starry starry night

Missing Maine and summer nights. Therefore hunting up this old composition...


It was one of those Maine nights that I dream about all year, the air tangy and brisk, smelling of pines and sand. The sky was the deep blue, before it fades to black, with stars just shining out. The circle of pines around our cabin stretched up tall, somehow making the sky seem bigger, drawing your eyes up, making you marvel at the vastness of it.
I grabbed Dad’s ipod and headed to the beach, the screen door squeaking, swinging closed, slamming and bouncing. I shook the sand off the blanket that was already laying on the beach, ready for me. On my back, staring at the stars, which shone brighter and clearer every moment, I listened to Iron and Wine and Calexico. Bethie came, and I pulled her close so she could listen too. We were 16, maybe less.
We didn’t talk much, the music and the mood and most of all the stars, silenced us. I smiled at her, the outline of her pale profile bright in the darkness. Right as the notes of Hoppipolia swelled to a climax, we gasped. A star had just shot across the sky, brilliant, trailing light. I had glimpsed them while star gazing before, but barely. They were always exactly where I wasn’t looking, right on the edge of my vision.
This shooting star was perfectly above us, seen fully. When it faded, I blinked, luminescence left under my eyelids. Beth and I glanced at each other wonderingly, her dark eyes shining, marveling at the perfection of the night.
We stayed out for hours, watching and listening. We called the girls to join us, reveling in the beauty, the magic of friendship, laughter and stars. Our astonishing miracle, the shooting star, was repeated fourteen times, twice for each of us. God’s own firework’s display, blazing in the night.

little wonders

Frankly, I was having a miserable day. I have had a nasty cold/headache sinus congestion for a week, and today was the climax of the unpleasantness. I even skipped my non-essential classes (I had a presentation in one, so couldn't skip that, and in French we were CONJUGATING VERBS by the third day of class, so I'd be way behind if I missed).  Imagine combination faucet and rudolph the red nosed reindeer, and that's me. Not pretty, and not nice to live.
And then I walked out of my French class and a snowflake fell on my scarf. I've always seen representations of what they are supposed to look like, but in real life they were clumps of wet whiteness by the time I got a closer look. But this one was perfect, just sitting there on my scarf, a delicate little swirl of ice. I could see each minuscule spoke spiraling out from the center. The intricate perfection of it overwhelmed me.
Despite evidence to the contrary, (such as sinus congestion) a world with snowflakes in it is a wondrous thing. The God behind the beauty...I can't imagine.

What a beautiful God, what a beautiful God, what a beautiful God you must be. 

bucket lists and living today

Speaking of living today, I was recently inspired by my brilliant friend Siobhan's wisdom on the subject. (She goes through life dance raving while making cupcakes. And is therefore clearly an authority on living in the moment and joy) Instead of a bucket list that would just gather dust and never be lived, she made a list of things she wanted to do before her next birthday. Forget my melodramatic musings,  this brightly colored list taped to her wall said something really profound about living the adventure today. You make life an adventure, today, this year, because a well lived life ain't coming to those that sit on their bums and wait for it.

So, inspired by Siobhan, here is my own 19 before 20 list....

Finish "Dear Turtle" (the letter/novel I am writing my little sister about when she was born)
Go rock climbing
See Darlingside
Smoke hookah (tobacco, not drugs)
Sleep under the stars
Learn to waltz
Sit on the roof and talk all night
Be a bridesmaid
Be published, small or big doesn't matter
Read the whole Bible
Have dinner at the Friary
Roadtrip to April's
Skinny dip in the ocean
Sleep on the beach in Maine
Ride on a motorcycle
Picnic/stargaze from the middle of the Siena baseball field (and jump the fence to do it) 
Have a sleepover party with the my little seesters 
Identify five constellations whilst stargazing
Eat sushi
Have fried ice-cream
Swim in an evening gown
Write Adam Young/Owl City

P.S. I shall bold the ones I have done.
P.S. I shall bold and italicize the ones I have done more than once. Yeah Darlingside!

sappy sayings and grains of truth

   I have a habit of making up cheesy sayings when I am bored. I'm quite good at it actually. Someday I shall make a fortune selling cards with overly photoshopped pastoral scenes and sappy inspirational quotes, and I shall laugh at all the people who buy them.
   Here's my newest quote "The future is just a bunch of todays that haven't happened yet. So live today. It's all you'll ever have."
   Despite the fact that it makes me cringe a little, I think it's actually true. Today is all we get. Not because we could die tomorrow, even though that too is true (but we never seem to believe it), but because someday is never going to get here. All my life I've had a list of the things I am going to do someday, the person I am going to be someday. Someday when I am brave... I will be painfully real about the things I hate about myself, and God will use my struggles with self image to help heal women. I will stick my tongue out at a random stranger just because I want to see how they will react. I will live overcome by God's grace in each moment.
   It's a great list, a good goal, but it's never going to happen. I am not going to magically wake up brave, healed. To the future me living in that magical someday it's just another day. Tomorrow is just today over again, unless I change how I am living now. A future as a brave, healed, God glorifying woman is quite possible, if I live today as a broken, humbled, surrendered girl.
   I am going to inch towards the courage it takes to let God change me today. Someday starts now (and there's another sappy saying as a bonus. If you make a card with it, send me the royalties).
 
