the content, but also because I look at it every day and wonder, in a village with so little, what is the social contract that prevents any item from being stolen? These are not useful wheelchairs or good boards - but surely someone could repurpose them and get great value. However, that sort of theft seems to be neither considered nor allowed; the village rules are clear and illustrated to me, if definitely unspoken.

What we attend, I start to understand, is a lecture on the importance of treating HIV and AIDS. Taking medicine, getting partners and family members tested, and then the longest segment on how it is possible to give birth AND breastfeed, without passing the disease to the baby. There is a young mother, who has AIDS, nursing her baby, and she seems to be telling everyone the baby is regularly tested but is negative, since she is taking her drugs and taking care of herself (she mimes eating food). The lecturers are Nurse Nema and Doctor Elton - and it's not fair that I am hard on Dr. Elton; I mean, yes, he's a dentist, and so that's an easy thing to point at and tease - but he's probably had enough clinical experience to push himself right into internal medicine, right?! 

The lecture is about 30 minutes long - and I'm glad for a seated break, I won't lie. Plus the sunshine warming me a little; it is another cold morning (though the sun is back out today, after being hidden by clouds and drizzle for both days I was home sick). 

Then, all the patients form another half-assed line, and I go back into the children's ward with the nurses. We sit at a table with boxes of drugs, and each person comes in with an old pill bottle. They show the kind they've been taking for a month, and are given a new bottle of the same kind. They also might have a scrap of paper with other prescriptions written on them - usually antibiotics, ibuprofen. 

The people getting ARVs are shit out of luck today; there are none. I'm told the government didn't supply them. No nurse appears to explain whether they should come back next week, out of their usual rotation, or what they should do for a month, being out of pills and all. In my head, I'm screaming, "Of course there is a contingent of Africans who think AIDS drugs don't work and that Americans and Brits are just poisoning their minds! The drugs DON'T work if you don't take them properly!"

A couple people don't have their old pill bottles anymore. We spend 15 or 20 minutes trying to decide what to do. We have to give them what they are used to taking - how can we possibly know if they don't have the old bottle, nor can remember? (There are two choices, friends, of pills to take. Two.)

Nurse Patricia leaves for 20 minutes by my count, with no reason, and comes back so we can pick up again with distributing. While she was out, the other nurses chatted on their phones. The line just stopped outside our door. Meggie said later she saw Patricia having a Coke and a snack at the little coke stand. 

These other drugs are available, for those not getting ARVs - getting what I think is a simpler protease inhibitor combination pill. And hey, they don't send the CTC ARV patients away empty handed... they all get vitamin B12 pills! That'll cure your AIDS.

Charting & Pill Dispensing:

I stay at the Clinic until about 1:30 PM. So in 5 hours, we've made people line up three times. Once to get their number determining ARVs or no. Another time to get registered at attending the clinic, in the big useless book. Then they attend a lecture - and all I can think is, is this something required by USAID or the Tanzanian government, and is the same lecture every week? - and we've made them line up AGAIN to get handed the right pills. When I leave, 9 of the 62 have their pills. It takes until about 4 PM to get all 62 through the lines and process here.

It appears as if this is the first time such a clinic has happened - and we know that's not true. We know this happens Every Single Thursday. 

Why line up three times? Why not see one patient at a time? Why not have pills counted out in a 30-day's supply, instead of waiting to count them out for each person? Why ask their age each time - why not ask them to be ready to supply it? Why record the check-in process in one large useless book, and then record who gets what drugs in a SECOND large useless book? 

And the best part? The second book records only what was prescribed. ARVs? Check. They were prescribed. The fact that they're not fucking available is not recorded anywhere. Check the books, and all looks well. This is Tanzania. 

So - I'm writing this so long after the actual day, I know I've forgotten some details of all the other tiny inefficiencies I witnessed. And as frustrating as it was - and, oh, lordy, it was! - in the middle of it, I sat there, patiently, for hours, waiting for bursts of activity, waiting to be told to record certain data, and generally not trying or wanting to tell anyone what to do. I just took it all in, and with the exception on the one mental scream above, I felt useful in recording the data - because it was something. It was freeing up a nurse's set of hands to actually chat with patients, and touch their shoulders, and look into their eyes. But for me to not want to tell someone what to do, how to do it faster, better, more efficiently... well, that's basically an African miracle! 

