The Case of the Painted Portals

Approaching our dorm this early afternoon, I casually noted that all of the windows were wide open. Then, that the front door was open. Then, that every single one of our once-locked bedroom doors stood ajar. Abby and I gaped in horror, our nostrils filling with the thick smell of fresh paint, as we frantically began checking our closets and bags for passports, laptops, and credit cards.

Thankfully, all but Abby’s back pack and camera appeared to be in place, and we slumped into our metal chairs, breathing thoughts of “this could have been terrible.” Thanks to our Sherlock Holmes-ian detective skills, we quickly deduced the likely unfolding of events: painters came unannounced, painted our doors, and left without closing them. Either the color-sloshing men themselves or a thief on the prowl, nabbed the strangely inexpensive items, leaving the much more coveted technology and identification materials behind.

As I munched crackers, Abby called our friend Security who came to take a look around. After sagely surveying the tidy, un-looted space, he pronounced that it was necessary for us to file a complaint at the office, Block 104, and perhaps to take matters to the police. Abby, in the steam of her hard-boiling eggs, sighed the sigh of this-will-take-a-while, and we agreed to make the trip.

Twenty minutes later we were standing within the manila-colored walls of UB’s Security “building,” face to face with the paint spattered men we were accusing of negligence. Abby sat down next to a man in a fume mask and began to write her personal account of events, while I stood fidgeting, surveying the situation and taking mental note of the awkward proximity between the suspicious and the suspect.

The deposition process took about an hour (thank you, Rushdie, for the invaluable company) and was followed by a circuitous argument over what should be done next. The painter’s manager had arrived (slow blinking and slow thinking? not to be cutty but this was ridiculous) and while he admitted responsibility every now and then, he mostly held the hard line of incomprehension. The four Security officials standing around us all needed to have their say, and we spent considerable time making it clear that since our three other roommates were still at work, we could not be sure what of theirs was missing. The Security officials presented the paint manager the options of offering compensation or surrendering his employees for detention, and that only added to our discomfort. Finally, with much patient-voiced prompting on my and Abby’s part, we agreed to reconvene at 5:30, with all residents of our suite present, to make a final assessment.

Shortly after returning from the first round of security arguments, our ears were greeted by the sound of clanking keys, and the turning of a sticky lock. Into the suite bustled a small woman in headscarf (the keeper of the keys) and the rotund head of contracted maintenance. “We have to paint your front door!” he said, as if nothing in the past two hours had transpired. The painter behind him (the same one sitting next to Abby in security, writing his statement) began to complain that the door had been closed earlier and the paint disturbed, and that it had to be redone.

“How long will the drying door have to remain open?” Abby queried. The perpetually smiling, sometimes conniving manager consulted his hands. “24 hours.”
This is when Abby and I donned our sternest teacher faces and exclaimed in near unison, “UNACCEPTABLE.” The next ten minutes were spent explaining why it was not okay to leave our front door open overnight. The woman in charge of all the keys could not seem to communicate in either Setswana or English, as she confused everything with vacillating support – enthusiastically in favor of our security concerns one moment, and aggressively advocating painting the next.

Finally, a large can of light-bulb-yellow paint seemed explode above the painter’s head, as he proclaimed that the door could be painted tomorrow morning. We nodded frustrated acquiescence and they all filed away once again. The master key to all dorms remained, unnoticed, dangling in our front lock. “Mma,” we called to the woman who stood, translucently, between us and theft/rape/disaster/etc. Spotting the forgotten keys she laughed, retrieved them, and walked back into the dusk.

Jen, Becca, and I have just now returned from the second round of talks, and Abby and Neo are off to the police station to make their claims. Neo’s laptop was stolen (a discovery that sent WHAT IF panic through my entire body) but nothing else.

Again, I find myself both frustrated and dazzled by the stunningly slow pace of procedures here, and the strange methods of communication (or lack there of). There are moments when I feel like no one is speaking the same language, and yet even in the midst of a mini crisis like this, everyone remains lighthearted and willing to engage in communal negotiation (however inappropriate that might seem.) Mainly, I am really disconcerted by the unreliable nature of Security here, and feel like my privacy has been greatly violated (if we have to fear even our locked rooms being opened, where can we keep passports?)


Regarding the other painters of the day, the kids in my class dabbed blotches of blue, green, and red onto the “Caring for Our Bodies” worksheet I drew them. Toothpaste, Soap, a Toothbrush, a Washcloth, and a Faucet have never looked so vibrantly amorphous. Time passed much more quickly when everyone was engaged in activity, and it was the first day that I really felt like I was really contributing to the structure of the class (I’m usually just a swing pusher and tear wiper).

