.megh.elizabeth.

Jayber.

2009-06-22T13:19:00.004+03:00

After a weekend around- reading, sleeping, coffee and tea consuming, thinking, feeling alone, feeling community, going to church with Megan Buff, spending the night at her place and giggling all along, conversing a bit with my housemate Dale from South Africa, and resting and walking-
all those things one does in Belfast, I arrived home Sunday night to finish Jayber Crow, a novel by Wendell Berry. Sometimes it is as though the words in a book are read at the perfect moment or maybe that I read these words through a lens that enables them to fit within my own life. Whatever the case, it was through the reading and completion of this book that I felt a transition, one that allowed me to wake this morning with a feeling and a truth I have not seen yet so clearly:

A deep love for Belfast, Northern Ireland.

As I have been here, because of the weight of my studies, the occasional loneliness, and the oddness of being a foreigner even in a western culture, it is almost as though negativity has overcome. But what I have forgotten to focus on are these things:
The beauty of green, even in gray.
The wonderful people who have taken me in, and while I am sometimes alone at night, there is a community here most fascinating to take part in. And even as these are new relationships, how does one ever become intertwined in depth without taking the time to transition from new friend to old friend?
I have been lost in "missing" those at home such a great deal that I am forgetting the virtue of living in a fully present way. A quote from childhood that still sits heavily: "Wherever you go, go with all of your heart."
And even though the nature of my research is to study conflict, this cannot negate the humanness and the stunning complexity of this city. Because even amidst sorrow there is great joy. Even amidst healing hearts and broken hearts from violence in the years past there is the ability to stumble upon a scene: people of all ages dressed in all of their various colors, children, young couples, elderly, even drunkards, sitting outside yesterday and watching a street performer... standing on stilts, juggling, cracking jokes...
I looked around and saw faces. and every face was laughing. almost childlike and absolutely brilliant. the joy i took from this moment is still lingering, and reminding me that joy does exist. and so i will not forget to remember and continue studying the sorrow of this place, but what i cannot do is dwell only on the lack of so that i forget the abundance.

Because while I miss you, and I miss home, and I miss those things that comfort me, I am suddenly overjoyed with the discomfort of Belfast, such discomfort that is almost comfortable in its awkwardness. It is a city, and there are cities everywhere. But is a city with its own people, its own stories, its own grace and mercy and pain.

This week is to be a good week. I have a meeting tonight with a friend and then a group of people getting together to speak of sustainability and helping others and loving and how we can better do this. And tomorrow lunch and art galleries with a new friend I met who also studied Art and Philosophy, and more events. Wednesday I will go to a day of reflection at Wave Trauma Centre. Thursday I will meet with women and others. And Friday, well, James arrives and will stay for three weeks thereafter. These things are good. Really good.

And so I thank God for his/ her ability to bring comfort when I think it is gone. And I regret the moments I have spent dwelling a bit too much on the negative. But this cannot prevent me from now remembering it all at once in its bittersweet dance.

I'll end with the wisdom of Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow:
The trouble with many of my dreams was that they were perfectly rational, or they came from perfectly rational fears. They came from The Economy and The War- that is to say The News. It really didn't make any difference whether I was asleep or awake. All I needed was to be alone and quiet and in the dark, so that my mind could concentrate itself on fearful things, and it could not be unconcentrated sometimes until daylight.

But he goes on to express that daylight does come, and that sorrow and joy do intermingle, and that there is great hope and even greater mercy.

In all my love,
Megh

the misty isle.

2009-06-18T16:18:00.002+03:00

misty isle.
ireland.
northern ireland, more specifically.
and it is beautiful.
i say that word so often and fear it loses its meaning, but sometimes it is exactly what is needed. I think beauty can also include loss, conflict, pain, a burdened past.
would one even appreciate hope without despair along the way?
"how can we call it the past when it hasn't even passed?" These are the words I heard at the conference yesterday, presented by the Art's Council of Northern Ireland and titled "Art in Conflict." Lately I have been thinking alot about trauma. I have been working with WAVE Trauma Center, making artwork with victims of the Troubles, and in Scotland I also encountered a place for the bereaved, those missing family members who have died to drugs and abuse. And I wonder, is pain ever to stop?

The minister I lived with in Scotland mentioned that for the longest time she thought one should at some point stop grieving, but had a revelation that no, the grieving may be forever. and she thinks this is okay. and i think this is okay. it seems as long as we can recognize that pain, grief, trama, hurt, etc, etc, etc, exist, we can alse recognize how to deal with this. If I realize my own depression as something that may be forever, well then I can equally learn more and more what seems to provide peace from this. I can take a walk through nature. I can feel the cool rain and hear even the thunder. Last week I walked into City Center and along the way was drenched by the thunder storm, something that rarely occurs here. Suddenly I cried. "Why are tears rolling down?" And it was clear. For a moment, if I blurred my vision a bit and simply took in the sounds of the sweet thunder, as I titled it in Africa, I was brought back to the fall. I felt myself walking through Uganda, through Rwanda. It was terribly painful and terribly beautiful. Sometimes these moments are the only ones that can help me heal, help me remember.

As I travel I learn of more and more pain, but I also learn of more and more humannness.
There is humanness.
And I will despair if I only dwell in pain, but hope if I look at the individual level. Finding joy in those i meet:
the rwandan girl who now sews and received therapy through PHARP
the northern irish boy who, once a victim, now volunteers with youth
the homeless friend who laughs with me about life and love
these people
this girl
me right here.

and who am I in this picture?
"Endlessly humbled." These are the words of Albie Sachs, a Justice on the Constitutional Court in South Africa who spoke at the conference yesterday. At the age of 21 he began pushing for human rights in South Africa. Somewhere in those years he was imprisoned, exiled, and bombed. And through all of his despair, his wisdom absolutely encouraged. He expressed his humility as a sign of hope, and even moreso, he expressed HOPE.

Hope, humanness. These are the words.

Today I am resting between meetings of Art Therapists, Trauma Centers, Art and Healing Organizations, Women's Groups, Books, Literature, Etc. Today I am rejoicing over the community at home whom I miss, and the community here that is born. Today I am rejoicing over the little successes, that I learn are in fact the biggest successes.

in the green
in the rain
in the sun
love always, and deeply. and find peace in the mystery of it all.

Disbelief in Belfast.

2009-06-08T22:48:00.002+03:00

There once was a girl with short brown hair.
And she went to Scotland.
And there she was with Rachel, where the most beautiful island of skye happened to run into them, and it was full of magic.

and then solitude found her as she said her goodbyes to Rachel.
Only last thursday this girl arrived in Belfast, Northern Ireland with all the fear and fright and angst one can know, but today is Monday evening, and only joy befits her.
----
And this girl is me, and this girl is full of glee.

I cannot even find words and that is why I broke into somewhat childish story form above, but today I arrived back to my apartment after a day of research and suddenly burst into laughter. And it was joyful. And it was surreal. As though I am not actually the only one in the apartment, but angels and spirits and the Higher being celebrate with me. I felt this joy only to be expressed in giggles and shouts.

I arrived on Thursday to wonderful people, and since then have only met more and more. I find that only in humility are things actually accomplished, recognizing that yes I must respond but also I have to trust a great orchestration. I have been to an Art Therapy meeting where I made art with fellow artists, I have met elderly ladies who have shared their stories, I have been to a church service and connected with friends my age. The research is indeed draining, as I am contemplating huge questions of peace, reconciliation, conflict, and how art can be used as a healing force in all of this, but it is equally rejuvenating, in that my passions are being awakened more and more.

After a day of hearing stories and resting in my apartment (which I am living in this week alone as the two girls, Megan and Emily, who live her are on vacation), I went on a walk in the sun. And often it is cloudy here, but the sun came out around two today. I walked along the river, soaking up the greens, the blues, the glimmers, the rays. It was a time alone, a time to reflect, and a time to calm. I am forced each day to figure a healthy balance between work and rest, and felt that rest could only be achieved today by seeking wisdom from nature.

It feels that words can't portray what this research is doing, what my meeting today did, and what my walk alone was, but I trust you can understand its blessing. I know that I cannot change the world in a large way, but I am reminded that even the simplest hello is love. And that love is shared through others. And that love is shared through me.

I wish I had more energy to type, but I am going to use silence instead.

I do contemplate home. I wonder when I go, and when I return. If I am always going away, where is home? Because I no doubt miss it. It is a challenge being mostly alone in Northern Ireland, reflecting on my famliy and friendships in California, reminiscing my summer in Newberg, Oregon of 2008, remembering the sweet people I love in Portland. It all potentially haunts me, but it also propels me to continue. I wonder how long I can be a nomad. A friend said to me, "You are a nomad within a nomad within a nomad." And I remind myself, even nomads have homes.

So what is home? Maybe it is the arrangement of photos I taped up to the wall. Maybe it is the fabric I have with me. Maybe it is the greater sense of eternal connection I feel with you. Maybe it is the yellow, purple, and white flowers I picked so as to accompany in my solitude. Maybe it is the laundry hanging, or the music playing on this computer. Don't we all see sun? Don't we all see flowers? and music? and companionship? and fabric and photos and sounds of birds and rivers? And I believe that if we can find one connection we can be always joined. That the world can unite in a greater recognition of humanness, and maybe that is all I am exploring as I launch more deeply into this culture.

I find art inspiration, questions beyond my comprehension, peace in philosophy, and comfort in God.

:so she continues forth until the end of july:

missing and loving
-Megh

the minister

2009-05-23T15:21:00.002+03:00

we met this minister.
she is a stunning woman.
full of grace and peace and strength.
she began a ministry for those around her community that caters to children who have lost family members. the program uses art therapy to help children cope.
i was so inspired.
i don't always know why I am inspired. Why do I want to do everything? and why am I only human? There are so many people to help. Orphanages, Homeless people, my neighbor's next door.
I am only human.
I am only human.
And being only human, I am called to love my neighbor. My near-dweller. I am called to respond to the first face I see. Self-forgetting, other-loving.
Thank you Kierkegaard, Levinas, Jesus.
I am reminded that their is grace. But that always people will need love. So I can never stop. We can never stop. This need for love is a-satiable.

The sweet minister I mentioned earlier offered Rachel and I her home to stay in for the next 10 days.
She loved, and how gleeful I am!

:)

edinburgh, scotland

2009-05-22T16:11:00.002+03:00

sometimes i arrive in a place and feel empty. dark. overcome by solitude and loneliness even when surrounded by thousands.

others, though, are opposite.

upon arrival to edinburgh, scotland, only feelings of hope.
this place is rich in history. each building dating back centuries.
the people move quickly, but there is a sense of community.
condensed city. almost like portland. architecture pulling me in.
scottish tourists shops and charity shops and coffee and tea.

traditional and beautiful.
but words are only so much.
only so powerful.

i am feeling lonely often, but after a kind of dark week, i feel mostly restored.
Last weekend we ventured to the spiritual island of Iona. Incredibly beautiful. And absolutely brilliant.
I returned though to a city in Scotland called Stirling. Really beautiful. But also very exhausted from the constant movement from city to city, place to place, adjustment to adjustment.