July 29, A Pommern Monday. Part 4.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

The feeling of being in the right place, at the right time, lasts all day. There were two more working events. First, a clothes-sizing and second, the latrine again. The clothes-sizing was for the 13 orphans at the other primary school (not the one near the mission house, where our fellow volunteers have been working).

I have visceral trouble, coming from the land of 25-cent BINS at Goodwill and corner sidewalk FREE BOXes and even piles of clothes strewn near homeless encampments, with this first task. How can I understand the importance of two pieces of clothing per child? We're told many of these orphans have one single outfit. These orphans live with grandparents or aunts, and a shirt might be 1,000Tsh, Edward says. It might take a month to save that up, after buying food and cooking oil and fuel and matches and salt.

So Meggie, Marie and I slapdash our way through the kid's clothes Marie tossed in a suitcase back in New York (and some very small adult clothes chipped in from the rest of us).

We hold things up to each child, lined up by size, erring on the side of "too big" so they can grow into it. I'm able to give one of the big girls, maybe 12 or 13, a training bra - a thin, grey, shelf bra, a castoff of the girls in our volunteer family, and as much as she'll let herself express emotion, her eyes light up at it.

This is also the nicer part of Pommern, I'm shocked to discover. The school grounds are really quite pretty, the homes are neater, all the grounds are kept up, fences are more common. The school was built by the Roman Catholics, and there's a big difference between it (below, in the background) and the buildings built by Global Volunteers. Interesting to find out we're in the poorer section of a poor village. And I resist making jokes about things Catholics build versus things Lutherans build.

(After giving away clothes:)

For some reason, I like the picture below of us talking after giving away the clothes; it shows the intensity of conversation among volunteers the whole two weeks. Experiencing, analyzing, discussing, stretching - a lot. Beyond comfort. 

And I wrap up the day's work with a couple hours back on the latrine - and how much progress we've made! I also find out that Thomas and Moses call me The Commander. They're busted by a bilingual person who tells me this at the construction site, and I turn to them in mock insult, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. Then I laugh and they laugh, and Moses says, "Commander njema!" But our bilingual companion says, "Oh no, not true! When you walked up they said, 'Oh no! The Commander is back and now we'll die!" And here I thought I was working slow and matching their pace. Apparently, as my pal at home Mikey says, I've been mushing their butts uphill! 

As we're wrapping up, as the mortar is running out, around 4 PM, I start to feel - a little  - off. 

I walk slowly back to the mission house alone. I hope it's that I didn't drink very much today, or that I pounded my lunch of peanut-butter-sauce-with-local-cabbage over noodles (yes, it was that weird). Maybe it's the smell of the latrine, especially pungent today. 

I come home. I pound some water. I take a half-bag-shower and then absolutely MUST lie down. I'll feel better if I just rest through this terrible weighted feeling.

I get up a couple hours later for dinner, which I don't really want to do. I take only a slice of papaya - papaya!  Good for the digestion, too, right?! And I heat up a cup of the powdered chicken noodle soup I brought from home. The packing list recommended soup packets for "homesick tastebuds" and though I was sure that would never be me, I said to John, "If someone gets sick, wouldn't it be nice to give them chicken noodle soup? I'm bringing four of these."

I have to leave dinner early and lie down.

And at 7 PM, it begins. Truly violent vomiting and top-of-the-line diarrhea.

July 28: Back in Pommern.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

How can you give a gift when the balance of power is so badly weighted as to basically be a straight vertical line? For we Americans, we wealthy and confused (are we generous, guilty, or desiring of sharing the things we love and put so much meaning into?) little Americans, with our language taken from us - we want to give. But we want to give the things we treasure - to show gratitude for allowing us to come into the community and for being so patient with our cameras, our energy. But how CAN we give? We're so far from the first to bring boxes of school supplies - and yet, there are none in any of the classrooms. But if you got a pen, and were hungry, wouldn't you sell the pen for crackers? So how can our gifts make sense?

