to cyndi. spinning in spain. "excuse me, are you americans. Happy Thanksgiving to you."

26 November 2008
Dear Cyndi, I write to you (these words were written a few days ago)
You sip coffee while spinning in Spain. But I am on a green cot, with a warm blanket, and Rwandan ginger tea, writing in pencil pages and pages of my blue journal. and yesterday was most beautiful.
I had a grand mood dancing around. Why? Thoughts of you. Thoughts of home, thoughts of those who I miss. And through the love that you send me, through our connection, through your time in Ronda, Spain, and my moment in Rwanda, East Africa, our souls hop about in joy and I'm able to love those within my proximity.

Let me tell you of my yesterday:
1. A surprise for Sarah's 22nd birthday. Our group has been a bit tense lately. The 13 of us traveling place to place, wishing we had a more permanent home. Each thinking of his or her loved ones back in the States, while Mbish also thinks of those he connects with in Kenya. I had a nice conversation beneath warm sunrays with Mbish the other day. Comparing romantic truths of Kenya with those of America. Through two cultures, we tried to define love. And this last week has been exhausting. We have been venturing back into villages, this time that of the Cyeza area, and I am struck by the green hued beauty of this land of a thousand hills. And by the children wearing rags. But still smiling.
so we threw Sarah a party. and because we prepared this for her, putting together whatever supplies we could find in our little guest house, we felt a unity. and a happiness.
2. Elizabeth, Kati, and I took an hour drive with Ernest to a pottery place. and then we had to walk a bit. but it was a beautiful hike. and i sat watching a potter at the wheel. and I was inspired. I think without words, my Cyn, you know why.

27 November 2008
Dear Cyndi, I think of you again.
Because today is thanksgiving and we are both far from home. Maybe you are crying; I know that I am a bit teary eyed. Because this is a thanksgiving away from those we love, away from tradition, away from comfort. I talked to Mom, Dad, and Cindy last night. And I wished them a good day. I hope that you were able to hear from your mom, or at least feel her love.

And Cyndi, only 7 weeks til we live in the same home. 7 weeks til we combine our Spanish and East African colors and fabrics and stories. 7 weeks til we are able to join, and just be. To rant, to rave, to love, to laugh. Because Cyndi, On thanksgiving I must give thanks.
I am thankful for professors who sacrifice time to aid us with our dreams.
I am thankful for family, sending love endlessly.
I am thankful for art and free expression. Theatre. Studio. Music.
I am thankful for these 4 months away. Struggling. Loving. Learning.
I am thankful for you. For friends like you. But you. I love your habits. I love when you are so honest and blunt. I love your sunglasses no matter how often you wear them. I love your style and your fearless expression. I love your addiction to coffee and the beatles. Your smile. Your natural pout. Your beautiful curly hair that conquers the world. Your authenticity no matter where. Your truthful mannerisms. Your angry morning moments. Your loud alarms. Your everything. There is nothing that you have that I don't love. Because truly I've been blessed with a sister of the spirit. And no words are able to tell you of my grateful sense of who you are. I MUST give thanks for you.

And today you are lonely. I am sure. As I feel a bit off, too, being in a land away from what I know. But you are nearly away from Spain. And embrace this moment. Soon we will be home. Soon we will see America in a different light. And SO soon can we laugh and cry together.

I am sitting again in a coffee shop while Norah Jones is playing overhead. It is beautiful. And I had an iced latte. And tonight we will celebrate thanksgiving with our family here. A nice feeling.

But as my two friends and I sat here on wonderful couches surrounded by African artwork and Rwandan scented coffee beans, a Rwandan man walked up. He asked if we needed anything, and then began to walk away. Only a few moments, though, and he turns back.

"Excuse me, are you Americans? Happy thanksgiving to you."

Sometimes angels linger near. And I think this angel meant to reach you, as well, dear Cyn.

