For the month of February, I was asked to exhibit some of my photography. I chose seven pieces from my collection to be displayed for 1 month. The posting read as follows:

Journey to Ghana

All images were shot using a Canon Rebel XT DSLR

Photographer: Erica Thibodeaux

These images were taken in and around the village, Jirapa, where I lived for one year as a volunteer. Through my lens, I am able to bring home a glimpse of the essence of Ghana’s natives, architecture, and wildlife. However, the rest must be left up to your own magnificent imagination.

When viewing the images, please take a moment to pause, close your eyes and IMAGINE:

the echoing sound of a bamboo xylophone

the cool feeling of a mud wall in the shade

the warm moist smell of rain setting in

the bitter sweet taste of a fresh mango

a completely exhilarating, terrifying, isolating, maddening, elating experience

Just imagine it. Thank you.

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I matted and framed the images myself, a task I knew nothing of prior to its start. What I saved in dollars, I spent in patience.

These vibrant landscape scenes were in a smaller series, also part of the exhibit:

Today I’ve come to the sweat lodge once again to cleanse, release, and heal the Divine vessel that I inhabit. The day is quiet and peaceful. The most excitement I can sense is trapped within me at the thought of spending hours around the fire in preparation for tonight’s ceremony.

Nolan, Tatanka (Buffalo), has given me the job of collecting the 32 rocks that will be used tonight in the sweat lodge. This task is an honor and I am immensely appreciative for the experience.

I mindfully walk over to the pile of rocks we select from each month, brought down to the lodge from the South Dakota Badlands. As I walk, I hum a mantra, Om mani padme hung, to calm myself and slow my anxious breath. I stand over the pile and ask for guidance, eyeing the rocks, unsure of where to begin. I am to select one rock at a time, touch the rock, say a prayer and then carefully place it in the center of the fire that Nolan has prepared. The fire is now built up to a great height, almost too great for me to reach the center.

My eyes return to the pile, I notice one rock seems to stand out, almost as though it is glowing and beckoning me to choose it first. I acknowledge this and chuckle to myself, thinking, Ok, so this is how it’s going to go. I pick up the rock, it’s the correct one. I turn it over in my hand, thanking Mother Earth for giving part of herself to us today. I thank the rock for lasting long enough to become the strong stone it is and for offering itself. I ask it to absorb plenty of heat in the fire so that our bodies may be totally cleansed and healed later. I walk over to the fire, touch the stone to my chest, release it into the center of the flames, and return to the pile of rocks. I continue to scan, select, thank, and release. My movements are slow, precise, and mindful. With each selection, I become aware of the history contained in these ancient stones. One rock reminds me that all of our ancestor’s remains eventually come to rest here, in this form. One rock smells of fresh earth and has tiny green moss growing on it. I inhale its fresh sent, name it food rock, thank the earth for feeding all of humanity today and place it in the fire. At one point, while scanning the pile, I notice the face of an Eagle. Eagle medicine is strong medicine, symbolizing protection and connection to Great Spirit. I thank the Eagle and I hold the rock, touched by the powerful healing that I know is in store for tonight’s sweat. When I release the rock, I know All is well.

Many rocks that I select contain images of the Eagle, either in profile or in flight, as a soaring Eagle. I do not come to understand the importance of the Eagle’s presence until much later in the day.

One rock contains the image of a sunset, as though it were painted right onto the very face of the stone with watercolor paint. Another rock sheds tears when I pick it up. The tears run down my fingers and return to the puddle beneath. One rock is broken and I rub the broken place, acknowledging its missing piece and when I return to the pile, I find the missing piece and select it as well.

The final rock I choose is one I’ve looked at many times but it isn’t until the final selection that I see the image it contains. In it I see the plains, from above, as an Eagle would in flight. I see the great expanse of land stretched out beneath and where the sun’s loving kiss is turning the dirt red and gold. It’s the most beautiful vision of the 32 and I lift it with great reverence and place it on top of the others in the fire.

I sit by the fire and listen to the flute playing a few feet away. I am sitting and reflecting and my thoughts rest on Maria. Her body is ill now and she is preparing to enter the next phase of life. She is young and will be saying farewell to her family, her husband and children.

Thirty miles from here, a music benefit is being held, this very day, to assist Maria and her family with the mounting medical bills.

Once, I few years ago, I watched while Maria told a story to a room full of people. As she spoke, I saw my own face in hers, only for a moment and then it was gone. I later met her again during a weekend meditation teaching and again felt the overwhelming connection to her.