Arrival to Edinburgh seems absolutely grand. Because Rachel and I plan on staying here for over 10 days. We are hoping to find a place to stay and we will have a home for a good amount of time.

How eager I am for Belfast.

How much I miss you.

How grateful I am for the paradox of solitude... lonely and beautiful. Painful and Joyful.

-Megh

cottonballs

2009-05-12T22:47:00.001+03:00

it has been about 7 days now.
and what do i think of ireland?

with its often passive aggresive nature (although I'll avoid generalizing)
and its not so welcoming element
and sometimes the loneliness that overtakes
and even the feelings of confusion

i absolutely love ireland

i list off the few negative elements, because in truth every negative in fact is only a blur of a a deeper positive, a distortion of a deeper good. is there really an evil? i believe all things are good and when we see evil... that evil is only a privation of a more present light.
because in truth the passive aggressive component can teach me a lesson to gentleness.
the fact that people often are more reserved shows a beautiful element of mystery.
the distance between my country and your country illustrates respect for homeland, and history, and tradition.
and the lonely attitude only comes at times. and again i'll iterate that loneliness is also only a distortion of good. it is only a truth that I am forced to spend time in solitude. and should i truly run from myself? No. the solitude is necessary and most often i embrace it fully (or at least attempt).
confusion only results from my presence in another country. i compare and contrast. i compare the incomparabe nature of africa to the incomparable nature of ireland. and i expect clarity? In fact it is again blurry when i begin to compare. there are indeed similarities but the strongest is that truth that within each country is humanness. each individual i encounter is human. how, then, can i compare? countries that are composed of people, all existing within uniqueness.

so we have driven through green pastures. sheep are as cottonballs, floundering about on green lands. cows are adorable and everywhere. horses run wildly at times. i walk through cities as well and find people from everywhere. i hear languages amidst other languages and people pass by.
dublin is interesting. a big city full of history and past, yet also people. people running everywhere doing everything. i stick to the statement that you've seen one city and you've seen them all, but that would in fact erase the unique definition of dublin. i love it. and pubs are public houses. hard to find an authentic one in dublin because they are made to create satisfaction for tourists, yet i have indeed found what i'd love to call authentic.

just the other day i escaped the group setting after attending a catholic mass, rich in historical nature. the glass windows of color and the sunshine shedding in. the angelic hymns surrounding. vocals, prayers in unison. Dad always said "Stand up Sit down FIght! FIght! FIght!" I still agree, Pops, but it is quite intriguing, isn't it? people from all walks of life reciting verses together. Even though I cannot agree with all that is Catholic, I can much approve of the setting. I felt so heavy. the weight of centuries gently on my shoulders.

and after mass, as I said, I wandered alone. My journal, myself, and I, in this beautiful city called Galway.
i wandered throughout the city finding local housing and universities. and suddenly I asked for guidance... asking the spirits? the angels? the God? Whatever it was, I suddenly heard music from a nearby door. There were old men playing and singing and hyming irish music. I met a German girl. 23 and travelling throughout Ireland. It is these interactions that I live for... the interactions where human being meets human being. In my independence I find connection. And apparently this is the best pub in all of Galway.

and I love this place. We have seen ruins amidst hills and abbeys and I have ran along cliffs toward ancient rubble.

i cannot help but compare what I already know, thinking of africa and home.

and while there are challenges, this journey is beautiful.
just one night left in galway.
tomorrow is belfast.
and a few days from now we head to scotland.

i love you dear family and friends.

I thank the Lord for this opportunity, for these next few months of human exploration, and I ask that you feel my love.
_megh

Dublin or Portland?

2009-05-05T22:13:00.002+03:00

So today we arrived after transit.
Wandered about beautiful Dublin. Quite remniscent of Portland with its gray sky and little patches of sun and entertaining people and colorful buildings and green green lands/

feels like home.

today has been a bit of wandering about.
Looked at the Ancient book of kells (beautiful and ornate) at Trinity College.
TOok a wondrous nap.
A warm shower.
THen wandered around in solitude until I found a nice little pub.
It is a local pub because I was only surrounded by Irish accents and old Irish men/ felt as though I was in a movie... too damn good to be true.
"would ye like a Shepard's pie? Its mee favorit."

"The Fokin horse races..."
"Oh, fok's sake/"

How I thrive off of this atmosphere :)/
Already challenges exist, but mostly I sit in peace. It is nice. And heartwarming. And my hostel of yellow walls and red curtains is comforting.

I love the contours of traditionally irish faces... although Ireland is indeed an assemblage of people.

I am happy and I am thinking of you.
Another day in DUblin until we further our way toward Scotland.

"But your solitude will be a hold and a home for you even amid very unfamiliar conditions and from there you will find all your ways."
Rilke
Letters To a Young Poet.

So these words rest with me in my summer solitude.

that's a wrap! and we won.

2009-04-30T03:39:00.003+03:00

we won the scion competition.
and for that I am happy.

http://www2.947.fm/photos/gallery/60.

i still have 10 pages left and a billion art things/
and for that I am a zombie.

but alas, summer is near.
(granted it is raining outside...)

jinz migz

2009-04-20T04:27:00.003+03:00

because today I was painting a bench after losing myself last night.
the sun was out.
i was burning a bit.
Jenny called and asked how I was.
I then walked to sit in the beautiful canyon.
i draw the rendition of my legs on a watercolor sheet in conte crayon.
odd perspective.
of all the beautiful landscape and the creek trickling in that direction i look down and paint my black dress over my whitened legs.

therapy to watercolor my own figure.
as if the pain of last night is releasing with each brush. each sporadic decision of color and value.

and then jenny meets me.
and seduces me away from painting to go to the coffee cottage.
we walked away from the coffee cottage and while i was there I even reached my paper topic for Levinas.
"justice and responsibility"

i break sometimes.
but all along there is an unspoken gratefulness that potentially stirs tears.
I am blessed by Jenny.
And by the rest who have shown love.

even amidst pain
there is human relationship.

wisdom of love

2009-04-19T23:54:00.003+03:00

What is philosophy?
Philo: love
Sophy (Sophia): wisdom
Love of wisdom... <--it is often thought to be true.
Emmanuel Levinas says, no, PHILOSOPHY IS THE WISDOM OF LOVE.

In four days is a 12-15 page paper due. One where I must ask a question based on Levinas' philosophy.
Levinas entire philosophy surrounded by this truth:
I am responsible for the Other.
In four days is also a Mixed Media poetry project due.
In five days: myself and 9 other artists will compete against PNCA and PSU art departments for a Scion car event.
In three days: 40 watercolor paintings.
In two weeks: 5 prints and a presentation.
Next Tuesday: An ethics paper.
Next week: Check out from this apartment (from this semester, from these roommates who have proved a greater blessing than I could have expected or asked for)
And two weeks from tomorrow (monday) I'll sit on a plane that will direct itself to Dublin, Ireland.
meaning that I will again say good bye and good bye and good bye to people so damn dear to me.
I already said good bye to family a few weeks ago in california. And it never proves to become simpler, or easier.

Good bye good bye good bye. Always having to say it. And still I will be okay.
I only ask that you know that I love you
I only ask that in my distance you grasp onto a love that I try to give.
I love ask that you feel my heart for you.
I love you.
I love anyone, or try to at least.
And I love you.
And I cried hard last night. A saturday night. because I am sorry.
I am sorry that I hurt you in times of stress.
I am sorry that I don't always call and seem absent, my family.
I am sorry when I fail you, professors.
I am sorry when I ignore your authoritative call to me.
I am sorry when the stress of life distracts me from loving you.
From loving you as a duty.
From loving you without focus on self.

Last night I was triggered by a tiny event.
A little break, then cracking like vines, spreading like tree branches.

Woe is me. Woe is me. I do not want to act in such a way. I do not want to break into such weakness. I do not want to call for help because I am prideful and broken, yet I also want you here, now.

And I don't know what I want,
but I do know that I eagerly await this summer in a sort of apathy.
I eagerly await a new adventure in a foreign land.

And I know that I am happy (in this moment) in my apartment.
Cyndi (who was once in Spain) is now writing a paper over there on that couch.
I am here "writing a paper" on this couch.
Both of us on this Sunday drinking french press coffee once we realized that my Mbale, Ugandan coffee is out.

And I mostly want you to know that I love you.
Thank you for your love, because I felt it even in the storm that hit last night.
For each of you, I am grateful.
And I beg that you feel my heart hurting and laughing and rejoicing with your sorrows and joys.

tunnel

2009-04-14T06:49:00.002+03:00

a semester nearly gone.
blessings.
pains.
it's been over four months since the land of matooke, matatus, and all that.
all that which i love.
so three weeks until i step on yet another journey of which I am the least bit prepared, yet i learn with time that preparation often cannot occur until it forces itself upon you.

ireland, scotland, and then two months in belfast, northern ireland.

let the contrast between worlds of east africa and the united kingdom begin, and prayer as i enter into the tunnel of art and philosophy finals...

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

2008-11-27T11:48:00.002+03:00

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.

2008-11-24T12:07:00.004+03:00

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

2008-11-19T18:00:00.002+03:00

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

2008-11-19T01:02:00.006+03:00

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

2008-11-15T22:27:00.002+03:00

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

2008-11-12T14:18:00.005+03:00

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?

2008-11-02T11:22:00.004+03:00

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

2008-11-01T21:43:00.002+03:00

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.

2008-11-01T17:22:00.003+03:00

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.

and yet i smile.