The kids have also been responding a lot better to me since I’ve memorized most of their names and am starting to note their quirks and preferences. I also experimented with a Time Out Chair today, when the kids started flipping their eyelids. Apparently a novel innovation (a smack is the standard punishment), Time Out had a pleasantly sobering affect on the wee instigator. After five minutes of silent wall staring, I looked her in the eye and pantomimed the bad behavior, shaking my head and forcing a stern expression. She nodded with grim face and returned to the rug a changed girl.

What else is there to say? My day has shifted between small and big troubles, and on this creaky swingset of life, the back and forth is unavoidable. Regardless, I am resolved to enjoy the pleasant, high-flying breeze it creates.

KHWEST - open mic night

Small, shirt tucked tightly into pants, trim figure with arms spread wide. His hands enveloped me as he kissed my forehead. “Mma,” he beamed, stretching his words like hot putty, “Mma, THIS is the Republic of Botswana.” His cheeks swelled and shifted up his face, the sun transplanted onto a drunk man’s pate. “Mma, you are always welcome here.”

I’m jittering with the rush of performance, the sound of the crowd, the wrinkle in time that somehow, in one evening closed the gap between there and here and that night and this night and fused the humanity that we try to separate into categories of race and nation, gender and religious persuasion, first and third, up and down.

I was shaking with the same adrenaline, feet tapping to the same urge of expression, the spark that opens mouths and moves tongues and spins threads of hope and doubt. There were MC’s and poetry, crude jokes and colloquy, things as they are and could and ought to be.

For just these hours I was anywhere, but most especially here. More firmly planted in this dry soil than ever before, dropping spores, sinking roots into the café floor. What I read was nothing much, nothing touched, just some jotted notes of self-expression. But it felt so good to present myself, to hear my name escape the speakers and fall on new ears, to push back fears, and to rip through a few lines of past time – slowly inching forward into the Now.

He spoke of a father’s neglect, She, of man’s disrespect: “Don’t FUCK with me.” A man calling himself DJ clown told us that he learned from cockroaches to stay in the kitchen and out of the bedroom. The comparison between Mugabe’s mustache and Adolph’s famous face drew gasps from the lungs around me, and when the young man with the striped shirt spoke of his girlfriend dying from AIDS, his positive test results, his last time on stage, we could only watch wide-eyed, wide-eared, with wide-fears. They were more than words and more than spoken and however honed the speaker’s skills in chiseling verse, it was expression in the raw.

I am so grateful for this night that it’s catching in my throat, and no matter the embarrassing intensity of a rhetorical lisp, I can’t help but breathe this wisp: what’s life without poetry?

the presence and absence of lions

It was a bizarre convoy of strangely-engineered trucks that rolled into UB at 7:30 on Saturday morning. When we were told to pack our bags for our Kalahari camping trip, I had envisioned a few tents under the stars, some pap in a pot, and perhaps a jeep for transportation. However, greeted with a veritable army of camp tour guides and trunks full of equipment, I soon realized that we were in for something of an altogether grander nature.

Abby, Jen, Becca, Julio, Lorato and I (more on these dear individuals later) all piled into a rugged jeep looking thing, and introduced ourselves to Joe, the driver and guide. Slightly hulking, Joe nonetheless had the smoothest smile I’ve ever seen, and we all quickly grew attached to him. Although he was born in South Africa, he refused to identify as Zulu or with any other group, and would only tell Lorato that he was Motswana. Christening ourselves “Team Joe,” we set off on the five hour drive to the Khutse game reserve.

Only about twenty minutes outside of Gaborone, the scenery changed drastically. The same flat, dry, shrub spotted land began to appear in larger and larger uninterrupted stretches, until we were driving for miles (or kilometers) without a soul in sight. The temperature – frigid in the morning – rose with the sun until we were all shedding layers in the heat, catching a thick, dust filled breeze in the open car. Often, along the one-lane highway, we would pass groups of children who would scream greetings, or herds of un-attended cows. There were more than a few occasions when I scrunched my eyes shut, waiting for the thwack of a bovine body against our car.