Edward asked me what I was sorting, when I was inventorying medical supplies before Zumba class the other day, and it was a pile of dental floss (many small packages, a few yards each). When I explained, he asked me to put it in the clinic pile because if given directly to the people, they'll use it as fishing line. The things I don't about about this kind of generational poverty - and the things I don't even know that I don't know! - make me useless. As a giver of any kind. People say, "Oh, I learned so much from 'them'" in reference to a poorer or less powerful society and I've always - and still do - take that to mean that any people with less than us will teach lessons about what is really important - love, family, laughter, connection to the community. And I've thought that was total crap. And to be honest - I still do. 

But my head is figuratively spinning tonight as I come to grips with low little - how nothing - I'll contribute here. I'm stunned and embarrassed to realize that what will be learned here will ONLY be learned by me. But not the sweet things in life, not at all a reminder of the simple profound pleasures. Instead I'm learning the profound depth of sameness the third world endures. The pain of meeting daily needs with nothing leftover at the very best, or a debt as the sun falls, at the very worst. But never two pennies to rub together - never enough to have one task done for a week or a month. Every day is exactly the same and you're lucky to just catch up every 24 hours. My human desire to communicate with the person in front of me, but the overwhelming reality of a boggingly large group of individuals in front of me.

By way of hard details, the flickering generator light tonight makes me laugh - it's terrible illumination that gives me a headache, and it is still more than all the people here have. 

Most of the women volunteers swapped clothing stories tonight - yup, most of us are heavier than we were a week ago. And in our Rose & Thorn sharing tonight, my rose was the baobab trees and their evocative emotions. My thorn was reaching wifi for the first time in almost eight days only to have it be down today. I really want to hear from John - about his backpacking trips and plans, that he is OK, that all is well at home. It's 9 PM here, 11 AM Sunday there - and he is so close to me right now. I can't feel if it's because of nerves or a problem, or if he just wants to hear from me, too.

Finally tonight, I am burdened with a good bit of despair. I feel so much like I'm letting you all down. I've put on music for the first time since arriving in Africa - Sigur Ros - in order to let these intense feelings of disappointing you flow through. 

Don't get me wrong - enough of you warned me. 

"I hope you don't think you're going to help/save/affect anyone." 

"You know you're not going to make a difference, right?" 

"What can you do in two weeks?" 

"It's arrogant to do this." 

"Just go to any town and you'll find someone who needs help. Why go with an organization, that costs money?" 

Oh, I came with much caution and pessimism - those are all direct quotes from professed friends. I haven't thought I would save anyone. But now I feel I owe you - you who sent me and Meggie off with contributions, and so much excitement and love. How can I come home with nothing tangible to show you? How can I come home broken? 

There's the septic tank, thanks be, and the joy of Zumba. And that very well might be it. So if it is - I have to let go as this second week starts. If that is all there is show for it, by way of successes, then that is the truth. Or all there is for others. The soul lessons have been great, as I can even understand them so far. And the affirmation of intuition as a guiding force has been deep. Within ten minutes of meeting all the volunteers, I was immediately drawn to Leslie - the world is full of soul connections and one here is a sweet surprise, a little reminder that life as it was ticks on and on, and I'll rejoin it - but the Tanzanians won't. 

I was asked by Emmanuel if all us Americans - can we all afford most of the things in most of the stores? How to explain a platinum ring, a vacation house, owning two cars for two adults? WalMart versus Saks? How do I talk about disposable diapers and throwing away food? Or closets of clothes so big we probably could not make an accurate list of every tee, every pair of panties, every coat, sock, shoe and baseball cap that we own? I actually didn't recognize Moses tonight, when he came to stoke the fire, for he was in a new jersey! After I got back John said, when I was explaining how I struggled to explain poverty in America to Emmanuel, "Oh, I get it! It's like, how do you explain the difference between flying ON a plane and flying on your OWN plane? How do you explain the difference a Bentley and a Ford Focus?"

If the choice had to be made right now, I wouldn't come back to Tanzania. It is so broken, and I am so small, that my little dollars to the deaf women who make crafts, or to Mamamorrie for doing my laundry, just seem to make it worse. Dangling the prize in front of Wile E Coyote but never, not once, letting him win. And we are the roadrunners - moving too fast. Someone said to us, during one of our evening lectures, "You need to slow down, America, or we really will never catch up." 