2008-10-24T22:34:00.007+03:00

a note responding to my time in Mbale, now sitting on an African fabric draped seat in Kampala:

as though walls have risen abruptly out of the red, broken, imperfect dirt roads of Mbale, my thoughts stop and slow and halt. not bad. off. or good. even indifferent. just a floating feeling that occurs when one drifts to the rock of Mt. Elgon, the gray clouds surrounding, finding broken pleas of the inner being. but then she returns to a place where more cries tug. where time was spent only weeks earlier, seeking to define home in a foreign land. in africa. a place of utmost diversity, beauty, green fields lying gently on hills, mountains, and cliffs, trees reaching toward what cannot be explained. only to further advance toward a new country, a home that can only in my humbled mind think of genocide of the innocent. From Kampala, Uganda to Mbale, the same. Tomorrow a direction leading to Rwanda.

when creativity abounds, it does so intensely. yet when it is lulled and quieted, no force can come upon it. no words will come. no sketches. no paintbrush will touch a surface with color or shades of gray. no lyrics will dress the lined page. solely a mind in a blur, one of necessity and urge of the seeker, the need to know, yet still the desire to stop thought. sometimes silence awakens boldly.

where is the silence.
after 4 weeks in Mbale, full days spent between two communities, i am finding it.
i see it in the children, in the elders, in the relations that inspire.
I see it in the classes.
3 art classes, each of at least 70 smiling faces ages 5 to 9.
"Draw what makes you happy" and only giggles, joy felt. this aura of naivety and peace.
adorable children saying "this is my family" "my home" "my church" "circumcision"
(I wondered awkwardly at this last one yet humbly accepted the truth of an unknown culture)
then each day a session with young women.
Two of these groups ranging from 40 to 50 girl students.
odd that i fear public speaking yet my heart heightens and overjoys with these innocent dear ones. speaking of self image, sexual health, topics of awkardness, laughter, and pain.
and then the group of 10 girls. we met three times yet our relationships expanded and sketched freely within. open. loving. what is this body part? what is that sexual thing? awkward. awkward. awkward. and hilarious. and why am i sad? ugly? these conversations cherished.
of course moments of awful discomfort, fear, inadequacy. I broke. fell. literally actually, off of a motorcycle. yet we were going VERY slow. tip tip tip. BAM! down. Meghan is in a pile of dirt. mud. WEt red dirt. and a memory wonderful to me.

and here is the wall.
that silence.
that wall breaking through the reddened ground.
the me sitting here writing blankly. the me sitting here not sure what love means. not sure why he gives it to me. why she gives it to me. and why the relationships made are now there, sitting in mbale, in classrooms i may never again see, in hearts of little girls and young women that i can only hope continue forward.
not sure why i just cried for an hour over the pain of the world.

and yet i smile.
i genuinely allow the teeth to show and the lips to part and the joy to move in.

that time with those sweet girls, with those impoverished communities.
those children. those staff members. the locals. being the only Mzungu around for 4 weeks. dealing with an identity crisis and a broken heart and a revived soul.
Reading the journals of Sylvia Plath, the poet who killed herself years ago because of an inability to handle such things and her own creativity. reading about the man who traveled. reading Works of Love by Kierkegaard.

the manner of life sways with the wind. society has much. these words don't at all justify the month that just occured, but let me apologize at my absense as i work through this silence. let me be here, not at home. let me feel the pain, the awkward moments, the laughter, the quieted shouting silent yelling soul. and let me move forward attempting to put together a heart of depression yet love trying to be achieved.

because inside this city is a heart, and within this heart a craving, a craving that tries to achieve it. to achieve love.
the red brick cracks. the silence breaks. the fog lifts.

forgive me for my distance. this last month lacked power, electricity, internet. lanterns lit up my heart. and bucket showers were among my happiest moments.
730 tomorrow morning we enter the final walk of this journey. a new country, Rwanda. a safari and long driving hours with friends that were missed in these weeks.. and morning sunrise and simple coffee.
coffee warms my body and spirit. i think this is okay. and will last forever.
and sugar. i love it.

and mbale, you have my heart. when will i again capture it?
i miss you vicky. i miss you children. i miss you local staff.
and family, i miss you.
but you hold me while i'll hold you. even continents away spirits embrace.

Mbale is Beauty

2008-09-30T09:49:00.002+03:00

Mbale.
Beautiful. enchanted I think. There must be fairies and angels moving harmoniously about the air here.
Roe and I sit in an internet cafe... nestled next to this great green mountain.
I felt sick this morning, but then better. Seems to be the trend.
Woke up in the middle of the night with an ill stomach.
I walked toward the bathroom. Heard this strange buzzing sound. I jumped. But everyone slept.
I jumped again, buzz... buzz....
eery. Eventually I did what needed to be done, but was freaked out all the while.
I laugh now, thinking of myself jumping around last night in the dark like a crazy person. All because of a little buzzing... but the buzzing bug PROBABLY could have killed. Silly me.

And Yesterday we met the staff.
We drank Kenyan tea. And Sang together praise.
9 of them, all locals from Mbale.
Paul 1, Paul 2, Paul 3
Patrick
Livingstone.
Vicki, Susan, Mariam.
Moses.
Each with hearts that glow.

I took a shower from a bucket and felt so clean. Refreshed. It was fun.
Yesterday Livingstone took us on a walk throughout the hills. Again. I was taken aback. My breath robbed from me. The green plants. The red dirt. The dark and beautiful women, children, men.
We walked up and down and around. Mulembe. Peace. Mulembe.

The sounds, the birds, the beauty. The cows. The goats. The chickens. Roe and i want to steal one, and I want to name it Frederick. But that's what I named my stomach illness...

Yes my heart is confused. Where do i fit in this world? What exactly is required of me? I'm not even doing anything... yet why am I still here? Am I lonely? Or content? And what does it mean to be content in this moment and not always thinking ahead or behind? Thinking about home... and Africa... and the relations of all things.
And questions storm my mind. So I rested yesterday. I journaled... writing about the things I know that make me content. About chocolate cookies and love. And connections with people. And conversations that feel as though the souls hold hands. And the warmth of a blanket. And a cup of coffee. And relieving one's bladder. You must admit :). And Sunshine and rainstorms and dancing and singing. And painting and drawing. And smiling. And hearing Acapella voices cry out to God through Psalms, as we did yesterday morn. So I write out the makings of momentous joy as I sit under my princess bed. Yes. It is a bigger bed than I've ever slept in. Pink sheets. A mosquito net. And I feel like an African princess. Probably the only time in my life I'll be comforted by the color pink.

And Roe and I woke up from our rest and conversed. Sometimes these conversations feed the heart. This one indeed did, as we chatted about race and color and how this all must be both reconciled and celebrated, rather than turned into hostility among human beings. And we spoke of the moment. Of how one balances comfort and discomfort. How one can live an American lifestyle yet still love the African children... and where is this balance found? I have yet to know. and must never know. or at least never be numb to this question.
Because the point is to be broken enough, yet not too much. A broken heart allows one to feel,
yet a destroyed heart disables one to love.

Ill keep exploring this, as I sit here in the heavenly Mbale.
Tomorrow we go to the feilds. I am frightened and eager.

And ill continue these beautiful conversations with Roe, the staff, and the people I encounter.
I indeed miss home, but I indeed love this day. Because how can i feel down when I walk through such beauty and the sun dances around my face?

So today dear Vicki is taking us to her village. :)

"When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
 when sorrows like sea billows roll;
 whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say,
 It is well, it is well with my soul."

Drips of paint and beauty

2008-09-28T18:32:00.002+03:00

Julia, we have arrived in safety and we miss you already :)

I have logged on to internet for a brief time, and yes, it is sparing, as is everything in this location.
Limited electricity, internet, etc., etc., etc, yet in this abundance of love and warmth that Roe and I were received by earlier this afternoon, I feel blessed in a way that cannot be explained.

A city. Calming size. Already feel more respected.
A home. Comfortable. Grand.
Drips of paint and beauty on the outside and inside.
Colors. Blue. Gray. White.

I am calm. I am here. Two ladies have accompanied us all day and the connection has been therapeutic. Again, I am grateful in all of it's entirety.

Mbale.

2008-09-27T23:22:00.003+03:00

Rachel and I a few weeks ago at the world's longest wedding
And Kati's head poppin' in behind :)

Tomorrow I drive to Mbale with Roe... Sarah and Kyle will continue on to Kapchurwa (sorry for the butchered spelling).
and at 730 we will drive. 4 hours later Mbale will be reached.
we will first consume donuts.
as i walked through the city yesterday, in my solitude, how deeply i will miss Kampala.
the sounds, the streets, the noises, the laughter, the smells.
all irritating and beautiful and now a home that I will leave.

Mbale. mostly a mystery.
yes of course Sex-Ed courses.
"Choose Life" handbook.
i will read.
absorb my thoughts in journaling and photos and yet another village and books.
today i bought a large one. I decided to turn away from African literature as to have a sort of change of pace. Found a different novel. Autobiography of a man who was imprisoned in Australia, and escaped to India.
Sweet Rachel and I set out to explore this city one final time.
together we discussed religion. life. jesus. buddha. all things on our hearts.
and we sipped coffee and milk.
she is a beautiful soul, as are my fellow peers here.
i am grateful for these friendships. for the connections with all the spirits of the ladies, the two guys, the Food for the Hungry staff.
we are an idealistic bunch. one seeking change and seeking to find answers, yet also to raise more questions.

and my hopes for Mbale?
to be fearless.
hopeful.
and in my own hopelessness, seek joy.
to find smiles and tears and authenticity.
to artistically set about my days.
to work hands on with a clinic of the sick. and do the deeds the clinic workers request.
to allow children a chance at a sketchbook.
and then to hear stories. and the voices of the families
and yes, in all of my anxiety, i am eager.
sleep awaits me. a final night in this soft bed of comfort and a warm blue blanket.
I will miss Grace. Our cook. Recently we have spent time and time again.
She said I could knock on her door in the morning and wake her to hug goodbye.
And in only a month these connections are made.
And in another month, new ones will also.
It would be a lie to say i do not miss home. I do.
strange how being a continent away, life at home continues.
internet will be sparing. sometimes strong. others weak.

Bed time for meggy.
thanks dad for answering the phone. it was brilliant to hear the voices of cindy and mikey. court. jenn. kates. my love for you is endless. I love you mom. and family. Please feel my hug even this far. and feel my hope for your joy and my cry for this land and that one.
and a secret? i am deeply attached to ireland. random i know, but worth noting.
and tonight we had THE OFFICE party. felt for a moment as if I was back home.
tomorrow? I will be in a new place.
and travelling feeds my soul. because of this community called humanity.

"I am because we are, and since we are, therefore I am." (African saying)

Reflections On Poverty. and the global cry.