 

Awa

     What little light there was in the dark room, flickered out of an old, beat up TV in the corner, around which a group of men in long traditional Malian tunics sat, watching the African channel. I couldn’t tell if the newscaster was speaking in French, Mali’s national language, or Bambara, its lingua franca, because the volume was too low for me to pick out any of the few phrases I might have recognized. Maria,* the Dutch woman I was with, called the dingy room a bar, but it wasn’t alcohol they were selling. As I stood in the shadows by the door, trying to take it in, I thought “I’m in a brothel. I wonder if I should feel scared?”

    The pilgrimage that took me from my loving, protected home in the church parsonage of a small New York town, to the dark alleys and streets of Bamako, Mali West Africa’s red light district, was a strange one. Since I was twelve I knew that Africa was where I was headed--the goal that kept me scrubbing floors, saving every penny I earned, for the plane ticket that would take me there. In the spring of ‘09, when I was sixteen, I handed that hard earned ticket, marked Bamako, Mali, to the airport personnel in Casablanca, Morocco. I was finally on the last leg of my journey, a journey that spanned four years of planning and praying, the Atlantic, and nearly two days of layovers and flights. I was almost there.
     Excitement and sheer exhaustion warred in my head, keeping me up for those last four hours. I knew this trip would likely determine the rest of my life. It would prove whether my crazy dream of living and working in Africa was just that, a crazy kid’s dream, or if my sure sense that this was what I was meant for was true.
     For the next two weeks, all my nerves were strained, desperately trying to absorb everything: the colors, brightly patterned clothing, wide, white smiles against black skin, tattered rags on little, beautiful bodies, wordless bonding through barefoot soccer, gorgeous views of red Malian dirt and green mountains littered with reeking piles of trash. The strangest mix of incredible beauty overlaid with filth, heartbreaking poverty and a wealth of laughter and joy. My Dad and I traveled with international workers from our church denomination, The Christian and Missionary Alliance. We volunteered at a women’s and children’s hospital, taught at two summer camps for kids, and shared soap and smiles amidst the horrific conditions of a Malian prison. It was a hellhole of flies and heat, men crammed together in unbelievably inhumane conditions.
     Now here I was, standing next to Maria, the Dutch International worker who runs a center that provides alternative vocational training for women caught in the sex trade. Malian culture is extremely focused on greetings, so while Maria handed out fliers and talked with prostitutes, my job was to smile and shake hands. Circled by girls in skinny jeans, tank tops and miniskirts, garb that would go unnoticed in America, but in Mali’s modest culture, were a sure indicator of prostitution, Maria looked them each in the eye, and asked them if they wanted something better. The direct, motherly way she interacted with them, holding their hands, patting cheeks, laughing and teasing, helped to ease the uncomfortable looks her questions caused. “If you ever want to get out, I will be here to help you,” she earnestly told a girl, as a man nuzzled her shoulder, and kissed up her neck.
     We met two pregnant girls who were unable to get any medical attention. As a woman in Mali, you need papers signed by your husband, or a male relative providing for you. Obviously, these girls had neither, and at 8 months pregnant, one of the girls had yet to see a doctor, and planned on delivering without one.
     I met her in the last group of girls, on our way back to Maria’s car. She was seventeen, and had been in the business since she was fourteen, when she was offered a “good job” in Côte d'Ivoire. Her name was Awa. I found this out later; all I knew then was that mid way through the circle of shaking hands and smiling, the girl in the yellow tank top reached out and hugged me.
     She was starved for affection, needed desperately to be loved, touched by someone who wasn’t using her. The uncertainty and pleading in her huge eyes changed to joy when I hugged her back.
     I was always insecure, and prone to panicking inside when given a new task, terrified I wouldn’t get it right. But now my only job was to love her, and that I could do. Sweaty and covered in the brown-orange film of dust kicked up from the red Malian dirt, emotionally and physically exhausted after my afternoon in the Malian prison, holding a prostitute, I was suddenly completely content. The Bible says that “To whom much is given, much also is required.” (Luke 12:48) Hugging Awa, I knew that I had been given so much; a home, clothes and food and a good education, and I didn’t have to sell myself to buy any of them. For the first time, I fully appreciated my innocence. All I wanted was to give back. My “crazy kid’s dream” was confirmed, this was what I was meant for. I plan on dedicating my life to bring justice and freedom to girls like Awa.
     Awa destroyed my illusions, taught me that my nice, safe little world was a figment of my imagination. But, of all the shocking things I saw there, the most horrifying discovery came later-- I found I could forget. While standing in the prison, and later holding Awa, I thought that my capacity for selfishness was surely being burnt out of me. I was shocked and disillusioned to find that I could still be lazy, that a life wasted on the pursuit of my own pleasure was still an option for me.
     Even as Awa shattered my glass house, introducing me to the harsh realities of life, she taught me to hope. I realized that human selfishness is a prison you have to daily choose to be free of, and that it is the choice, not the emotion, that determines who you are. Though I may feel selfish, because of Awa I will always choose to live selflessly. Until I faced the horrific aspects of both my own nature, and the world, I could not possibly hope to change either.