So I guess I want to apologize for how little - or negatively - I might effect Pommern, when you sent me with such enthusiastic support. I want to apologize for possibly bringing back more pain, a deeper understanding of grinding poverty, dirt, smell, anger from those who watch us zip by in a private vehicle. 

I'm groundless again tonight and so I took in a little Pema Chodron reading... she's right about one thing... how can I be both so big and so small? How can I stay right where I am without resolution; how I need resolution! Ah, but how Pema wags her finger at me lovingly - no, no, no; you don't. Resolution is bad for you; better always to sit in it. And get softened because of it. 

July 27: Safari in Ruaha.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

Interlude day. The safari. Safari means "journey" and Mamatony said to me, "Safari njema" before I left - good journey to you. (This photo is at the Nyerere Airport in Dar.)

The hot shower still eludes us, alas - but we're in much lower country now. And low country "cold" water is sort of like LA "cold" water - and any shower is a good shower! It really is a remarkable change in the weather, just an almost-four hours' drive away. And today was a remarkably unemotional day - a reprieve dearly needed by this overloaded emotional self.

Our driver through Ruaha National Park was again Joseph, and our guide was Emmanuel. They were wonderful - the right level of talkative and enthusiasm for our group (not too much). Anyone we told, including Pommerini who can't afford a toothbrush much less entrance to Ruaha National Park, that we were going on safari to a national park was deeply, truly happy for us. (Entrance fees are listed and charged in cash or to your credit card in American dollars. It is $30 USD per day. The average annual income in Tanzania in 2011, according to the World Bank, is about $530. I'm thinking of households of 5, 6, 7, 8 people - living on one income.) Their pride shone. And now I know why! For great reasons...

Waterbuk, baboon, blue monkey, dikdik, elephant HERDS, crocodile, impala, lions, hippo (with babies!), zebra, giraffe, vultures, storkbills, hornbills... like a Disney cartoon image, like a painted landscape, the great Sub Saharan East African plains in the dry season.

I'm in love withe baobab trees. Joseph picked up pods for us, broke them open, and gave us the seeds. You suck on them like candy; the hard coating tastes tangy and sweet - sort of like a lightly pickled plum or a SweetTart. Then you spit out the heart-shaped brown seed!

Thanks, John B, for the binoculars! Meggie checking out hippos, hanging in the slight current, some of the water that's not yet dried up.

Lions eating what we believe was a baby elephant. Later, we saw some eating a giraffe leg. Yes, it is scary to be in a totally open, rusted, rickety, seat-belt-free Jeep watching these guys. You could hear the bone crunch. You could hear them "purr".

Vultures waiting above the lions...

One of literally dozens of elephant herds:

I'm pretty excited about elephants, I won't lie.

Meggie couldn't pose; possibly the planet's loudest small bird screeched and she was making sure it wasn't coming for us.

The herds don't seem to mind the people in cars; interesting note - it is illegal to step beyond 5 feet of any road in the national park. Not exactly the backcountry hiking we do in our national parks! But while they don't mind us... they do NOT let the babies be seen very often...

This guy is not charging us! He is just looking at us, and then gave a huge head shake. It was a-dor-able.

It almost made me want to become a birdwatcher.

It makes perfect sense why giraffe are used to decorate baby nurseries. They're docile, they're fascinating to watch, they're non-threatening and their ears are really, really, cute. And they stare right back at you - just as weirded out by your body shape as you are by theirs.

This picture makes me laugh; using someone else's camera is hard, as my seat mate in the Jeep illustrates with her efforts here: 

This baby monkey chattered and yelled at us, and then when we pulled away, he ran out in front of the car, scooting like the dickens and howling for his life, for the next tree over - and his mama.

Yes, that is what it looks like. That's a dead, bloated hippo carcass in the river, with a bird on one side and a croc on the other - devouring it. It reeked of death, rot, and slime. I got video of it. It was awesome.

More elephants!

The lushness remains, even as the dry season creeps in from all sides.