2008-09-26T23:46:00.003+03:00

just some paper writings i turned in to Dr. Mpagi today. ponderings and thoughts:

Social activists and economists have defined poverty in various ways. Absolute poverty, including an apparent eight million deaths per year, entails struggling to find the most basic survival needs and living on equal to or less than one dollar a day. Moderate poverty describes those who survive off of one to two dollars a day, and are most often unable to attend school or receive healthcare. Relative poverty refers to those people who are living below the established poverty line. Poverty must not always be defined by the latter, monetary means, but rather, should speak “about scores of men, women, and children enduring unimaginable obstacles that keep them from fulfilling their most basic human rights and achieving their individual potentials” (NetAid.org 1). Universally, human beings are impoverished, failing to reach potential because of both physical and spiritual poverty.
I walk through the maze of the city. Crowds of people move at rapid paces, this person and that heading here and there and everywhere, mentally astray from what is going on around, and rather, lost in individual thought. Beautiful, hurting, broken, sick: these words encompass a global unity that comes through an impoverished world. There is a child on the street with her hands reaching out desperately as I walk past. I cannot decide whether or not to give. With paper money, she may buy drugs or be forced to hand the earnings to the adult standing in the shadows. There is a baby sitting and pleading, no older than one year, mindlessly staring into the crowds of people rushing off in various directions. The worker in a business suit hurries to a necessary meeting, while a female vendor carries material goods to be sold that sit above leaves of bananas on her head. A mother pulls a child in a blue and white uniform across the quickly moving street of Matatus and Boda Bodas in order to make it to school. I observe, and realize that in these various manners of going about one’s personal business, there is oneness. Poverty is universal, and each individual is carrying this burden on his or her heart. I stop and listen. Shouts, cries, laughter, conversation, yet I hear mere emptiness, loneliness, and neglect. The leper on the street feels hopeless. The begging child understands no other way of life. The business people are working for survival, for betterment of the city and the students are seeking answers. The wealthy individual is often numb to these sightings because of years of not knowing how to handle this brokenness. No matter the differences in physical and emotional wealth, in spiritual or physical hunger, there is a cry for human beings to be understood, and in this common misunderstanding of individuals at the core, there is poverty.
I am now away from the sounds of the urban setting of Kampala and heading in a car from the city of Masaka toward the village of Kigasa. Scattered houses, as opposed to the crammed living spaces within the city, sit nestled in abundant greenery. The surroundings take my breath. It is raining and tropical. Banana leaves, coffee beans, Jackfruit, each blossoming on its branches, trying to outshine the others. There are children picking from these trees, mothers and daughters walking with various foods balanced above braided hair and headscarves, and women and men are working hard on their land, digging intensely, being aided by their large extended families. There is an essence of togetherness and community. We arrive at the home of our rural visit to be received by welcoming displays of affection. The brick house sits in the middle of a village, with inside couches draped by handmade lace pieces. A room next to it is separated by ornately decorated cloth and holding the cherry red wooden kitchen table. We explore the vicinity with several separated rooms yet a small space overall and brick walls painted blue and white. The middle room contains a red mud floor leading outside to an area where cooking and cleaning take place. This is sufficient, impressive, rural, and intriguing. Baskets are scattered about holding Jack fruit and green bananas to make Amatooke. Clothing is hanging with all of its colors, above the assortment of dirt-drenched sandals. The bath area contains only a small pit latrine. To the right, the children and the father are milking the cows. There are goats and wandering stray dogs. During our plentiful meals, the children help translate. They attend boarding school during the school year where they learn English and typical primary school subjects. Joan loves poetry. She is thirteen. She wants to be a writer. Justine wants to be a Nurse. She draws in my journal along with Caroline, helping me learn Lugandan. We leave on Sunday after church. This goodbye is heart wrenching because this family has altered my thought in regards to what is poor.
Having experienced both settings, that of the rural and the urban, I contemplate poverty. There is a beauty to village life, a community that sustains the members. If the world defines this as physical poverty, I must ask why there is such wealth to these spirits. Faces of young girls and boys, of sweet mothers, and of tenacious farmers display intense expression, deep pain, and laborious hard work, yet am I only seeing a cover masking a deep unsettling heartbeat. Still, only a few days spent in Kigasa, and this life is now slightly understood. If poverty is as I have seen in these hearts and on these faces, then the word must be reconsidered. Where is the difference in poverty between this rural setting and that of the urban as described earlier? And then I ask how the term varies from region to region, country to country, and person to person. In experiencing the village life for the mere three days, I saw a family of love that was able to send their children to receive education, and the eldest daughter, Annette, had even journeyed to Kampala to attend university in the city. There is a peace found in the way those in the villages aid one another, yet there is also an overall, beyond the single situation I saw, in the lack of health-care and education across the board.
In discussing with various Ugandans, mixed responses generate. Two individuals may witness the same situation while bringing to the table entirely different perspectives on the good and evil at hand. Some say that the village life is more pleasant, while others explain the life of the city to be brighter and more accommodating. It is mostly agreed upon, however, that both manners of living hold benefits and weaknesses. Grace, a dear woman who grew up in a village, explains that those in the rural regions only appear happy. “It is a choice one makes because this is the way life is going to be: day to day work, yes, enough food, but nothing changes.” She explains it as a consistent yet challenging life. Her parents divorced while she was a mere infant, following with her mother’s death from an illness when Grace was eleven, disabling her to conclude education. Money was anything but abundant and the farm was not flourishing. She was handed to a new family, yet the uncle was unable to provide education for Grace because he already paid for his own children. From a different perspective, another woman explained that the village life holds typically promising meals, and if there is no productive farmer in the family, the surrounding community members will often provide help. She, as opposed to grace who was bored by it, enjoyed the level of comfort and consistency. Despite the perspective, the truth remains that 85% of Ugandans occupy remote rural areas, away from healthcare and necessary supplies, away from steady roads where food can be sold. (Rural Poverty Portal 1) Farmers are not always educated on the right pesticides, and in a country where HIV/ AIDS is spread thickly throughout, there must be a change in the minimal, sparing health care. (Rural Poverty Portal 1)
There has been a more successful decrease of poverty in the city, according to the statistics found by the Rural Poverty Portal, yet there are commonalities shared by the physically impoverished in the city. Their fellow friends who also lack homes feed the children, forming a community even in the crowds of fast paced people. In both surroundings there is a sense that people aid one another in need, yet the amount of food eaten may vary from day to day. A friend, Betty, mentioned that there are days where food is low, and therefore sleep is what occurs, yet on days when food is available, it is shared and portioned out. The city is more promising because jobs are more available, yet, Betty explains, the work is hard and for long hours, sometimes beginning at seven in the morning and not ending until at least nine or ten at night. There are children begging and cripples around. And I ask where poverty ends. Those in the urban setting are forced to keep up with the calls of the city: the tolls, the fees, the jobs, but education can be more easily accessible. Those in the rural have a more consistent food bank and workload that has been passed down through generations, yet normal necessities of life are minimal.
I wonder who are my brothers and sisters, what is needed for life to exist, and what sustains people in the way that those of the city and the villages sustain one another. I think upon one shared smile with a woman wearing a Gomesi that shattered brokenness within the both of us and rather provided a genuine warmth of spirit, because if life is merely a time for connections of soul and mind, then there is beauty in this global poverty. There is a calm in this brokenness. Yes, there are hungry people throughout the countryside. There are starving families and abandoned babies in the rush of the city. Still, there are starving souls and spirits universally. Families that make endless money in the west still fail to find happiness, and the little girl, Joan, who I came across in the village, displayed a contentment that soothed me. The answer is not simple and most definitely not black and white. Somewhere in the middle there is found a human cry of pain and hunger, a human need for love and understanding. In this impoverished world there can be found a sense of global community, and within this global community there may be steps to overall betterment. Poverty must still be pondered within and without, in regards to a person’s heart and his or her relation to the world, because somewhere out there is a family sitting in a red brick home, cooking together within the back hills of Uganda, displaying the unity the comes from care for the other.

.....We leave the rural visit, waving goodbye to all that we have seen, waving goodbye to the plentiful greenery and the warmth of heart. We head back toward the city on a bus filled with individuals. This lady to the right is pondering her mother’s passing away due to an unnamed illness. The man to the left thinks about his first wife and the sweet love the two shared as young adults. The baby in the back can only cry for food because this is what she craves. We sit, Americans encountering a new culture, observing and taking in all that is surrounding us. Within this bus there are people from a plentitude of backgrounds, each seeking something separate from the female or the male seated around, yet there is togetherness in that we are all searching for something. Whether one notices the rituals, the poverty, the traditions, the intense life of the city, or the altered pace of the village, there are a plentitude of differences and similarities shared across cultures. There is a universal cry that must be answered. There must be recognized the unity that you and she and he and we share. When we arrive back to America, we will see a woman, a man, and a child, all lost in personal thoughts. This is no different from here. This is the physical and spiritual hunger that is spoken of. Human beings are interconnected, and through the desire to understand differences, to seek out cultural elements, and to contemplate why each heart beats to a different tune, there is beauty. This beauty cannot be ignored, and rather, must be pursued: in this beauty there is a hope that the cravings shared by humanity across the globe can indeed be responded to.

And so the paper is concluded.
Tomorrow morning I wake up and learn how to basket weave. Today I wandered around Kampala. I loved it. I spent time with Grace, our cook. We laughed. We chatted. My heart again warmed by this new relationship.
I am about to head to Mbale for my October practicum. Sunday we leave. This will be a time that will bring contemplation . I am eager beyond words, yet I would be lying if I didn't also mention a bit of fear and anxiety. Blessings sent your way. And love, of course.

George Fox University- Obama Scandal.

2008-09-25T11:04:00.002+03:00

If you have not already heard, as this has now reached local, national, AND international levels of news, there has been a deeply disappointing occurrence on my campus back at home.
First, some background. Last year, our school implemented on-campus the Act Six program (modeled after Whitworth University in Spokane, Washington). Act Six offers a full-ride scholarship to 10 intercity kids each year who otherwise would not be able to afford to attend university. These prospective students go through an extensive competition and the 10 awardees are quite deserving. I am greatly pleased with this program and admire those students who work so hard to acquire this.
But, now. Some ignorant individual has posted up a life-size cut-out of Obama that says, "Act Six Reject." Absolutely appalling. Immediately this cut-out was taken down, but not before it already reached the media. And of course the media has blown this entirely out of proportion, saying that the cut-out was HUNG BY A NOOSE. I have talked to my friends back on campus, and as much as this is not an excuseable action, it was not hung by a noose. Oh, the media.

Below is a snippet from my good pal John Archibald, president of our student republican club, whose words were published in The Oregonian:

It is with my deepest regret that I feel the need to address the incident that has recently plagued this campus. It has been in the Republican tradition to support those persecuted against. We are the party of abolition; the party of the Civil Rights movement. What happened on campus this week is disheartening to American politics. Regardless of your politics, this act of hate cannot be tolerated. We at George Fox are a moderate and close-knit culture. It is important that we not let this uncharacteristic event taint our reputation. The GFU College Republicans have been encouraging the creation of a College Democrats group and find that now, more than ever, this should be pursued. We believe in a civil political dialogue between both parties in which students can objectively decide their platforms. Our heart goes out to the Act Six scholarship recipients and the GFU faculty who have had to address this unfortunate issue.
John Archibald
Chairman, GFU College Republicans

I am grateful for John's efforts to speak up. His words are kind and truthful.