*Names changed to protect identities.

Africa day 2

Day 2 (or three? They blurred) ...We're now about one and a half hours from Koutiala. While we were stopping at a little gas station, a crowd of kids gathered. At first it was just one little boy who stood and stared at me through the open door of the van. He smiled at me, the hugest, most gap toothed adorable smile I've ever seen. I, of course, grinned back as wide as my face could go. We stood grinning and periodically waving at each other, as other kids came up. I finally nerved up the courage to try and say "good afternoon" in Bambara, the trade language. I said "I ni wula" shyly, and could tell from their mystified expressions that they hadn't understood. So I tried again. This time they understood, and their smiles ( I would have thought it impossible, but it wasn't) got even wider. They giggled and kept repeating "I ni wulu" to each other. They obviously got a kick out of the white girl speaking Bambara. *
They were so indescribably beautiful, with their mix matched colorful and unkempt clothes, huge white smiles in their black faces, and enormous eyes.

*[Also, I later realized that I may have used the wrong phrase. So they were probably just laughing at the fact that the white girl  thought she was speaking their language, but definitely wasn't succeeding very well. Still, it's one of my happiest memories, my first attempt at Bambara and that beautiful little boy's grin.]

Africa

   Considering this blog is supposed to be about Africa, but the whole college thing is getting in the way of me going back to Africa in the immediate future, I figured I'd tide myself over with all my Mali memories. So here's the story of me and Africa, taken from my journal from the trip.

June 30th, 2009 1:30 pm, London Time, Heathrow airport.
...The flights so far have gone well. I stared out the window half the time, fascinated by the view of the clouds from above. They look like a sea of cotton swabs, stretching forever. I joked with Dad about how glaringly obvious it was that I was the only first time flyer on our plane. I was the only one who seemed to find the view more than briefly interesting. I spent the flight with my nose against the glass.
July 1st, 9:30am.
The rest of our trip went well. We had a three hour layover in Casablanca. The airport smelled of over expensive designer perfume and cheep cigarettes.
...I could barely keep my eyes open by the time we got to Bamako. [Understandable after two days of travel and no sleep, since I discovered I have trouble sleeping on planes.] It was so good to see [the Alliance International Workers we were working with]. They drove us to their home, which is beautiful. My first nightime view of Bamako showed very run down buildings, some shacks, and many people walking out, even thought it was three thirty in the morning. When we arrived, their guard [At first I was taken aback by the fact that most of the missionaries had guards and cleaning help, but began to understand it was a fabulous way to build relationships in the community, and supplied an income to people whose families might otherwise literally go hungry.] unlocked the gate to their walled in courtyard. He was wearing pants, socks and a sweater because it was "so cold!" Dad and I, meanwhile, were sweating profusely.
We settled in, and everything was very comfortable, but it took me a long time to get to sleep. When I'm overtired, I can't fall asleep. I was so tired I physically felt sick. Dad woke up and tried to sing me to sleep. He's wonderful.
....I took a nap after our whatcha mackalit session [I believe my jet lagged brain was searching for the word "orientation"] when the missionaries gave us some Mali basics.
Later, they took Dad and I to the artisan market.
The driving is insane. Absolutely insane. People, sometimes three on one, often carrying large objects, weave in and out of traffic on little motor cycle like things called motos.
My main impression of the artisan market was, well, everything. The noise; so many people trying to sell you so many different things, the colors; of beautiful cloth, crafts of all kinds, outfits of men and women, since Malian men wear "girl" colors too. The filth, trash littering everywhere, smell and smoke.
The silversmiths have little open grill like things [braziers], and work on their jewelry right there. It was sensory overload.