Tonight, the ceremony will be in honor of Maria. The sweat will fall from me, back into Mother Earth, as a celebration for this magnificent soul I have been lucky enough to encounter. The cleansing and healing that takes place will be my gift to her, my homage to her beautiful being.

Today I am celebrating 14 years of sobriety.

As I look over the last 12 months, I’m amazed at the transformation that has taken place in my life. This month has been largely devoted to preparing for a new Self. I spent the remaining 10 days of December fasting healthandlight.com/TheMasterCleanse.pdf to allow for a healthy rejuvenation of my body, cells, tissue, and blood. I opted to fast through the holiday feasts where I often consume too much and instead, allowed my body to rest.

I feel great today as a result of the fast and the renewal that is taking shape within me.

I have a few personal goals for this year:

Learn to sew.

Read 25 books from the list of 100 Must Read Books: The Essential Man’s Library (http://artofmanliness.com/2008/05/14/100-must-read-books-the-essential-mans-library/)

Travel down the West Coast by train

Publish a book

Experiment and gain experience with set design for theatre

Be honest

Remain a vegetarian

Do Yoga daily

Continue to peacefully and easily receive the gifts that are continuously gracing my life from the ever-abundant Universe.

Continue to pass on my gifts, talent, and unconditional love to all beings everywhere.

Namaste.

Last night I slept and while I slept I dreamed. In the dream, I was walking behind my soul. I followed her beautiful silhouette into the blinding sun. The dress she wore billowing out behind her, whipping and waving in the wind, its edges touching my skin ever so lightly. I looked down at the sand I walked over and wondered where we were going. Where are you taking me? I called to her. But she didn’t answer, she only continued forward, her billowing dress enfolding me and pulling me onward. I followed, unable to turn away, despite the fears beginning to bubble down inside my chest.

Then she whispered, Stay close, you don’t want to miss what we’re about to see.

I woke in a haze, feeling full. When I left for work this morning, I had to shake the sand out of my shoes.

---------------------------------------------------

It’s been three months since my return to America. Only 24 hours after stepping off the plane, I was warmly welcomed with a hurricane and it threw me into reality quite quickly.

My adjustment has been seamless, though I often feel as though I’m following this force within me into the unknown. I’m not scared, though others around me seem to be. I watch the confusion on their faces appear when I begin to describe that I’m not sure what I’m doing next, or now for that matter.

I’ve created an existence here that closely resembles the one I left in the village as much as I can in this culture and though at times I feel like I only dreamt my experience in Ghana and never actually left this place at all, I look around at my life and all I see are remnants of that experience. It has changed me deeply, right down to my cells and there’s no going back.

I’ve consented never to force words to flow from me but rather to be still in the flow that is always resonating. When the words are there, I write, and when they stop, I stop. Often, what I write comes to me while I walk. Sentences just begin to form in my mind and the energy and momentum from that creates more and more and then it must get out immediately. Until now, I’ve been unable to write, except for a few feeble attempts of broken sentences, but nothing substantial.

Today, I’m writing and as I type these words and see the black forms filling up this white screen I feel so complete. As though the water tank filled to its brim and it couldn’t fill any more and then suddenly, the engineer came along and pulled the lever down and the tank began to steadily empty. I’m that tank and these words the water and here I go, once again, draining the experience from my heart.

I know this much… I will follow her, my beautiful soul, who knows far more than I do where we’re going, to the ends of the universe because I’m up for the adventure and she knows the way. What does that mean in real life terms? It means that I have to be still and constantly quiet myself and ask, Is this what will make my heart most happy? I know that money will never be enough to sustain me through a terrible job. I’m sure that I must place my wellbeing first, because I’m not waiting until I have a terminal illness before I really start living. I know that if I continue to create the art that beckons me to be created, I’ll never run out of the things I need to live a happy and full life. And, that in the end, I don’t need all that much to be happy and full.

I’m not ending the blog but I know not what it will become either. I suppose it will be like all things I’m drawn to, organic and pure, and it will metamorphosize on its own.

Stay tuned…

i'm thoroghly shocked as I write this, from the VIP lounge of the Accra airport using wireless internet.

I came to the airport this morning and stood behind a really really long line. Then, out of the blue, an attendent came over to me and took my ticket and passport and told me to step to the head of the line.

Then, they told me I was in First Class and I got shuffled through everyone.