Racism is an awful, awful thing. And it exists, still, in this day and age that is supposed to be all about human rights and equality. Being across the globe in Africa, I feel quite helpless regarding this situation. George Fox is loving and accepting, and it is quite unfortunate the actions of a certain individual had to taint our reputation. But even more so, it is sad that the Act Six students now have to feel like the odd-man out. I am sure that there is an element of total rejection, and total sadness in these hearts.

Krista Ray, my lovely freshman roommate, just informed me that President Robin Baker addressed the campus today in chapel. She says that this was a deeply saddening event, yet one that provided unity, peace, and compassion. I am grateful for the campus efforts to bring clarity. My friend Mat Hollen also reminded me just a moment ago, "Just don't forget how good this community is."
And this is what we must rely on. The campus is one of love. It is a campus that holds each student in high regards, and joins together in these times.

I am writing this simply to raise awareness about the actual events. Please pray for those involved. Pray for the campus... that there is an aura of acceptance. Please pray for the well-being of the Act Six students. This is a time where grace, mercy, and love are deeply needed across the globe. No one deserves to be put on this negative pedestal. No one deserves such rejection. Keep the hearts of the individuals involved in your best regards. Racism is uncalled for. And please, please, keep this in mind:

"Above all, love."

sweet thunder

2008-09-23T22:06:00.004+03:00

sweet thunder.
i miss you.
you called out. and again.

walk with them. like a maze. a race.
sea of minds, empty hearts in rapid motion past.
beckoning
the sights. the touch. the aura.
walking by the cripple, the leper, on broken red brick. with a broken red frame.
hands
open hands.
nothing in these open bruised hands.
a child begging. i take that back. ten children following me.
I cannot give. or provide. or even look away.
No.

And thus broken.
a sadness.
a darkness.
studying art. contouring your soul. sketching the motion.
the hills and valleys of this child's face.
the yesterday. the hope. the tomorrow
sweet dimples. dark eyes of deep chocolate.
and the gray thunder. again rumbling.
and the violent lightning. but responsive.
i miss you
we spoke tonight.
i heard your dark roar.
i cried. i cried. i cried. and you rained.
because broken am i. broken are you. broken is he and she and they and them.
and i am only studying the elements of art.
maybe a purpose. or a habit.
i only draw figural essence in my mind, seeing the movement.
i pencil the anxious legs, the bending elbows, the misunderstood heart.
and sweet thunder sings.
crashes. roaring with lyrical tenderness.

oh thunder, but your rain and my tears.
one global cry. internal. external. the child. the leper. the woman. men. together. and me.
and i miss you.

the dark cloud of procrastination exists no matter where one resides.

2008-09-18T21:34:00.006+03:00

so i am only writing this to make an entirely general statement:
even when in Africa, one is entirely capable of procrastinating.
now excuse me as I waste my African life away buried under books and questions.
but at least I DID spend my whole free day out in the city. shopping. and then eating dessert tonight. and then sitting aimlessly. and then skyping. and then listening to music. and then chatting with our guests who came for dinner. and then facebook. and then emailing. and then writing a blog about procrastination to procrastinate even more. and then... etc. etc. etc.
and besides, sleep is overrated. :)

owning poverty

2008-09-18T16:45:00.005+03:00

yesterday evening our session covered more of the Owning Poverty booklet.
here is a quote (the wise words of Michael Pucci, a world traveler of wisdom connected with Food for the Hungry):
"When any of our rights appear to receive the slightest infringement we go ballistic. We are so far removed from the willing abdication of our rights our Master taught and modeled. When we suffer the loss of our property, we are told to give the exploiter more, the very shirt off our back. When we suffer the loss of safety in physical violence, we are to offer that person another opportunity to punch us around again. When we are made to serve against our will, we are to over-deliver on the demands of our unjust oppressor... by a mile (Matthew 5:39)."

idealistic and beautiful. challenging. holding much truth. yet the problem arises in how these must be interpreted. of course I will say, "Oh yes, I'd give anything in front of one who oppresses me." Yet when it actually happens, when I am faced with a loss of rights, I "go balistic," as Pucci says.
Last week as I walked down the street a man came up to me in an attempt to trip me. I was okay. Nothing happened really. It was in broad daylight. There were plenty of people around. My immediate feeling was that of fear because I felt this very negative energy around the situation. I walked on with a quicker step and a fearful sentiment.
As a woman, it is not always safe here. I say "here," but in reality, this could be said of any location across the globe. As foreign women (myself included) walk through the streets, men call out, "Mzungu! My wife!" "Can I have her?" We say, "No." "But I want her! I love her! I will marry her!" "Mzungu, Mzungu!" I do not hear any of this. Instead I hear, "WOMAN! WOMAN! LET ME HAVE THIS PIECE OF PROPERTY! TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THIS OBJECT AND USE THIS BODY BECAUSE I HAVE POWER OVER IT."

There is much anger within me. A great frustration with this that is building and building. I am not a typically angry person... and for this I am embarrassed to admit to the great amount of fire inside. I cannot STAND the way that women are treated. I am appalled by the lack of rights women hold. I cannot STAND the patriarchal societies in which we live. What gives a man the right to have power over females? Why is it okay?
I will not answer these questions myself, as they have been tossed around violently for years on end. Rather, I will look at the relation of this concept and that of the Owning Poverty booklet, the idea of giving the shirt off of your back to he or she who oppresses.
What does anger like my own solve? If a man calls out to me in a disturbing manner and all I do is glare back, or simply walk on, or try to push him away, little goodness results. I am simply upset because my rights, as the quoted passage suggests, have been taken away. Anger is treated with anger. Frustration treated with frustration. All that I am doing by responding in such a way is either encouraging the behavior or feeding into it. This is the easy response. The challenge lies in loving this person who oppresses. In showing compassion to he who diminishes my rights.

I step away and think where these men have come from. To think of oppressor from a different angle is necessary. Who has oppressed THESE individuals? I do not know their childhoods. I do not know if they were beaten or abused or even prostituted in some way. I do not know what drugs they may be on and then what it was that pushed these souls to such a place where drugs seemed comforting. I do not know how horrible certain situations must be for a man to sacrifice genuine love and rather crave the escape that a foreigner offers, whether this relationship involves love or not. These men want a wife to take them away from this country. Not all. But there is hope in escape. There is humor in taking out ones pain on an innocent bystander.
If I simply act with anger in response to these situations, all that I am doing is continuing a cycle. This man was oppressed. He then oppresses others. The other (me) oppresses him.
No. I cannot allow this. I want horribly to find a solution. Yesterday evening my group authentically discussed our anger with these issues, yet decided to seek creative ways to act in response. Loving those who oppress requires innovation and an open mind. Maybe instead we can respond to the men with a question as to why they are doing this. We can think before we quickly move away. Before we act out in a quick temper.
Granted, if I am being attacked, there must be a different measure taken. Yet in every situation there are extremes. There must be a preparation. A knowing beforehand that such events may take place, and when approached by it, a different choice of action.

Today a few girls and I headed into Aweno market. The busiest location in Kampala. Shoes. Pants. Shirts. Bags. Pens. Pencils. Underwear. Hats. Red Converse. Business Slacks. Belts. And all of these items repeated in insane quantities. Being as it is, it is made the prime spot for Mzungu calling, shouting, and grabbing. I made the decision to as best as I could act in love toward these happenings. I thought of the compassion of Jesus. Jesus would not run from those who mocked him, rather, love them intensely. As men called out, I responded. If they asked, "How are you Mzungu?" I did my best to simply, yet genuinely answer.

I do not say this for praise because there is still much anger within and still many mistakes that will be made. I am still sinful and will still respond negatively from time to time, yet there is a challenge that I must take up. I have little concept of how loving one person will impact the entire patriarchal issue, yet there must be a light somewhere.
Today as I thought of these mens past, I could not help but hurt for them. I know nothing of where they come from. I have little idea of the pain that may have defined their youth. Again, I do not want to give a wrong idea. Africa is a beautiful place. The people are beautiful. Even these men are human beings created in love. Not all are always surrounded by pain, yet who is to say that the name-calling is without cause. The background must always be understood before judgment is quickly placed.
In NO way does turning the other cheek in oppression mean simply taking a beating, of letting someone walk all over you. I see the story of turning the other cheek and giving the shirt off our backs as a challenge to find ways to love and in a way that stands up for something. Everyone is hurting no matter what there internal prison consists of. And I pray for these men. I pray for the women that are oppressed. I pray for those whose backgrounds are inconceivably miserable. I pray that love does conquer, and even if this is only incriment by incriment, I pray that it is striven for.
Even with the simple alteration in thought process today, there was minimal anger as I walked around the market, and rather, a great peace and love for those around me: the man who wanted me to purchase his blue striped button up shirt, the woman who insisted that I look at her plethera of lace blouses, the children who sat on the ground requesting coins.

And God uses humor. Because after the incredible amount of irritation and even fear that I dwelled in during the darkness of last night, something sweet and encouraging took place on our way home, as if to say, "Dear Meg, do not think that I have not made each child with care. Do not be ignorant and think that this child of mine is not also precious just because he is from Africa."

The Muyenga/ Tank Hill sign that we usually stand by to pick up a Matatu home was moved elsewhere. My friend Sarah and I felt a bit lost. Very quickly, we were asked by a group of men where our destination was. Without hesitation, a kind young chap said that he would walk us and guide us to the new place we needed to stand. Somewhat embarrissingly on my behalf, here was a man allowing us to walk safely behind him, through the market, through the black shoes and the purple socks and the multiple school supplies. We even shared a laugh as I attempted to speak Lugandan. We thanked him for his kindness as we calmly entered out Matatu. I was touched. His gentle nature was anything but harmful. The graciousness of this man again reminded me of the grace that God offers when I sacrifice and let go. By the love that is shown despite internal struggle. Yellow rays are present, as if a dark gray cloud like those that hold African thunder storms has been carried away by some higher force. I cannot know the answers to each difficult query, but I can let go of the need to know and instead, even though I am imperfect and will still allow anger to linger, I will LOVE as I was called to.

lantern.

2008-09-16T21:54:00.001+03:00

Words cannot explain the joy of this past weekend’s rural visit. There is so much to say. So much learned and observed. By far the most authentic experience yet. I am grateful.