Although most of the time was spent in chatter or silent road-gazing, Joe occasionally pointed out the communities of traditional Tswana homes that dotted the landscape. With floors covered in cow dung, and roofs of dense thatch, the circular mud homesteads are still being built and maintained by modern Batswana. Usually surrounded by a plot of dust and a stick fence, the houses seem tidy and well organized. The simple structures and open planning stand in sharp contrast to the dirty jumble of cement and brick that is Gaborone, and the difference makes me wonder what has been lost in the development of the city.


After a few gas station breaks and many hours, we finally pulled through the gates of the Khutse game reserve. I’m not sure how the conversation got started, but Joe began to explain that the government of Botswana had been in some hot water recently for relocating the San (Bushmen) outside of the Central Kalahari Game Reserve (CKGR). According to him, the government had painted this move as an effort to help the San benefit from modern amenities and national services such as education. However, soon after the relocation, it was apparently revealed that the government intended to mine for diamonds in the newly vacated territory, and the issue went to court.

Another hour of driving through the game reserve, gleefully spotting groups of ostriches and gazelle along the way, we came upon a clearing known as “camp.” The trucks corralled in a circle and we all pitched tents and unfurled sleeping bags. For being out in the desert, things were incredibly cushy, and we lunched on china plates with tablecloths and tea.



The last drive of the day took us to sunset – an event better seen than written or read about. As we scanned the horizon for lions and the like, the brilliant rays of gold, pink, purple and red lit up the previously bland land. I had been prepared for this in a sense, as I’ve seen pictures of Kalahari evening before. However, what shocked me completely, was just how uninterrupted the skyline was – with land so flat and no structures in sight, the colors exploded in all directions and the earth seemed a perfect, sublime circle. Spinning around in the tall grass, we were all a little shutter happy and giddy with the sight.


With the sun’s rapid descent, the air once again grew cold and unwelcoming, and we all sped back to camp. We dined on steak and potatoes (a little too fancy for me) around the campfire, and sipped an assortment of intoxicating concoctions. Because I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before, let me explain the altitude situation here. Whereas Philadelphia sits a squat, 40 ft. above sea level, Gaborone is 3,330 ft. up there, and boy does it affect the drinking. However it began, our lively conversations began to meld into one strange discussion of race issues in the United States and in Botswana. I can’t say that any of it made much sense, or that any conclusions were reached, but I was glad that the topic finally came up. I have yet to use this space to detail my thoughts on the subject, but they’ve been brewing for a while. My experiences here as a white, American, female (amongst other identifiers), have been thought-provoking.

I fell asleep listening to the beat of Thabo’s djembe, and strained vocals, and only awoke once in the night to make a quick dash for the bathroom. Quaking with the cold and for fear of lions (they’ve entered camp before), I peed faster than I ever thought possible and dashed back across the sand, stumbling in the holes of ground squirrels and collapsing into the tent.

The AM was slightly miserable – water had frozen overnight – and I dozed through most of the morning drive, missing a few ostriches. We made small talk as we packed up camp, and got a late start back on the road. The trip home was a bit of a mess – Team Joe’s car broke down on a deserted desert road, and we all had to crunch into the remaining vehicles and leave Joe to wait for help. I huddled in an open air car for the first stretch of the trip, but numb with cold, scrunched into the trunk of a land rover for the second. Looking out the back window, into the pitch black of the electricity barren night, I caught snatches of radio House music and English/Setswana conversation. Every now and then, a car would pass us in the opposite direction, its headlights illuminating the space around us. In these moments I would catch glimpses of thin figures strolling along the roadside, or the large eyes of resting cows. Wild ponies, goats, and dogs also populated the inky blackness. Nine hours later, and sick with the fumes from leaking gasoline, we found ourselves back in the comfort of our cockroach infested dorm. With a shower and a soft pillow behind me, I was happy to shut my eyes.

The Speed Queen

Yesterday was a teacher’s day, and thus Abby and I had a free 24 hours on our hands to enjoy as we pleased. After some grocery shopping, we decided to haul our rapidly expanding laundry bags to the fabled laundry room. In the heat of the two o’clock sun (14:00 here,) we wobbled across caked dirt, past valiantly struggling bushes, and towards UB block 475. Along the way, we stopped to ask one of the many resting groundskeepers to point us towards our destination. Kindly, she offered to lead us there, and began an elaborate and elongated process of standing up, dusting off, and inching forwards in a two-step shuffling manner. I mention this small event with its snail pace not because it was unusual, but because it is the norm. “There’s no hurry in Botswana” is not just a lackadaisical catch-phrase, it’s life.