Then they gave me a ticket to the VIP Lounge where juice and fruit and cookies flow freely for all passengers.

I think that the travel gods must have taken pity on me for all the pot holes I've stumbled into this year. What a morning. And what a way to go out!

Last morning in Ghana.

I’m heading towards a hurricane in a few hours. How fitting. I was hoping to outrun the chaos by coming here and now I seem to be heading straight for it. I’m certainly better prepared, as a result.

I’m leaving my peace corps experience with only good feelings and gratitude.

I’ll continue to write, whether here or in other capacities.

Now I must hurry, I heard the only thing on time in Ghana are the departing airplanes.

Visiting Mandy…

If I could paint a picture of the brightest colors, to show you what I’ve seen, it would still be a disgrace because you couldn’t taste the salt water mist, feel the ocean breeze on your sunburned shoulders, and hear the waves crashing.

If I could perch you on a star, high above the earth, you’d see four women, diverse in age (25-60) yet all in their prime, playing like children in the late evening surf.

A fire on the beach, fresh brewed tea, skinning dipping like little children at bath time.

We sat each morning at the peaceful intersection where the river dances with the ocean, where cold water meets the sun’s shadow. We watched the fisherman send out the nets and brings them back, pulling against the ocean’s current for hours.

We walked through the village of sea farers, seemingly the oldest people that ever lived, mild and peaceful, bathing in the river, smiling at the four white ladies trying not to gawk at the grown men in the water.

We cooked together and ate together and laughed together in the way that only women really know how and then we parted ways, just like the tide stretching back to its mid-day home, leaving thousands of memories like scattered seashells across the sand of my memory, forever imprinted.

Thank you, Mandy, Terri and Janet for such an amazing send off. We will meet again.

Tonight is my last night alone in my house in Jirapa. I’ve decided to end my peace corps service and return to America. Tomorrow, my dearest friends, Erin and Gray are coming to say good-bye and help me put the finishing touches on the library. Then Monday, I’ll head south to say good-bye to a friend at the coast and then on to Accra and home.

There are so many things I can say about this experience its hard to know where to begin. I’m sure I’ll be digesting it for some time but tonight, in reflection, I can see so much growth that has occurred with in.

Since I was a little girl, I’ve walked around with this heavy loaded burden, filled all the way up with a need to “help people”, especially the underdog. Maybe because for part of my life, I thought I was the underdog, and then I grew up and sort of struggled to not be the underdog and felt a little guilty for those that appeared to have it rough. Coming here has sort of washed that entire burden away. Well, it washed what remained of it away.

Before coming here, I had a lot of practice in getting rid of that heavy weight, and now, its all gone.

Some of that burden has been washed away as I’ve learned how to let my family members live there own lives the way they want to and not fight for the life I think they should have. I have one family member who was in a relationship with a drug addict who continued to take her car and not return it on time, so I was called on occasion to bring her to work and holidays and things like that. Once, after leaving her at work, I drove to the guy’s house and spent an hour beating on his door until he finally answered and then I hysterically, demanded the keys from him. Much to my surprise, he handed them right over and as he did, it dawned on me that not once did he ever actually steal the car, he took it with permission, her permission, and I was fighting someone else’s battle and they were on the other team.

Here, I’ve pushed for people to want a better life, better education, equal rights, better treatment, living conditions, clean water… and on and on. But, honestly, everyone here is doing exactly what they want to be doing, and if they aren’t, then they’ll probably do something different as soon as they feel like it. As I was cleaning up the library today, a job that took much longer than I ever anticipated, I realized that it will probably go back to the way I found it in no time. Especially when I realized that previous volunteers (not peace corps) had done exactly what I was doing, a few years before. And that thought led me to the next one, which is that: so much of my need to help others has to do with pleasing something within myself. Something in me will feel more peaceful and fulfilled if everyone else is happy, healthy and pain-free. Well, guess what, sometimes the best part of life is growing through pain. (Read: Man’s Search for Meaning. That will put a little perspective into pain and the importance of each man’s journey!) Why do I always forget this? This is nothing new, I’ve been trying to rescue people since I was five years old. Once again, I sit here, realizing that I’m learning the same things over and over and I can only hope this is the last time with this particular lesson because it sure is a tough one. Its interesting how the most selfless acts are actually based on a foundation of complete self-centeredness. All along, sitting here in Ghana, reading these emails of praise and adoration for the work I’m doing here and all along something felt fraudulent. Something about the reception here and the expectation and it all feeling like I’m fighting the fight for these people but they’re fighting on the other team and that somehow I was fighting more for myself than for them. This is especially apparent in the greed and dishonesty that exists with grant writing and proposals. I could write a book exposing the careless mismanagement of funds donated to the “developing world”. Its really sad. Everyone’s fighting to give these suffering people welfare so that they can go and buy the newest cell phone and dvd player with surround sound. I remember feeling this way in college while I worked and payed taxes and my single-mother friend was coasting along on a free ride to college, living on welfare and buying $400 boots. Its basically the same thing.