It is Friday morning. Kati, Sarah, and I hear a knock on our door of our FH compound in Kampala. Helen, a spunky, adorable, unpredictable Cornerstone friend, an hour and ½ early of course. Oh Helen. Never can one predict the timing of locals. African time, we call it. A beautiful thing that may quite possibly torment me when I return home. I can see it now. “Class starts at 9, Meghan,” says my professor. “Oh shoot, it is 10:30, isn’t it?” Pray for me and my future class schedule.
We walk down the street- backpacks stuffed to the rim of simple toiletries, journals, i-pods, cameras, long skirts, and mosquito nets. This is even more noticeable than our already established difference of being foreigners. Our Matatu (taxi) takes us to the Old Taxi Park. Then we hop on a bus that will leave for a 3 hour journey to Masaka upon filling up. I grab a window seat to prevent motion sickness. Success. Window shopping here in Kampala. Rather than having to walk around, I can actually just sit on a taxi or a bus as multiple vendors head to my window insisting that I need a red beaded necklace, a blue and gray pair of socks, MTN phone minutes, pink razors, children’s toys, soda, and water. Then there is the man who manages to squeeze his head through the window only to smile at me and say, “Hello beautiful Americana, where are you going? You must need biscuits.”
After several laughs at this entertaining seen, our bus thankfully fills up to the rim with people and heads out of town. We manage to squeeze through the hectic park. I have yet to understand how such a large bus fits through such small space. And how such a bus SPEEDS around cars on the highway without flipping. And I wonder why Shania Twain and other country music is blasting the entire way. The excitements of Africa.
I sit with Kati as we discuss life and goodness. Helen and her friend Annette sit to the other side and Sarah is squished between two men in the row ahead of me. Shops. Hair salons. Restaurants. People walking, talking. Beautiful scenery comes. Greenery in Africa. Breathtaking and lush. And I listen to my music and absorb, eager for arrival to the village.
We arrive in Masaka and take a small white car deep into the hills. I am reminded of Ireland. A road only the size of one vehicle and bumpy. the surroundings take my breath. It is raining and tropical. After an hour drive, our home. It is afternoon/ evening. The family rushes outside to greet their daughter Annette and their visitors. A mood of joy. The brick house sits in the middle of a village. Couches draped by handmade lace pieces. A room next to it separated by ornately decorated cloth and holding the cherry red wooden kitchen table. Helen explains that the father (who does not speak English) is grateful for our coming. We explore the vicinity. Several separated rooms yet a small space overall. Rooms with painted blue and white and brick and wood tables. The middle room with a red mud floor leading outside to an area to cook and clean. Sufficient and impressive. Rural. Intriguing. Baskets scattered about holding Jack fruit and green bananas to make Amatooke (mushed bananas). Sandals sitting outside the door. Clothing hanging with all of its colors and skirts and shirts. The bath area is to the left. Only a small square hole in the ground for the restroom. It takes practice, but can indeed be done. To the right, the cows are being milked by the children and the father. I name a cow Molly and the children giggle with me. There are goats. And stray dogs. The farm I always wished for as a child.

A father. Two mothers. Sixteen Children. Grandmothers. We then eat. and eat. and eat. Four meals PLUS added snacking daily. Breakfast. Tea. with milk fresh out of the cow. lunch. bread snack. second lunch. dinner. After dinner tea. Never in my life have I eaten so much in such a small amount of time. Wow. I am full. and grateful at that!
We are given a bedroom as about seven of the family girls help us set up the mosquito nets. We wake up early and help clean. All working together. Sharing. laughing. As we help peel bananas, they laugh kindly at our inadequacy. The men work in the other area. We eat more.
And now a funny story.
One of the mothers tells the daughter that I look smart, a compliment on my clothing choice. I have recently learned a few Luganda words, so I yell across the yard to her "W'Olumbe!". Oops. I was thinking that I had said "Thankyou!" Nope. Not at all. The word I said means death. Wuebale is what I had meant to say. So rather than yelling thank you, I indeed reference death in a loud voice. After an awkward moment of silence that seemed endless, we all laugh hilariously. Oh dear me.
Then we take a boda boda to a local funeral. The motorcycle ride was thrilling, comical, and joyful. Sarah and I yell to those we pass, “Jambo, Ssebo! Jambo Nnyabo!” (Goodbye! Goodbye!) Again, we are a spectacle both on the way and at the funeral. And I hear wailing. Piercing cries from the women related to the elder who died. My heart is weakened. Broken by the sounds. An eerie setting.
The rest of the weekend is filled with community time. Family. Children giggling and sharing with us. An evening spent at the other mother’s home. Candle lit evenings. Tea. Food. Laughter. Dancing to American Hip-Hop with the mother and two daughters because this is the only station coming in clearly. I try to demonstrate line-dancing. I am amazed at the quick connection with such a language barrier. And grateful for the children's ability to translate. They attend boarding school during the school year where they learn English and typical primary school subjects. Joan loves poetry. She is thirteen. She wants to be a writer. Justine wants to be a Nurse. She draws in my journal along with Caroline, helping me learn Lugandan. Erin is only 5 and entirely cute.
We leave on Sunday after church. This goodbye is heartwrenching because my life has been altered by this family.

And aside from these factual events, I contemplate poverty, polygamy, joy.

A beauty to this lifestyle. My heart is warmed. Struggling to find words. If poverty is this rural area, then why is there such a wealth to these spirits. And such a method of sustainability. And I cannot forget this time. These people. Only a few days. A few evenings. A few memories. Yet a connection of the heart. A time shared. Moments of peace. Looking at the stars on Saturday night. The clear sky. Reflection and appreciation for the beauty of this family. I spent time drawing the children. They loved it. Sweet faces. Faces of expression and pain and growth and challenges.
What a life that is now slightly understood.
I may see more light. I feel it. Because if poverty is as this life is, then poverty must be redefined. Then there is a different sense of poverty at home, in the States, in Kampala, in every separate setting. Even though there are two wives, a community still. A functioning day to day. An energy of love surrounding these brick walls and red dirt and rainfall. And while I sat observing, and when I think now, I am most overjoyed. Not even darkness. But joy. Of course only three days in this setting, but could I say I feel brighter color? a lighter mood? more than what I have felt. A shattering of the dark cloud and I will consider this still…
And I wonder what this life means for me. Who I am. Who I need. What sustains me the way these people sustain one another. And how a simple moment in time with a family in a rural setting can indeed alter thought. How one shared smile with a women in a Gomesi can adjust this brokenness. If life is merely a time for connections of soul and mind and heart, then maybe I see more beauty. If my art can be capturing expressions through figure and face, than no doubt I will pursue this endlessly. Joan. The steady, calm, serene, focused, mysterious thirteen year old. I am revitalized by their beauty and again inspired artistically... something that has been scattered since arrival.
Yes I still wish for companionship, but this can be spent apart from a man, from friends, from whatever. Companionship with the world around me however this must be defined in the present. But I felt this last weekend. I felt a hope that has been long lost. A connection to my own family and this one and the world.

And words are inadequate. Entirely. But these people have touched me. Thus far, the most rich experience.

Blessings to you at home. Ponder poverty still. Ponder your hearts and your relation to the world, your unity with all, because somewhere out there is a family sitting in a red brick home, cooking together within the back hills of Uganda, displaying the unity that comes from care for the other.

Running to Stand Still- Braddigan

2008-09-09T18:06:00.000+03:00

what makes me fall into darkness. not sure. but down, down, down, I go.
Sweet lyrics both put words and heal this apparent brokenness that comes and goes intensely:

RUNNING TO STAND STILL by Braddigan

so she woke up
woke up from where she was
lying still
saying i gotta do something about where were going
stepped on a steam train
out of the driving rain baby
run from the darkness in my mind
singing
a a la la light n day

sweet the sin
bitter taste
in my mouth
i see 7 towers
but i only see 1 way out
you gotta cry with out weeping
talk without speaking
scream without raising your voice
you know i took the poison
from the poison stream
and i floated out of here

she runs through the streets
her eyes painted red
under black belly cloud in the rain
in through doorway
she brings me those white golden peals
stolen from the sea
she is raging, she is raging
and the storm blows up in her eye
she will suffer the needle chill
shes running to stand still

im still running, im still running
im still running all the way home
im still running, im still running
im still running all the way home

week two and now thoughts

2008-09-07T00:09:00.000+03:00

talented women. wow.

a mother's love.

some rubbish above.

lonely child.

then laughter.

and unity

i wander. and everywhere i see the same thing. people hurting. people feeling alone. people not knowing where to go or what to be or who to go to. women being highly mistreated. and not even knowing that they COULD have more rights. to be honest, i just feel tears. deep down tears. they are not surfacing because if i'm going to be strong for these people then how can my pain show?

and strength. what is it. is it in itself vulnerability? being so comfortable with yourself that you can show everything? the people around Kampala. transparent. or those in the rural areas.

these children. less than age 4. sitting. mindlessly. begging. hoping for something. and yesterday i couldn't give women or kids money. because often they are using the money to go buy drugs. not all of them, but many. and i couldn't help. because if i want to invest i need to make the choice. even food would be better than 10,000 shillings. but I want to form relationships.

the other day though, all i could do was stare, shake my head "no," and cry inside. all day. I just felt a darkness, a laziness, a confusion. I was born in America. I was born in a successful country in terms of some. I can't be angry because I did not have a choice of birthplace, i simply have to accept that all things are as they should and all things will work out. and that people are born where they are for a reason. but then why are these children dying. why did they have to be born here? why are there so many millions of orphans in uganda, left in dumpsters and potholes and on doorsteps.

if enough people seek change, isn't this how revolutions begin? if people join together, all of us... the broken, the poor, the impoverished, the idealists, the realists, those who hope, those who can no longer, maybe then darkness will shift. maybe dancing will happen. just maybe.

africa. i spoke to a congo refugee today. there was a genocide, some say WORSE than that of Rwanda, and it is barely known. this man is hurt by africa. he is being chased by african police forces. no matter where he goes, he lacks freedom. he believes in God and in Christ and for him, this provides something brighter. Yet he says, "there is this burden, always."
he has lost his family. no sisters. no brothers. parents gone. and all he wants is prayer. hope. please don't forget these people. maybe we cannot do much, but maybe we can remember. and we can remember with love.

i do not know what to do. I do not know what help i can be. i am a mere college student with a tiny budget and a personality full of dreams, very few of which are ever actually pursued intensely. I know nothing. all i know is that love speaks in ways maybe we will never understand. the children move in around me and they wave and they smile and it never fails to touch my heart. it warms my heart. this little girl today. absolutely splendid. yet she is poor. her dress has holes. and her face a scar or two.

she can smile though. if she can smile, why can't i? there needs to be a lesson. what is poverty. and why is it always defined in terms of economics? what is westernization. where is beauty?
i think the answer is simple. beauty is everywhere, but cannot always be understood. physical and spiritual hungers need healing. if westernization moves in, it cannot wipe away african tradition. there needs to be something compensating such a loss.

yes i'm a broken, impoverished human being. and yes i don't know what the hell this life requires of me. yes, i want to cry.
and yes, i am being eaten alive by mosquitos. thank God for Malaria medication, for good music. for tasty food. and for the existence of human souls and hearts and connection. for the peers that are on this journey with me. for family. and friends back home. for mushed bananas known here as Matoke. and sweet potatoes. and giggles. and even though i just attended the longest wedding known to mankind, thank god for love.

africa. america. china. tibet. ireland. india. etc. etc. etc.

no matter where one is, a message:
"we can do no great things; only small things with great love."
mother teresa

keep seeking. i miss you.

into the wild

2008-09-05T23:37:00.000+03:00

i deem it necessary to say that I just re-watched Into the Wild.

a brilliant movie no matter what continent you are watching it on.

go watch it. and listen to eddie vedder's music.

