Painted Maiden

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

to love is duty

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

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

burnt orange walls and splashes on canvas

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

a nice saturday.

anxious peace and falling rain

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

both interesting. both helpful. both challenging.


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

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

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

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

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

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

but among the angst, there is incredible peace.

julia, did you know?

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

Julia? have you heard?

And i survived.

untitled

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

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

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

lost in translation even pain even love.

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

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

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

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

and yet i smile.

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.