I rode in bus a few months ago that was smuggling wheat flour. The wheat was donated to Ghana Education System by Catholic Relief Services and then sold to the black market by the headmasters then it was smuggled all over the country. Easy money from foreign aid. It’s the foundation of this country and its accepted by everyone, even peace corps. Everyone just jokes about it and shrugs and rolls there eyes. Well, I can’t. I just can’t. its sort of breaking my spirit.

I suppose part of me coming here was to learn this, and many other lessons, but this one is huge. I feel lighter than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

I don’t feel the need to sacrifice anything for anyone anymore. This doesn’t mean I won’t help people. My entire life’s goal is to help people, to guide people to find their heart’s desire, to help them to express their true nature through art and dance and yoga and meditation or through my writing. But now I know I’m free to do it or not do it or do it at my leisure. Or even walk away and do something totally different if one day I feel like it.

I no longer feel this weight that was always sitting atop my chest, making me do this or that, preventing me from being free.

The thing about it all, thought, is that if someone asked if I’d do it all over again, come and live here and discover all of this, I’d say yes, in a second. And if anyone wants to know whether or not I think they should try development work for themselves, I say yes, do it. Your lessons may be different from mine and mine have all been worth every single moment. It’s the experience that’s the point and so just like all the others I’ve had, I have absolutely no regrets. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be and I’m so excited about what life has in store for me next.

Bike ride with Mayumi

I took a bike ride and it touched my soul. I’m not exaggerating. It was an experience I’d always dreamed of. Bike riding through the country side, fields of wild, green grass so lush, that it appeared to be a sea of green waves rolling in the wind. Stopping in small villages along the way for refreshment, meeting locals and being offered water. All of it I dreamed of, I just thought I’d be in Europe, naturally, not in Ghana. I mean first of all, the green was so unexpected. And then, the bike ride was 40 kilometers, beginning in Jirapa, where I live! So this beautiful country side exists right here (only during the rainy season, but still, it right here!)

We rode to three villages and the ride lasted nearly all day. Then we hitched a ride half way home and waited and waited for a ride the rest of the way (Mayumi was giving her bike away before heading back to Holland so we had to find a ride back to Jirapa, only having one bike now). The only transport that came along was an enormous tipper (dump) truck. They offered and we accepted, threw the bike in and climbed up. We were as tall as the tops of the trees in the back of this enormous monster truck. We along with about 10 other Ghanaians and the sun went down and the stars came out and we bumped along these red dirt roads watching a lightning storm off in the distance. We shook and rattled along for two hours and when we finally arrived, I felt like scrambled eggs must feel when being served for breakfast.

My legs hurt in a way I never imagined they could, so much so that at 2 am, i was angrily standing, half-asleep, in the dark, rubbing my thighs and feeling like Charlie’s horses were trapped in both of them. Such a terrible thing to wake up to! I finally, against my better judgment, took a few ibuprophen and the next thing I saw was the sun and my legs felt fine.

Reading

Well, I’ve already mentioned Mutant Message Down Under by Marlo Morgan and how wonderful I felt that story was but I must mention it again. I’ve also recently read Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl, excellent book, I highly recommend it. Also, I read my favorite story of all time, funny enough, I’d never read the original version of it, Peter Pan, by James Barrie, such a great book. He was so clever and witty and magical in his writing. Its really for adults more than children and I sort of swam around in its magic for a week or so. Also, a light and fun book I read, one that made me laugh several times out loud, About a Boy, by Nick Hornby, great little story, heart warming and fun.

Hi…kuu..s

Sleepy feet

Wet grass, laughing back bend

Morning yoga

Sad tears flow

Mind racing through dark valley

The real world

Big is heart

Warm, wise words reach hungry ears

My Momma

Pink sunset

Heavy clouds, pregnant with wet

Night rainstorm

You me them us her him it

I cried a river this month for all

Waking to reality

The dark is gone now

New light falls on fresh spirit

Love has bloomed in me

Sweet baby called me

Nanny, you come tomorrow?