After five minutes of our strange processional (two load-laden women trailing an intently casual Mma,) we arrived at the industrial washing zone. Surrounded by abandoned cars and wire fencing, the laundry area appears a strange place to get clean. We were greeted by a number of stern faced women who informed us that the laundry closed at 4:15 and that we were too late to do our wash. Abby and I checked the clock – it was 2:10.

With some sweet talking and promise of hurry (a suggestion greeted by skeptical eyebrow raises), we entered the building. What I didn’t understand is that my speed is not determined by how much I want to hurry, or try to hurry. Instead, it is the whim of stubborn Time that dictates my pace. Let me illustrate:

As we began to fill the gaping mouths of the metallic washers, we were approached by a large woman, layered in multiple colors of cloth. Introducing herself as “Flora,” she informed us that it was she who must “ready” the coin-fed machines, and that we were not allowed to insert tokens ourselves. This was a laborious process, as she moved like mud and had to test each machine to see if it worked.


Despite the fact that nearly half an hour had already passed, Abby and I settled in to read, assuming that the worst of the delays was behind us. How wrong. The washing machines are all stamped with the ill-deserved appellation of “Speed Queen,” and good lord she should be dethroned. The dryers stopped tumbling three times in a row, and each malfunction required another inspection from the rainbow mountain woman. Although Flora spoke English perfectly well, she did not seem to understand it when it came out of my mouth. I don’t know what train of logic I’m riding, but sometimes it seems like there are no other passengers in the car. For some reason, Flora was convinced that our laundry just wasn’t going to get done (it was still only 3 pm) and she even hip checked me when I approached a machine to fix it [I don’t think I have ever been so physically intimidated in my life.] As 4:15 rolled around, my clothes were only partially dry and I returned to my dorm damp and defeated.

Time, sometimes in the form of a heavy-stepping matron of the suds, just won’t budge. With deep breaths I attempt to adjust.

Of other note, we leave tomorrow morning, bright and early, for our group trip out to the Kalahari. We are just camping out for one night, but we have high hopes of seeing some elusive animals (and also of remaining un-eaten by said creatures.) Since it nears midnight and my cricket of conscience chirps about getting rest, I shall lay aside structural attempts and present instead some random thoughts. Enjoy the Chex Mix.


On Sass: If you give it, you must be able to take it. This is a general rule, but I find it especially handy on the playground. The girls of Kamogelo are particularly adept at directing the nasty eye, and for the past week I have been struggling to find an effective counter-look. My stern face failed (please, just try to imagine,) and my imploring eyes too. My attempts at “bored” and “sad” were also greeted with equal contempt. However, just this morning I was feeling quite sassy myself, so I threw a whopper back at the pink-clad instigator. Lo and behold, it disarmed her completely. She smiled, as if to say “congratulations! you finally figured it out” and flounced away to the nearest swingset.

On Names: Amogelang, Sethunya, Ketshepileone, Garata, Tebogo, Oteng, Gaolefufa, Boemo, Karabo, Arrifa, Kabatshabile, Mogomotsi , and Batsile to name a few. If you think they’re hard to spell, try pronouncing them. One six year old has been trying to help me with the sounds, but she usually ends up rolling in laughter before I get it right. Dear tongue, why so suddenly clumsy?


On Circle Dances: they happen on playgrounds, they happen in clubs. There is no thrill equivalent to entering the circle and having 30 five year olds mimic your shimmy.

On Cockroaches: they are still present.

On Sheep Noises: sometimes, when groups of men want to get Abby and my attention after failed shouts of “pretty baby,” or “hey lady,” they let loose a sound that I can only describe as a “baaa.” It doesn’t work.


On Goats: oft seen crossing the street, eating shrubs, or hobbling up and down dirt mounds, these city residents are hard to miss. Wednesday found one eating the sapling trees at Kamogelo, and Abby and a small boy successfully chased it off the playground. Following the frenzy, the creature promptly joined the rest of its clan to cavort with the free-roaming chickens.

On Missing: No matter my comfort level here, I still miss with a steady ache. I have attempted at times to confine said ache to a pinkie toe, or a shoulder, and to use the rest of my body to play and dance and laugh and enjoy. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn’t. Tonight, at a restaurant, a table of women randomly began chanting “OBAMA, OBAMA!” and I suddenly felt patriotic and homesick.

On “Here” being “Home”: For some reason I keep trying to assure myself that I’m “adjusted” or “settled,” but I think must linger in the limbo of “transitioning” for a while longer. This is good, not bad. But as you well know, I can be impatient.