We've been whipped around the van for about 7 hours at this point, hence looking so fresh-faced.

Crazy cactus.

I love this one. We crossed the Great Ruaha River many times - since the river is mostly dry right now. This is the riverbed of soft sand, and I liked thinking about the water flowing through, the great herds migrating. We're told that 85% of visitors come in the dry season to see animals. 15% come in the wet season to see plants, flowers and birds.

It really was a Disney cartoon at the end - we finally saw a much-desired warthog mom, running at sunset through the high grass with her tail up, so the three little babies behind her knew what to follow and where to go! 

Emmanuel speaks wonderful English - he tells me he learned from cartoons - and has a steady maturity that makes us all gasp when he says he is only 18. He is at university in Iringa but wants to go to South Africa and become a chef. I am uneasy about the situation - being guided through the park like royal visitors - but then again, if $530 is what most people make in a year, and our Jeep of 5 is going to tip him somewhere in the neighborhood of $80 or $100... are we helping him? Are we hurting others? Is he a good enough actor to pretend to enjoy his day with us - as he seems to? On the ride back, all questions about animals answered, we ask what he'd like to know about America. He wants to know about our big game - our bears, our mountain lions (they're not like your lions!), our moose. He wants to know about our roads (all tarmac, even in national parks?). He wants to know about rain and snow and our landscape. I ask about hospitals and medical care and he asks about health care in America - we get a little out of our depth with that one, but I try to explain that there is poverty in America, and what it looks like, how many people we consider "poor" and the ways we measure it. 

He stops on the road up to the lodge and picks hard berries from the ground - large, like a small kiwi. We're to rip them open and suck out the sweet pulp - amarula fruit. Emmanuel tells us that they fall to the ground, ripe and delicious, but after a couple days, they become dangerously alcoholic though the taste does not change! You have to know when they fell to eat them safely, and animals sometimes eat them too late too - the stories of drunken elephants rampaging through villages sound like lies, but at the lodge later, we learn they're true. An American group is there for a cold drink, though they're on a six month assignment with an NGO to build bee fences, which sound brilliant. 

Superficial as it may sound, back at the lodge and before dinner, I'm thinking about my tattoo #3. #1 was on my 18th birthday to celebrate adulthood and getting away to college. #2 to commemorate marriage. #3  - maybe a baobab tree to memorialize this trip? But the baobab can look angry, it can look joyful, it can look profound, it can look foreboding or funny or brokenhearted. What to pick? To emcompass it all?

The tree far away on this hill is a candidate for the tattoo design; it's two baobabs together, standing so proud and confident. 

July 26: Ruaha Hilltop Lodge

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

Coming back up to speed on Friday, we work a half day - Meggie and I spend from about 8:30 to about 12:30 working on the septic.

I see why those who go to do this work keep going back. With gestures and a couple words in each language, we make great progress - almost three corners complete by lunchtime! And I don't need to be a mason. I can be an attentive pair of helping hands and that is totally enough. And rather than repeat the words that "I care, I want to help" instead here the people know that our Western money bought the bricks, the mortar, and clearly we care - we're here helping put it all together. This septic may be the only good thing I take away from the entire trip - well, that and if I don't get sick, I can leave two courses of antibiotics and an honest course of Cipro could save a life here that would otherwise be over. That medicine cabinet on our tour was bleak.

A side note and a few pictures from septic day with Meggie... all the schoolchildren run out during recess to watch the ladies working in the pit, it is hilarious and mesmerizing to them. 

I like Moses here, on the right with his hands on his hips - in his same outfit, we're on day five - telling them to keep back. 

The kids (boys) also, on these cold mornings, dig in the ash pile for coals to warm their hands.

They find things to burn, and thing to ignite from smolder to flame. Then they throw them like toys. Meggie is having a heart attack at this, Ms. Safety Officer.

And this young man found a pen to burn. Smells wonderful. 

The ask pile's intended use - one on each side of the latrine - is to carry ashes into the toilet, and scatter them after you do your business, to cut down on the smell and attempt a little composting. I did not see anyone do this. 