No, baby, soon though

Heart to heart

Tied with string across the sea

Sister love

Bright smile

Lit my heart, calmed my sadness

Mayumi

An angel

Sent to guide me out the cave

Thank you, friend

Far away

Facing sideways, silly boy

I miss you

Is she there?

Do you call my soul to you?

Pining heart

Pine needles

Mountain pose, selfless giving

Shoshoni

Her new baby

In healthy womb, loving mommy

Best friend, part deux

Harley ride

Open air, no hair, freedom

Miss you dad

Big laugh, HA

Pulling legs and bending backs

YOGhanA

Push hook pull

Ball of yarn diminishing

Sewing class

Lift sort stack

Dusty treasures surround me

Library

(that was my week in Haikus)

Walden

When Henry David Thoreau set out to live a solitary life at Walden Pond, he was 28 years old just as I am now. As I read Walden, his account of the two years he spent more or less in solitude, I can only grin at the similarities swimming between the perception Mr. Thoreau held and the one I posses, 163 years later.

He was so certain in his judgment of the problems of his society and so certain his solution was the right one. I guess you could say he was self-righteous. Its interesting, how one moment in a man’s life, when written down for all to read, will be viewed as his own personal doctrine for the rest of eternity.

If I’d written a book this month, I’d probably be viewed as a bitter, diatribe composing, self pitying creature, bound in the depths of a deep depression. Thankfully, I was only sought in the blither and dithers, as my friend Nina likes to say, and its finally clearing up.

Last night I made the decision to stay here for now. Today, I made myself get up and go out to the football field and teach yoga. I was so terrified, but it turned out to be an amazing experience. Seven Ghanaian women tried yoga with me and several more walked up as we were practicing. The coach for the Keep Fit club welcomed me and they all asked that I come back next weekend. I couldn’t believe these women were going along with me. Its so needed because they bend at the waist to do everything and their lower backs are misshapen as a result. There were even two middle-aged women and an elderly one, bending along with the rest of us. It was so beautiful.

Then I curled up in my chair with tea just in time for an early morning rainstorm and read further into Mr. Thoreau’s experience, very enjoyable.

This evening, I planted sage, basil, sweet peas, lima beans, watermelon and cucumber with five precious little children. It took a long time because each one had a turn filling the bag with dirt and pushing the seed in all the way until his knuckle was hidden; then, carefully covering the seed with dirt. We went in order, each got to plant the same amount. Its beautiful to watch how serious children take a task given to them. They did exactly what I showed them to do. This was somehow remarkable for me because I’ve been praying to act loving and giving toward the children here. Tonight, I just wanted to squeeze them. They are so cute when you take time with them. Once we were finished, with pride oozing from their tiny bodies, they ran off with a gift of chalk to draw all over my house. I really feel fulfilled tonight.

So, what changed?

Its so silly what was standing in between myself and happiness. Me, of course.

Its taken me only 8 months to finally get up the courage to stop going to the district assembly office every morning and sit around with nothing to do, like the previous volunteers have done before. I told everyone that I had actual work to do in town and I wasn’t going to come to the office unless they had work for me there.

Then, last week, the worst week of all, I decided that I’m no longer going to do anything else with the bakery group. I’m finished. I sent my report, the people spent all the money and its come down to a choice between my happiness or the bakery, I’m going for happiness. I don’t know what will come of it, but the Peace Corps was supposed to call me back on Monday and today is Saturday, so if they aren’t concerned, I’m going to go ahead and follow suit. Why waste precious energy worrying about something that will be resolved with or without me?

So, I’m putting my energy into things that are actually working, like the other women’s group I just met who actually do need to learn about washing their hands with soap and the teen mother’s and their sweet little play about teen pregnancy, written, directed and acted out by the teens themselves! Then there’s teaching yoga and cleaning up the library, planting a garden and dancing in my living room. I guess in the end, I had to throw out my ideas of what makes a good volunteer and just be true to myself. It was either that, or go home and I’m not ready to give up just yet.

My Mom

I cried to my mom and she’s so cool, she just simply said, Oh, you’ve been through harder times than this, Erica. And just think of all you’ll have to write about… Sometimes, you just need your mom to tell you its all ok and then you can suck in your bottom lip and get on with it. Thank you, Mom.