One Day I Rafted the Nile... and LIVED.

2008-09-02T17:19:00.000+03:00

before rafting. no IDEA what we were getting into :)

Beautiful people at the market.

Rafting. For the first time. Absolutely wild. The Nile. Yes. Near death experience indeed. Unfortunately words are hard to find for such an experience. Only mental pictures that I will attempt to describe.

White waves. Some reaching between 10 and 15 feet. Hovering over like a dark cloud, yet showing up out of nowhere as the water moves at an insanely fast pace. A hilarious South African Mzungu named Greg with an accent of British, Australian, and Afrikaans (or some spelling like that) decent, successfully led us through the 8 wild, extreme, intense rapids. And guide us, he did. Although it wouldn’t quite be an authentic foreign experience without the most often droppings of the “F” word and others of that sort. Wonderful. And in all honesty, I must admit my OWN language. A persistent, “Oh Sh*t” and “Holy Mother…****” and, well, all other natural instinct type words regarding hopelessness and life saving. I apologize. But you must try this first, and see then how your natural instincts kick in.

The only way I can describe the extent of these rapids is by use of number. The most intense rapids in the world are classifies by number/ level 6. Ready? We and our :high hopes: little selves most definitely spent an entire day rafting LEVEL 5 RAPIDS!!! I’ll admit my extreme pride that I came out alive… yet also a disbelief that I actually did this only a few days ago. The White Nile is one of the top 3 commercially rafted rivers in the world, implying that ONLY crazies go down it. My team and I being that type. Down we went. Flipping and Spinning and Rowing and Ducking and Hiding and Getting Down and Pumping Adrenaline and being intense.

Here is a story worth noting… and in the present tense. I call it, Death Falls.

We look toward the upcoming rapid in fear, being told by Greg that we could quite possibly die (or get seriously injured) if we do this wrong. We inch our way toward the beginning, adrenaline pumping and paddles moving, yet within the matter of seconds, the high tide has moved us straight to the edge too far left and we halt. We cannot do much of anything except await our failure. Looking down, I see a great drop. 90 Degree angle. No mercy granted. This is not a waterfall we are supposed to go down. I think, “If only we had gone about one yard right we could have saved our lives and traveled rather smoothly.” 3…2…1… FALLING DOWN A DEATH TRAP. FRONT GOING STRAIGHT DOWN AND BACK OF THE RAFT (where I sit) FOLLOWING. Our faces must have been entertaining. Greg appearing absolutely frightened… which is never a good thing. If I fall out of this raft, I will quite possibly get stuck under the 15-20 foot fall, churning as the water does, and getting buried beneath the raft. There is no escape. I am staring death in the face. This is made apparent as (pardon my French but I believe it necessary for accurate portrayal) Greg yells at the top of his lungs, “HOLD THE FUCK ON!*!*!!!!!!!!!***!!!”
Too late. I fall from my place at the back of the 16-foot raft toward to front, straight down and burying my peers. I am sure that life is over.
Yet in a blink of an eye, a miracle. We stabilize. No Flip. Every observer of this event cheering and thanking the rafting Gods that we have survived.
I assure you, I have never been nearer my end. And I am THRILLED to have done this. One of the most memorable, insane, wild, wonderful, thrilling experiences of my 20 years on earth.

Now this was only one of the eight rapids; between these hell-stricken creations we peacefully moved through stunning parts of the Nile, an occasional crocodile passing through. Families bathing. We swim from time to time, as well. I have never sweared more in my life. And yes, in this instant, I will excuse it.

Aside from this miracle and amazing experience, one never to be forgotten, I spent a few evenings working with Sanyu Babies home last week, an orphanage of ages 0-4. These babies are beautiful. They stare at you. Eric smiles at me and cares for his peers. The babies only want love, and once they are held, I forget everything. There is something about these precious beings.

Much more to come regarding this babies home. As well as my church visits, and town experiences. Most time is spent exploring and spending time with locals. Visiting. Observing. Adoring. Analyzing. Thinking. Pondering. Contemplating. Loving.

And I love Africa. Today I was exposed to some art after standing in the largest grass hut in the world. It has quite a different influence, and one I am eager to explore further.
Aside from the constant darkness that this world holds, whether it regard my own depression, the brokenness of human beings, the conflict of the western world and imperialism, I believe in a hope. And a light. And that the nights will always be a struggle, but one that only increases strength. The people here are beautiful. The mess is stunning. The beggars, the maze of a market, the isles and isles of material goods being sold, the flies around the food, the smells. This market is wild yet marvelous. Everything is as it should be and will change, as it should. It will change with revolution. With people holding common sense and compassion. With an emphasis on the other. The artwork is inspiring. And I do feel alive. Still and possibly more so. Each moment encouraging more contemplation, more recognition of poverty. Of children sitting on the side of the road, mindlessly begging. Of adorable children and people feeling helpless. Yet Africa is community oriented. Everyone helping another. And I, too, am impoverished.

Please consider poverty. And not only in a monetary sense. It is not to be feared, but rather embraced, held, and altered. And also? I love goats. They are in abundant supply here.

A snippet forgotten.

2008-09-01T17:09:00.000+03:00

The following entry written last thursday.

“Two days of school and now a day off. Woke up at 8:15 and stumbled over to the next door house a.k.a the country Food for the Hungry offices. We sat around, Americans, Koreans, Kenyans, Ugandans... all reading from the bible, sharing comments, and singing. A nice way to wake up, although the exhaustion of the first few days is catching up and I am continuing heading back to my pleasant bed.

Tuesday, much like the universal first day of school, was packed with curriculum outlines and the meeting and greeting of professors. The 12 of us wake up, stumble to the breakfast table anytime between 7 and 8, and all together take a Matatu (wild taxi) to school about 30 minutes away because of traffic. Speaking of traffic, it is wild here. Matatu here, Boda Boda there, all trying to get to different places and cutting in front of one another and crazy wild madness.”

due to a power outage and a series of other events I was unable to finish this entry. But please, continue reading, because the rafting experience is a must read.

good day.

2008-08-25T19:09:00.000+03:00

The following stolen from a fellow GoEd student, Kyle Navis, regarding our morning at The Surgery (the term for doctor's office):

"This morning we went to see Doctor Stockley, a hilarious English physician who has been practicing in Uganda for at least a few decades. The whole presentation was pretty much the scariest stand up comedy routine I'd ever witnessed. His seven rules for staying healthy in Uganda:

1. If you're tired, go to sleep. Most medevac situations arise out of not getting enough rest when your body is fighting the common cold or flu.
2. If you get diarrhea, take the medication and it will be gone within 12 hours; if it lasts, come in for a stool sample.
3. Don't ride the matatus (basic mode of transportation/vans), they are death traps. Boda bodas (motorcycles/mopeds) are better, because you only get broken legs. [Note: we're learning to ride the matatus this afternoon; apparently it's when they get on the open road that they are lethal, but in the city they're safer. And we're strictly forbidden from partaking in the boda boda fun unless we're in the country on practicum and it's the only option for transportation.]
4. Take your malaria medications or you'll get malaria (which sucks). Except, doxycycline (which I'm on) is about 95% effective, so you might still get it. Oh joy.
5. Be sensible and you won't die or get raped. I.e., don't get on a boda boda at 3 am after partying all night. (Actually, that was an "e.g.," if you get my drift.)
6. Play in the water. Even though you can get bilarzia (symptoms and complications include: brain tumor-like growths, temporary paralysis, worms living in various parts of your body, brain worms, etc.) simply by being in the water, it can be treated very easily. So go ahead and partake in some of the best white-water rafting in the world and swim in the world's largest freshwater lake.
7. Keep your knickers on. That is to say, don't have sex and you won't get HIV, HPV, gonorrhea, syphillis, herpes, genital warts, etc. And if you really must, go in for an HIV test before you have at it (although those tests don't cover all the other fun things you can contract).

This came out of an hour and a half comedic lecture he gave us, where he also insisted on multiple occasions that England, Scandinavia, and Holland were all in Mexico. Doc Stock was pretty much something you would expect out of some ridiculous adventure novel: super quirky and eccentric, larger-than-life personality, British accent, and immensely quotable ("I'm sexually active. Of course, I'm married, so not all that often."). This trip gets better and better.

After lunch we'll be meeting our some new Ugandan friends who are basically paid to hang out with us and teach us how to navigate and live in Kampala. Sort of an awkward situation, but still should be a good way to interact better."

Thanks, Kyle. And we did indeed hang out with paid friends after The Surgery. They were wonderful. We took the crazy Matatus. And when I say crazy, I mean crazy. I have never been in a vehicle that actually drives through a market... a market where people are walking... and only about 12 feet across. Wild, but thrilling.

Mzungu. That is the term for me. A white person. Whity. Gringo. Etc.
It is amazing how many times I heard this today. Walking through a crowded large market is apparently prime place to here this. Everyone stops and stares. And then calls out, "Mzungu, Mzungu!" It was a wonderful afternoon.

On a different note, I was exposed to some of the children today. They are beautiful. My friend Rachel and I walked around the backstreets a little and found a group of boys playing soccer (titled "football" here). We immediately chose to walk toward them. They all began to giggle and stare at us (in an endearing form). I asked, "Who is the best football player?" "Me!" "Me." "Me!" A simultaneous answer and jumping and adorable pride. and then of COURSE they wanted to smile for the camera, and when I asked them to look at it they eagerly crowded around the tiny display screen.

I met a few others while walking around, each occurrence warming my heart.