So after lunch, we journey back to Iringa via hired coach (Jeep with no shocks, no AC, windows that may or may not roll down, which is good, or not, depending on the dust, and a sweet driver Joseph who speaks no English other than "Photo?" It is nearly two hours to Iringa Town - for a hilarious meeting with Mr A., the lodge owner who I've emailed with from Oregon to set up this one-day safari. The story of Mr. A can only be told in person; ask me about it! 

And on to Ruaha National Park. Tarmac roads till they give out for more gravel, and again past the place where electrification ends - another 2 hours past Iringa. For the first time when we drive through a small village, I hear the children cry, "Mzungu! Pipi! Pipi!" White person! Candy! Candy! which is not new. But what is... "Give me money! Money!" We all pretend not to hear it and wave back, smiling, as Joseph speeds us on by, laughing himself. Uncomfortably? Or in ignorance?

I struggled with posting about this; the entire weekend excursion cost $400 per person. But I feel, and felt, guilty that we let ourselves leave Pommern - and that we let ourselves have this tourist experience when the majority of the trip was funded by generous friends, family, coworkers, neighbors. However, to be true to this trip journal experience, to the national park we went, at a cost of $400 each outside the funds we raised - and in a much-needed gentle nod from the universe, we were a group of five (that's the most efficient way to price a safari, it turns out). And the gentle nod was that the three women from the Denver area, to whom Meggie and I have grown closer and closer this week, were the ones to commit to to going with us many months ago - and our little Fearsome (Fearless?) Fivesome was ready for a couple nights on a smaller scale of intimacy than with the full group of volunteers.

First things first at Ruaha: our wine is fantastic. Four of us share one bottle and it's perfect. And our little unelectrified safari camp dinner is lovely, no refrigeration needed! But the conversation between the five of us kindred spirits is even better. It warms me. (Good thing too because there are little solar hot water heaters here in each little twin-bed lodge - but - oh - don't get excited - Meggie and my heater is broken! No hot showers for us in Ruaha.)

I am the only one who feels I may be doing actual harm and can't even see any good from the joyful children's faces. I only see colonial, imperial reverence for white faces - I only see them touching us as a mzungu totem, not making or seeking to make any human connection. Although, to be fair and as Leslie reminds me, Meggie's Zumba class may be the lone exception to that feeling I have about the kids - the joy of dance IS so pure, and the involving of everyone through a class and choreographed format, is admittedly worth a whole lotta bad. 

Sunset from the deck at Ruaha Hilltop Lodge; that's the largest national park in Tanzania there, and the second largest in Africa behind the famous Kruger National Park. Tomorrow - to the park!

July 25/26: Before the break, Part 2.

Before our two nights away, this is part two of my last evening of journaling in Pommern - after the first full week. I may be repeating myself a bit here, but it's as-written, knowing the next day I'd work a half day on the septic and then go... on a safari! 

After dinner.


My companion Paul writes about how he believes all of rural and poor Africa - as well as much of urban and poor Africa - is smellier and dirtier than it used to be. I can't make a comparison but I can it is so dirty, and so smelly. Is a small pan of water heated over the fire, and one small rag, too much? Maybe it is. But this is days, even weeks, of not washing. Some people not changing clothes at all, not since we've been here. I can't get over it; our pal Moses from the construction site can literally be smelled across the house. Meggie and I exchange glances when we smell him headed to the fireside for a warm-up.

The self-imposed no-alcohol while working/in the village/actively on the journey - i.e., not till tomorrow when we are on safari! - was hard tonight. Smelling it tonight, at a meal with meat - with beef! (Edward had to go to town today for veterinary supplies for Joe's volunteer work; he picked up a slab for us. Delicious.) It's the old Weight Watchers hold-out-aaaaalmost all week, but now it is Thrusday. And I'm tired of holding out!

But then, in the universe's lessons, always present, if you want to look - there were folks who drank too much tonight. And that's a screaming baby on a plane for birth control. It was what I needed to remember why I'm choosing to abstain. Why the luxury of a pre-packaged experience is to be put to good use, the best use, with total attention paid, with my own feet held to the fire.

No escape, no relaxation, no cheating to numb out even a bit. If I've had to learn this week to set boundaries (again!), and if I've had to let go of my illusions about African education, I at least owe ruthless honesty to the Pommerini by paying full attention.