So I give thanks for breath, for life, and for the ability to share pain and smiles across cultures. And across continents. 15 days until I fly home. And absence makes the heart grow fonder.

and my grandchildren will have shoes.

written sketches of my afternoon session in Cyeza Village to be used for later blank canvas'


a beautiful lady.
blue striped blouse with collar.
fabric of yellow, maroon, ocean with dry desert color.
head wrap once white, now dirtied by years of pain
through a genocide.
through loss of husband.
contemplative. observant.
brown. cafe' eyes. lips creased.
years. days. moments.
gunshots of 1994. near and I can only imagine.
children. five of them.
wealthy by title but no. not by other standards.
uses a well. a free source for the community.
clean this well on Wednesdays because children dirty it.
once young. I wonder what she was like.
I wonder who she loved. how she feel deeply in love with him.
oh to ponder over the history of romance by observing her wrinkles.
Who were her parents and how young when they left to rest with the higher one.
sacred beliefs. shared from you to me to him.
her mother.
I imagine: dark. a ruby hued undertone. as this woman's here.
and this lady. left to tell. must be of 50 or 60 years.
I only want to sketch through words.
I'd paint her.
I'd stare straight into her soul if I could.
were you raped? stabbed?
crying hysterically as he passed?
and how? how can this be dealt with.
how does one cope with such deep pain... pain building for centuries.
"I'm old, weak."
my dear, you are STRONG.
you have walked the dirt roads wearing down your soles.
until stained with hours of toil before golden sun burning and darkening evermore.
Teal cement. Red trimmed and painting walls. Broken up by history. Cracking still.
and this may be all.
but inspired yet again by a broken soul near.

Painted Maiden

organic.
figural canvas.
her body a terrace painting of green hues.
fabric around curving flesh, a bending stream.
stilled chest as rolling hills
grass sways with breeze, leaves rustling.
and the spotted white
as daisies amidst vibrant fields
But white as my own palm
contrasted to her darkened beauty
cafe color. rich flavor.
hands chocolate paint.
charcoal of deep mahogany and burnt cherry wood.
eyes as candles flickering in black.
lips only higher. loose pastel contours.
gentle peaks.
resting above painted fabric.
above white splashes interspersed
bristles of this brush moving fearlessly dressing surface once blank.
now a painted maiden.

to love is duty

pink floral doodles
circling and spiraling
always hated the femininity of pink.
now a strange fondness for it.
but these pink sheets
a light rose hue after rain drops settle
folding in and out
my gaze following and contouring the lines
my body warmed by its layers.
and this fabric sits on a cot
and this cot rests in a room
this room with 3 sleeping ladies near
and this all amidst a city titled Gitarama
where 7 days of research wait to occur.

try to rest.
try to sleep.
try to bury my head within my pillow made of a red blanket.
but
a moment in my mind:
thoughts of two coffee bars.
the aromas and essences still dancing near
must close the eyes. but rather vibrantly awake.
and then i write within the blue journal.
wish it weren't blue. i like red.
at least the pages are white. no lines. nothing limiting.
scribbling rapidly
emptying the crowds that blur
open a book.
Kierkegaard: WORKS OF LOVE
he says "to love is duty."
dwell in this moment.
to love is duty
love.
duty.
and if love is thought of as duty, jealousy is gone, fear is gone, false persona: gone.
this is really all.
only moments ago i sat my head on a red blanket.
attempting to venture into a night of imagination
a night of vivid dreams.
only now i sit wide awake pondering the philosopher's words.
fearing the seven oclock alarm.
and awaiting morning tea.
so what is duty?
to love.
where does this duty exist?
within proximity i suppose
pink floral doodles and Kierkegaard.
and to love is duty

burnt orange walls and splashes on canvas

coffee aroma in a little bar below the street
burnt orange walls.
paintings with vivid splashes.
a journal on the fabric to my right.
a book on social comparison near.
and irish born to my left.
elizabeth along side.
and conversation
cultures all connected
sitting in idealism, dreaming together.
and of course the taste of roasted coffee beans and bisquits.

a nice saturday.