A broken heart was caused by the tiny children who begged in the middle of Kampala. Simply hard to see.

the other side

2008-08-25T07:27:00.000+03:00

sitting here in the morning. journaling.
i feel strange. but good. tired. wanting more sleep, yet when I awoke this morning that was not possible. Probably around 5 I realized that I was mostly awake. Not able to settle down. but it is still early. and I am still tired. this is all so far wonderful. SO great that I am already fearing the end of it. what next? yet I focus on the moment. Or hope to. There are emotions here that I am trying to fight. And need more help. But again. I can’t let these heart issues get to me. I always do. I always get broken by thinking. By feeling. I do want to feel, but for something else. I am here to listen to God. To hear something I have not heard in so long. To reconnect with a distant voice. One far gone. I hear it in new ways now. I do. But I still must admit how lost I feel, how dark night can be for me. This is a reality no matter where I am, and that is more and more apparent everywhere I go. When will darkness dissipate? It does in increments, yet nights are rarely smooth for me. Last night I broke a bit. Last night I fell apart within. No one would know. And it is challenging that I will not quite open up about this to anyone yet. Maybe this is part of my growth. To deal with this internally. maybe I need to turn to sketches and photos and watercolor. I fear telling people at this point. Not that they would see weakness, but that I would be pitied. And I am not looking for that. Maybe this is part of my humbling experience. To be pitied. And to be okay with this. But I want to be strong. I don’t want to be seen as THAT girl. that depressed girl. I always open up without holding back, and then end up too vulnerable . Mostly i desire vulnerability, but being so transparent has its pros and cons. There is a time for it, and not yet.

I want to be me, though. And I will. I love where I am. I enjoy the company. I am anxious and overjoyed by this journey.

How will this inspire my art? I am not sure. Art is about relation and connection. About seeing a human lost-ness and a mood or being throughout all. Whether this is apparent in an expression, or brokenness, or even joy. I do not know my place, yet I hope this experience will provide focus. Or maybe this is a time to express myself without having to share with everyone. To express for the pure need to express, rather than have others look. I'm not going to show these things, yet.

darkness overwhelms. I’m going to be okay with this though. I’m going to not fear this and rather work through it. although why does this impact me whether I am home or in Oregon or in seattle or anywhere? Or Africa? Maybe there is a place where I will feel more alive. Or less broken. Or less obviously internally messed up.
i’ll strive forward. I cannot let myself sink. Because Africa is wonderful and there always exists hope, even if it is anything but vivid. driving through town yesterday I felt a mood of light. I just have to hold onto this.
however this may be.
-meg

...So do whatever most kindles love in you.
[Saint Teresa of Avila]

monkeys and exhaustion

2008-08-23T20:32:00.000+03:00

today (or should i call it yesterday? or the last two days? or one really long day) was probably the longest most anticipation filled experience of my life. To put it simply, we started flying Wednesday night, and somehow i ended up in Africa on Saturday (today) at around 3:00. Even more confusing, Thursday morning I woke up at a Pheonix hotel, and put on an outfit. I was wearing that exact outfit today upon arrival. yes. a bit strange. and smelly.

as expected, there existed every possible travel complication including switched flights, two red-eyes, four plane changes (although I kind of lost exact count), and to top it off, a final 15 hour and 15 minute flight. Oh yes, then one more from Ethiopia to Uganda.

This post sounds cynical, but in reality, I am overjoyed. The ultimate blessing? All 22 of our bags were perfectly checked through. Nothing lost. The group I am traveling with could not be more patient and optimistic. We are truly enjoying one another's company. and decided that when we do get frustrated because our lives are always together... we will simply play a harsher form of duck duck goose, where you have to beat the other person to win, and by beat, I mean "duke it out" "tackle" "whatever it takes to release tension."

Already, I am altered. Even though I was fighting exhaustion like you couldn't believe, the bus ride over (might I mention that we were picked up by a very welcoming group) captivated me. First of all, Africa is more green than I ever imagined. Lush and beautiful. Slightly cloudy. Perfectly warm sun. A nice breeze. The people are beautiful. The poverty is real. Yet the spirit exists for a reason. This reason I am searching for. I am here to find me, them, or whatever it is. Finding oneself in a completely foreign land without a choice throws one into self-reflection and an attempt at self-understanding. Every picture seen before of an impoverished little African child was intensified in real life.

One first impression (keeping in mind that every observation I have made so far is bound to change as it is only my first day) is the community that exists. Whether we were driving in the, what might be called, suburbs, of the main city Kampala, or moving right through the heart of the capital, Ugandans are out, together, holding babies, chatting, moving quickly.

Looking at people, no matter where I am, I notice a sense of lostness. One of the biggest longings in a humans heart is to be understood and known, to escape or fight loneliness. Now having witnessed people in all locations, I am determined to figure what this means. How can this draw people closer together? I hope that I am able to fully embrace this culture. To step in the shoes of these "others" and live it as much as possible, without shoving my own cultural values on them. There is a give and take to this, and I am barely learning the necessity of this.

We did, in fact, arrive at a wonderful guest house where we will be living for the next four months. We ate a wonderful dinner, showered, and yes, the highlight of my evening? I saw a monkey run through our backyard. I am still in shock. We then walked to our local Gelato place called Ciao Ciao. Delicious. Banana flavor this time. I am determined to try every one, though. We walked through Kampala this evening, and again I noticed the community. Children, adults, all together. Doing normal things, some abnormal, but at the root, each action is a human action, each action is shared by someone else somewhere in the world.

In our two day orientation before we left, Food for the Hungry emphasized the idea of Wholistic approaches.
One. The word "one."
there is a oneness i feel between you and me and her and I. And this culture, and mine. and home and away.

i think i feel alive.

esta aqui

2008-08-20T11:20:00.000+03:00

it is here. tomorrow morn i wake up and head to the far land.
so much build up.
Feel like a blur right now.

goodbye's are never easy. but change is good. and I am eager.

still. i'll miss you guys. friends. sisters. parents. mikey.

love you.

dum spiro, spero

2008-08-19T05:01:00.001+03:00

meaning
"While I breathe, I hope."

we are nowhere and it's now (bright eyes)

2008-08-17T10:36:00.000+03:00

I begin my departure journey for East Africa this Wednesday morning. First to Phoenix for an orientation with the organization Food for the Hungry. My 10 fellow students from across the country and I will then fly to LAX in order to catch a few international flights over to the Entebbe airport in Uganda. I don't know much about the travel details except that the days will be long, the flights possibly daunting… the sleep awkward, especially when your flight neighbor is a mystery. Will it be the middle-aged woman heading for a personal spiritual journey like the author of “Eat, Pray, Love”? The child traveling alone? The spontaneous college student? Always a surprise, and one to be excited for. This past week I flew next to a man of early thirties who, despite my efforts, must have chosen deep inside that he would not communicate with the strange girl to the right of him. I wore strange bracelets and a hat of sorts, had something shiny on my nose, and read a book labeled "Walking With the Poor." I'll even mention that as I blacked out in a deep sleep before the plane blasted off my head was doing that "I'm not sleeping but can't hide it because I am dramatically falling from side to side." Any decent human would for certain fear this girl. Right? Right. Having said the latter, I choose not to look at my itinerary in order to be (pleasantly?) shocked by every miniscule or grand occurrence.

If confused as to what exactly I am doing, I like to explain it (thanks to the beautiful Aunt Sandra for helping me find words) as a sort of Peace Corps with college credit. I'll be taking classes on religion and culture, immersing myself with the people, living, loving, learning, helping, being helped, and so on.

I'm ready. At least as ready as I can be.

WE ARE NOWHERE AND IT’S NOW.
sometimes I get the feeling that I’m nowhere. I am drifting in a world of this person and that person and another. everyone going this way or that and everyone concerned with mostly himself or herself. so why do I go to Africa? To embrace this feeling of being “nowhere and now” but with that, discovering the beauty. I can't define why. maybe to seek a purpose. For me. or them. or no-one, but to go because hearts cry. And I am thoroughly eager, anxious, and wild about this idea.

I ask for your thoughts… for the people I am heading toward, for myself and peers, for peace.
Adios, or, well, I don’t yet know the African word for “goodbye” but it shall soon be embedded in this mind.

(image by Jon Sargent)

lost in translation

2008-07-07T05:00:00.000+03:00

sometimes she thinks she knows.
she goes on with these thoughts of sureness for days, months, the rest is known. Her pain simply lost in translation. in the flow of materials, others, rapid wildness we call life. new ache comes. new brokenness. new joy. but new. the old floats away, buried even. ignored? maybe.
then a moment. maybe more, maybe not. a glance at hope or pain. a stare. a connection with time and all things in this.
Suddenly she feels a long past something or other. no idea what the hell occurs. no understanding. good, bad, indifferent, but everything shifts. dark to light. light to dark. night to day. song to silence. stilness to dance.
she thinks again. and still wondering. still lacks clarity.
there is no need to define, sometimes. sometimes life just must be released. like a balloon. floating up. and this we know.

for the moment all is thrown; lost again while translated.
what she knows not fumbles, but one truth from something higher: life is still a broken masterpiece. these days have a heartbeat, and even when none is fully known, mere meaning still exists.

"Grape on the vine
We've been alone a long time
Grape on the vine
Why not be crushed to make wine?." Mewithoutyou

thoughts. maybe

2008-06-05T06:52:00.000+03:00

depression exists. depression is me. but so is gleeful living. it is me. and you. what on earth does it mean. pain. tears. joy. sadness. laughter. dance. song. all in the span of an hour. a moment. a day.
it means love and hurt and everything at once and zero explanation yet every explanation. there are no words yet all words. there is complete happiness and complete brokenness. there are pills, no pills. thoughts of ending it all, thoughts of living forever.
who are we. who are we in this pain. who am i. "i ask silently that all my destinations will accept the one that's me so i can breathe." (Eddie Veder Into the Wild) go to africa and help children. go to portland and share stories with the homeless. who is being helped? me or them? or none of us? is it God's love working through each individual? Not sure. maybe God does not exist. maybe there is mere emptiness out there. or mere spirituality. or christianity. or buddhism. or judaism. or philosophy. or atheism. or those who fear doubt, or those who doubt all.
yet we are all connected. through passion and pain. me. you. the children. the elderly. the poor. the rich. maybe this can bring hope. does hope have to be joy or can endless tears, those that screech from the depths, somehow still seek. i do not know. just remember everyone and thank you for those who do. responsible for the other. for the others. for those in proximity. for all. i cry, but so does she. so does he. i laugh, but so do they. at least.
maybe unity in this. minimal judgment. limited accusations. compassion? yes. indeed. i feel absolutely hopeless. falling into darkness. so often inescapable. often hurting others. broken. sorry. but it is because i love you. i want to love all. the other is me. it is you. it is him. it is her. it is everyone.

life or death? no. just love. and hold on. we are together, somehow.
i admit this may make no sense, but sometimes words must be jumbled.
confusing? yes. but so is life, and pain can be beautiful. just reach. love no matter. believe, no matter. trust, no matter. hope. strive for authenticity. be bold, no matter. be beautiful. and love "above all else." one day, maybe even this moment, darkness shifts to dancing.

a blade of grass may pierce the dormant, therefore exist.

so we can breathe.
giggle, too.