Mayumi

One morning, I was sitting at the tea stand, something I haven’t done nearly enough this month and I met two girls traveling through, one French and one Dutch/ Japanese. The latter was planning to come back through and I offered for her to stay with me. Just as the words left my mouth, I wondered who had spoken them and if I was crazy. Did I actually want more stress? I wondered if I’d soon be diagnosed insane or the like. Anyway, we parted ways that morning and I forgot all about it. Two weeks ago, I received a phone call, saying she was in Jirapa asking if she could stay the night? The call happened to come in the midst of my really negative state and lucky her, I couldn’t have cared less who or what came to stay with me.

Funny things happen when you’re busy worrying about everything you can’t control. The universe, in all Its infinite love, has a way of orchestrating the most miraculous invisible safety net, all the while, its little children keep climbing to greater daredevil heights. Mayumi, the girl who’s stayed here off and on for the past two weeks is nothing short of a divinely appointed soul sent to walk me through this rough time. Little does she know, I’ve simply fed off her enormous heart and simple manner, her beautiful outlook and unending kindness. A presence that is calming and inviting. This violin playing, flamenco dancing, passionate soul has brought me back to the beauty that I was forgetting exists in the world. I guess she gave me a new pair of glasses. How does it always work? Every time. I don’t understand. Every. Single. Time. It. Works. The universe really is perfect.

July 17 Breakfast with the flies…

I’m distracted from my book by the flies that continue to land on the breakfast table. Every time I raise my hand to shoo them away, they leave for just a moment and then land right back on the table. I’ve swatted at them nearly twenty consecutive times and then returned to my book just in time to read about being a slave to wandering thoughts. This statement, being so true for my own mind, is paramount in the comparison to these flies.

I think they are my teachers this morning, showing me exactly what my thoughts do during meditation and especially outside of meditation, where I am not able to notice their consistency. Just the moment I shoo them away and return to my breath, a new one lands in its place.

I even imagine the flies doing this little dance, rubbing their front legs together, singing Nanny Nanny Boo Boo, you can’t get me.

It’s the same with my thoughts, they plop right down out of no where and won’t buzz off. Thus meditation, for me, is a necessity.

This analogy keeps growing by the second as I sit here eating my breakfast. I know not everyone is as distracted by their thoughts as I can be but also, most people sit peacefully unaware of the flies buzzing around us while I am painfully annoyed by their presence.

Moments ago, as I stood waving my arms back and forth hopelessly willing them away, it occurred to me I’d have to do this until the end of time or be at peace with them, ha, just as my meditation practice shows.

There is yet another element to this comparison that has just occurred to me. While in America, I never noticed the flies because I was constantly distracted by so many things, but I’m sure they are there. Now, here, in the quiet and solitude of day break, my thoughts and these flies have caught up to me.

One last thing… I just looked up from my wondering, to see them all over, dancing joyfully, happy as can be and I just let them be. I gave up, gave in and that is exactly what I do daily when I can’t fight it anymore… I plop down in a big chair and daydream.

July 29 Sewing

I enrolled in sewing lessons today. Every Tuesday, I’m going to sewing school. The teachers are a small group of physically disabled women and they’re wonderful to work with. I spent the day crocheting and next week I get to use the machine. I have all of these ideas of clothes I want to make and pictures to show them from my magazines. I had so much fun.

July 30 What a day

This morning, I got the privilege of giving a bunch of moringa tree seedlings to a women’s group I’ve been working with. Here are some pictures of them. The man is Richard, my devoted counterpart, whom is making my work here sustainable, thank you dear Richard. The rest are the women appointed by the group to make the journy to Jirapa to collect the trees.

(The gentlemen in the yellow shirt is the sweet deaf gardener who helped me to prepare the trees for the women, somehow we communicated, he's a beautiful man.)

They walked a far distance from a village south of here. I’ve been visiting them on Sunday mornings and their entire community is full of energy and love. Its so different being there with them, in the village, versus the busy-ness of Jirapa. I can’t believe I think Jirapa is busy, I wonder what America will seem like. This village sits off the main road and is about a 40 minute bike ride. It’s a great place to sit and just listen and watch the children playing and everyone talking. Wednesday, we’re going to plant the trees in their new moringa plantation.

After the women left, I worked in the library. Its meditative, sorting and wiping and organizing the endless piles of books. There were two sweet girls helping me to sort everything and since I still had my camera, I snapped a picture of them.