On closing blog entries: when hard to do, it is best done abruptly.

precipitation

My mind seems to be developing some nasty stretch marks due to all the rapid expanding and shrinking it’s been doing lately. One moment, it feels as if the world is huge, and I can’t possibly handle the sensory and intellectual overload– combies flying at me from the wrong direction, giant ears of corn grilling on the street corners, horrific news about countries next door [more on that later], and rapid paced sentences in language I don’t comprehend. And then, suddenly, everything is small again. A kid is squeezing my band-aided finger and I’m dozing under a pile of four year olds. This same phenomenon has also led me to a greater faith in the elasticity of time and space (non-scientifically). A minute knows neither minimums nor maximums, and may choose its width at will.

Not much has been happening in the physical sense – the past two days have been tired blurs of children and web-surfing, and I find myself longing for a little excitement. Both Abby and I are having some trouble negotiating our role at work – the day care sees a lot of temporary volunteers, so we sometimes feel excessive. It is also hard to find alternative ways to communicate important messages to kids who don’t speak English. For example, we can’t have the normal “this is good behavior, this is bad behavior” chats, and we also have trouble conveying the rules to games, instructions for lessons, and commanding their attention.

The other issue is that technically, I am an assistant to permanent teachers at the day care, and thus have to be careful not to flout their authority. One woman I work with uses a long thin stick to “beat” the kids on the head (her word not mine – I’d describe it as somewhere between a tap and a crack) - something that makes me extremely uncomfortable. Whether or not the discipline is deserved, I cannot condone corporal punishment (although the village courts do), and yet cannot bring myself to reprimand the teacher. Who am I to tell this devoted woman that this is incorrect? I’m only here for two months with these kids, and she’s packing years. Even if I think I’m “right” (violence only begets violence – I’ve seen the kids beat each other), and can present studies to prove it, it’s still a very awkward situation.

The weather today was unseasonably dark and cold, and I found myself particularly frustrated with the way things were running. I felt apathy seeping in with the chill, and it was a terrible sensation. I really must find a way to make myself useful in such a fashion that will uniquely benefit Kamogelo. I don’t want to provide the same general product as all volunteers – the children need as much love as they can get, but most anyone can give that. Hopefully I can devise something that will fully utilize both my compassion and my skills - raising the question: what are they? More meditation is necessary. Basically, I’m grasping for a justification for my presence and praying it will arrive quickly. This is not to discount the importance of kindness and hugs and tear-wiping, but I also know that a slightly bigger impact is possible. (right?)

Switching lanes (as combies often do abruptly), I want to write a bit more about something previously mentioned. The current situation in Zimbabwe is absolutely appalling, and each new piece of news horrifies me even more. If you haven’t yet read, Mugabe has suspended all of CARE’s humanitarian work within Zimbabwe – an insane and paranoid move, “justified” by his suspicion that the organization was promoting the opposition party and an “illegal regime change.” CARE is one of many NGOs whose important relief efforts have been impeded by Mugabe’s decrees, and it is obvious that the people of Zimbabwe are suffering as a result. This news hit particularly close to home (and not only by geographical proximity), because Mugabe has apparently been targeting teachers as opposition supporters and orphans are particularly affected by a disturbance in relief work. The thought of the kids at Kamogelo going hungry because of an irrational old man makes me completely sick.

Additionally, as if border problems weren’t bad enough already, a further cut in aid would only logically result in a greater surge in the illegal exodus. What with immigration tension already so high in South Africa (and even here), it is just terrible to think of more people being forced out of their country and into unwelcoming territory.

I am by no means the most well informed of observers, nor do I claim any authority on the history of this political conflict. However, from what I have seen, read, and assessed, I am terribly worried and saddened by this constant news of decline.

Now, as the clock creeps forward towards the next day, the rain strangely mimics Zimbabwe's precipitation. Although it’s supposed to be bone dry in winter, the heavens have opened and let loose with fury. Socks and leggings hugging tight, I bid goodnight.

live action

so, i've forayed into YouTube as an attempt to (vitamin) supplement my words [you know that phrase about pictures and such]. Clap your hands and dance (don't fight the urge):

zoom zoom

shimmy shimmy

munch munch

Zebras

Well, in recent news, Botswana’s national soccer team is not that great. We went to the National Stadium yesterday (just outside the UB gates) to watch the Zebras play. They tied Madagascar 0-0 but all the Batswana around us kept on apologizing for their team. Nonetheless, the event itself was really fun – the Batswana fans are crazy and come decked out in fantastic light blue/white outfits. Long cherub-trumpet-like horns are really popular, and drunken fans toot throughout the game. There was definitely alcohol present, but we couldn’t quite figure out the source. We were also wary about wandering around too much since seats were hard to hold onto and Rajiv got his phone stolen (yes, big bummer.)