Does me experiencing this make the world better? I try down to my teeth to not infantilize the non-worldy people, try not to condescend about the simple, happiness-loving folk who really know what's important in life. I try to meet square in the eye - and be always realistic - and always be ruthless. That's my motto. I know it's never been easy to be one of my friends, but I intent to be as hard on myself as I am on those I care about. But what is emotionally ruthless here? And is it in too much supply already?

What should I take away, when I go? At the near-halfway point, I'd tell you today I am fine with never coming back to Africa, and I'm constantly haunted by feeling like no mzungu should be here at all, least of all me. The best and brightest minds welcome us - but why? For more money? For prestige? Is it truly from a sense of service? Or a love of many worlds, and wanting the good from our world to come into theirs? Can it be enough to connect with a person, or two or three, and call it good at that? Is that what tentatively being a Unitarian Universalist is for me? Is that what I say it is?

Days ago I felt that I owed the women of Tanzania a big reach back at home, to balance our worlds. I was so happy to feel an achievable responsibility of creating connection far and wide, to weigh against the few connections they'll get to make just due to duties of food, water, and fire. But tonight my fears feel real and I'm no longer there. I am in that place I dreaded - where all I ever want is a small family of my own, to care for, and no more. No wider world. No big shadow, no community of hundreds. I want... ah shit. I realize - I want control. Total control. Because I guess this is groundlessness. And it's really scary.

July 25/26, Before the break, Part 1.

Before our two nights away, this is part one of my last evening of journaling in Pommern - after the first full week. I may be repeating myself a bit here, but it's as-written, knowing the next day I'd work a half day on the septic and then go... on a safari! 

I find that having secure shelter, safe food, clean water and English speaking friends means I can remain in a heightened state of observation more often than not. There's nothing rote here; there's no single unconscious action, from food to sleep.

Also: the showers that Joe and Marie and their family brought might be the greatest possession ever and I vaguely feel like I OUGHT to be ashamed of the daily 3 minutes of waist-height better-than-lukewarm water. But it's one thing I'm not embarrassed about. it's too powerfully restorative to feel guilty.

So during my peek into Lutheran choir practice today, and then hearing "Hey Ho" on Mamatony's battery-powered tinny kitchen radio - both bring me to tears. It's that heightened state, and I write this after working, after showering, feeling reborn. The tears come for scope of Africa's problems that I can't help - like how these women, their girls, and their girls' girls will live almost this exact life. I know I won't be able to fix anything of consequence for them, the ones right in front of me, even. Tears for the health, their hopes, for how they get smitten and fall in love but it probably does not make life much better. Again and again the beauty continues to pain me - more literally at times when I see this gorgeous place, with vibrant life humming in the very air, as also the source of their pain - geographically isolated from the power, but rich in natural resources ripe for the thieving.

And it becomes, over these days, apparent how we'll each divvy up the personal resources when they get scarce. Fellow volunteer Joe is wildly generous - having brought not just the sun showers for us all to use, but thousand (truly) of dollars in medical supplies. But when they are sorted and divided to take half to the clinic near us, and half to the Roman Catholic clinic across the village, he comes back harshly certain it was not only done wrong - ah, our attachment to literally giving the gift, to seeing the joy or appreciation or the reverence for the plenty we bring, the plenty we think we innately are - but that even more importantly, his personal medications were accidentally given away.

Now, look, I don't want to lose my Ciproflaxin either! But the pure possessiveness is both funny and part of the constant state of high alert I'm in, this constant open wound I am.

I see suddenly, my God, exactly what you would do with two servings of porridge and three kids.

And perhaps, at some point, what you would do with those two servings when one child becomes ill. And then gravely ill.

How Joe - and all of us - love our little things, things, things - and how our fresh-showered good humor and ability to poke fun at ourselves is there - until a very genuine threat arises. Someone gave away my pills, vitamins, medications. Then the entitlement to OUR items flares like Bilbo Baggins clutching after his ring, baring his fangs at a dear nephew.

And with that - Mamatony says dinner is served. I peel myself off the back deck and away from my rumination, away from my imagining of scarce, scarce food and what it would do - to me.