anxious peace and falling rain

in rwanda i am taking two courses:
1. Peacebuilding and Reconciliation-
an in depth study of Rwandan history and how it led up to the genocide
a focus on how peace and reconciliation have and have not been achieved
pastor anistase: professor with amazing mannerisms. unique. awkward.
beautiful story. adorable. sweet soul. beginning of PHARP,
an organization set up to provide assistance to genocide survivors
guest speakers: detailing us on court systems, titled GACACA. and other stories
visiting memorial sites. what a brutal challenge. but not even a fraction of the pain felt by those involved, so therefore necessary to see.
2. Social Context of Development-
an intriguing study of what development truly is, and what it needs to be
seeking a new definition of poverty and social transformation
next week we will set out in groups for 8 days in the field doing case studies.
taught by Dwight and assisted by Aryn Baxter

both interesting. both helpful. both challenging.


but what more? I am sitting in anxious peace. my mind constantly occupied. i adore rwanda. i truly do. my mind, though, is jumping through loops of dreams and visions of my future.
i think of my friends without homes in portland.
i think of a possible journey to ireland this summer.
i think of my roommates. cyn. ang. jinzy. how i miss you
i think of my others loves, my australian Rachel.
i think of home. Devyn. and girls from my freshman year dorm.
I think of family. and i miss you all. even those unmentioned, i think of you often.

and i dream. and i sit in anxious peace still. and i have much to do, much to process. I cannot get the images of awful genocide out of my mind, and i think, what drives a person to such pain that he enables himself to murder?
I admire the court system. I admire the progress rwanda has made.

even more i think of my nightmare last night.
there i was. surrounded my skulls. surrounded by bones. slouched over on a curb crying once a stream then flowing into a river of tears.

yet through this intense pain that is not even able to be put to words yet, i MUST have you know that i am at a serious place of contentment. you see, depression has been a lifelong battle, but at this moment i sit in a place of joy. yes, pain still. but pain always. in all reality though, i feel genuine peace.
i can't think of a time where i've felt this good. this independent. this on top of depression. this at ease.

and thus i sit in anxious peace. because i am anxious for my future. anxious for the blurry dreams i have. anxious SO much so to sit in an art studio and paint. and anxious to tell people of what i've seen... anxious even still to hug those i've missed for so long.

i say:
oh darn, only 4 weeks left.
and oh good, only 4 weeks left. total contradiction, but no rush to finish, and intense excitement to be home again.

but among the angst, there is incredible peace.

julia, did you know?

Yes.
I was recently charged at by an elephant. Terrifying. Equally as much so as rafting the nile.

Julia? have you heard?

And i survived.

untitled

my heart cannot ignore that which has occurred and still occurs in the congo, neighboring several countries, including rwanda. please read about this. become aware. the congolese genocide killed more than even the holocaust. and continues in snippets misunderstood and overlooked by most.

do not turn a blind eye, but recognize that change breathes somewhere.

i have no answer. i have little knowledge regarding the history of these deaths and the still current pain, yet a simple acknowledgment of worldly truths allows more space for conversation.
and therefore, more space for an altered spirit. more space for transformation of truth and thought. and even more, a space for love felt across continents.

lost in translation even pain even love.

lost in translation
uganda, then rwanda
safari and elephants and even more.
thoughts of broken people, broken world.
authentic embrace of a word unspoken: genocide.
war. pain. violence. Man against man. heart against heart.
how does he hurt her?
how do they justify?
Oh yes.
because couldn't all human beings do such things.
couldn't she seek revolution for one cause
as he seeks a different one.
fighting person on person for change. for breath. seeking.
only i cry.
last night a vision through film of heartache a decade past.
of rwanda torn to pieces by souls thirsty for freedom.
yet i understand the motive.
retreating to the patio i wept.
glancing aimlessly over the city. over kigali. the capital.
thinking of bullet holes still dwelling plentifully in walls.
the lights twinkling as fireflies, mirroring the dark sky.
and silence. a city at rest.
but a tear falls. once a stream now a roaring river.
so a darkness in a city of hope.
a city seeking reconciliation. a country loving still.
a mask maybe of covered aches, bruises, deaths.
but coping comes with angst. one must find another to confide in.
and how does an entire country do this?

So walking through the city today.
hurting for those eyes i pass. wondering of their pain.
and still at peace.
a nice city. sipping coffee at bourbon.
people with spirits golden and smiles true.

so now what?
only one word:
love.
for this place.
for these people.

and i continue translating, once lost, maybe still.
in even pain, even love.