Let me also just mention that Batswana give a whole new meaning to the term “aggressively friendly.” A mix of Indians, Chinese, Koreans, and Caucasians, our group stands out pretty boldly in a crowd, so some attention is expected. However, at the game, I had more people shake my hand, grab my arm, attempt to get my address, give me their number, and just randomly say hello than I have EVER experienced in a three hour time period. Here, you are expected to greet almost everyone, and it is also pretty normal to strike up conversation with the nearest stranger. Yells from cars and swerving, smiling drunks are also common acquaintances. I’ve gotten pretty good at responding with vague answers to pointed questions, but I’m so used to being open with people that it’s a little tough to stay on my toes.

The stadium is also a really nice haven when not filled with fans. Abby and I got out of work early Friday, so we walked over to use the gym and run on the track. Deserted, except for Madagascar’s national team (practicing for the game), I pounded the pavement to the silent screaming of thousands of imaginary onlookers. After a few loops, I climbed to the very top of the stadium and surveyed my new home. The city looks a lot greener from up above, and seeing the distant hills scattered across the horizon made the land seem a little less devastatingly flat. In the heat of the afternoon sun, it was pleasant to just sit in silence for a while, watching the small figures of footballers criss-cross the pristine field.

This weekend was also officially month end (when everyone gets their pay checks and celebrates,) so we headed out last evening to one of the more popular clubs. Fashion Lounge is located much farther outside the city than I expected, and I was overcome by a strange sensation of the surreal as I gazed at the stars and grassland through the cracked taxi window, headed to a night of house music and alcohol. This extended into the club, as the first sight upon entering was women on a catwalk, in lingerie. We quickly bought drinks, and as is the rule in such establishments of music and mayhem, it isn’t hard to get happy. It becomes more and more apparent to me everyday just how small the city is – some people we met at Fashion Lounge had spotted us at the soccer game [I told you, we stick out,] and our waiter from the night before danced up next to us, causing quite the stir.

We ended the evening , elated and exhausted, with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at 4 am.

Today was a lazy Sunday with a little shopping at River Walk and some Sex and the City. The theatre was empty except for a few other others, and it was again, surreal, to be watching the absurd antics of Carrie and co. on the big screen in Africa. If taken even slightly seriously, they make all American women look disgustingly rich, pampered, and ridiculous – simultaneously enviable and atrocious. Walking back to campus along the dirt path, children playing in the shadows of corrugated metal Tuck Shop shacks, the relative disparity between images was astounding.

Life is starting to feel a little more regular, a little more familiar, a little less scary. We finally got internet to work (it was like winning the lottery) but skype and ichat are still non-functional. I have tried everything possible to get them going, and was reduced to tears briefly with the frustration of non-communication. I really miss faces and voices and hands and hugs and there are moments when I wish the ocean would evaporate for just one moment and the lands cinch together so Philly could nuzzle up to Gaborone and they could fall asleep with their heads on the same continental pillow.

I’ve been feeling pretty intensely sad at other moments too, but oddly can’t condemn it. For the past few months I’ve been overwhelmed by small and large questions of purpose and pursuit and passion, and it is hard to start answering things or stop trying to answer things and especially to stop thinking that things need answers. In some way, I believe that getting here was a distraction from the questions – the excitement of the adventure was all consuming and necessary. However, now that I’m settled to a certain extent, I guess I’m not surprised that the same questions start popping up. I think I secretly hoped that coming here would immediately reveal a clearer path for me, or that I’d find solutions neatly typed on my dorm room desk. Nevertheless, however much I hate the sensation of returned tight-throated worry, I am also so eager to feel it and study it and assess it and reshape it. FEELING is funny like that. I don’t dislike happiness or sadness or anger – I’m glad they’re all alive inside me – it’s just that they can be uncomfortable.

Moments are moments and they have a lot inside. They usually require some unpacking and examining and musing, and I sometimes worry that I will overlook one that contains something spectacular. Logically, I know that the ones set aside don’t really go away, they just get opened at a later date. However, surrounded by boxes of bubble wrapped minutes, I’m terribly impatient to reveal their contents.