I have this thing with books. I feel like they hold clues that guide me onward. When I’m reading a book I really like, and the character in the book is reading a book, I try to read that book next. Anytime a book is mentioned to me more than once, I set out to find that book immediately. This has been a real adventure in Ghana, but more books have come to me here spontaneously than ever before. The last three books I’ve read mention the Bhagavad-Gita and of course, it came across my path last week at the Peace Corps office. Then, a few weeks ago, Gray mentioned a book to me about writing. An obscure little book that according to him, every writer should have and keep on him at all times, called The Elements of Style, by Strunk and White. Well, I believe my hands were shaking and my face was aglow as I raised this book from the pile today, as though it were the Holy Grail. There are countless stories I could mention about books making their way into my life, as though the energy they posses actually propels them through time and space, dropping them nearly in my lap, time and time again. I desire to make a map of the history of my book affair, though I haven’t yet discovered a method by which to write a book about books.

Then, I held an oh-so familiar book in my hands. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize the rough blue texture the minute I picked it up. I turned it over, its size and weight as familiar as my arm, fitting in my hand so naturally, a book I’ve read more times than any other by far. The text of Alcoholics Anonymous, an old copy, but not older than I’ve seen. If I sound deeply sentimental over a simple piece of literature, forgive me, its just that when it was presented to me, it held the stories of so many as afflicted and hopeless as I was in that desperate moment of need and it held an answer as well. It was so great to see that book sitting amidst these old books here in Jirapa in the Upper West.

One last thing, I have just read the most beautiful book and I beg you to read it, oh man its so great, its touched the deepest part of my soul...

Mutant Message Down Under by Marlo Morgan

Epilogue

After closing the computer last time, I sat on my sofa and took a deep breath, trying to digest all that I’d realized.

Then, I looked to my right at the basket of books next to the couch. The one on top, with its bright orange and red cover, caught my eye and almost in search of an answer to the questions I’d just posed, I picked it up and read the back cover.

It “describes how our attachment to the ego creates…unhappiness.” The book is called A New Earth by Eckart Tolle, which Chad brought during his visit. I opened it and began to read.

Just like that, I moved on. How quickly after seeing the truth revealed, can I no longer recall the falsity I perceived minutes before. It seems as though I’d always known the world was this way and since then I’ve just carried on. I’m making it sound smaller than it felt at the time, but now, it really is that small. Right?

I’ve said so much about those bad days but I want to mention some of the equally good ones I was having…

I learned how to build with bamboo and for a tenth of the cost, I was able to purchase enough bamboo to make the two remaining doors for the bakery. I began cleaning out the library and reorganizing all of it and now people are beginning to hear about it. Last week, I got a nearby school involved and they are coming on Friday to help me! I was able to distribute more than 600 moringa seeds and I planted 135 trees and the word is getting out about how nutritious it is. I’ve met about 11 other female volunteers from France, Holland, Japan and Canada, all who feel exactly the same way I do about being here and about development work and I am again reminded that I’m not so unique. What a concept.

Today, I’m traveling to Wa to paint an HIV Mural with the students from the school for the deaf. I’m really looking forward to it.

One thing that sobriety has taught me is that no matter what I must suit up and show up, even if my ass falls off. So I’ve just continued getting up everyday and doing what there is to do and, of course, it all keeps changing.

Mural

Here is a picture of the mural, painted and designed by deaf students in Wa under our supervision. This was the first time that they’ve received any HIV education in the Upper West. Before now, the hearing impaired weren’t included in the lessons for prevention. A few months ago, we taught a few classes using sign language and now, they are able to teach the classes to younger students. Then we had a design competition and in the end, we combined a few designs to create the one we painted on the wall of the school.

The students had to go to lunch, so we snapped this picture at the last minute without them. Next week, we’ll present each student with a certificate of thanks and have a little party, I’ll post those pictures when I have them.

It was a completely beautiful experience.

The past two weeks have been filled with ups and downs, to preface the following accounts, I’m ok, I’m not ready to leave Ghana nor am I depressed, I have however, had some really good and some really bad days. I decided not to edit my writings and just to leave it all here, a true account of the day to day emotions inherent in being in this place…

June 23… High speed

Everything I’ve been wanting to do has taken shape since returning from Lisbon: Planting moringa for the People Living with HIV, re-organizing the library, working on the teenage mother’s play about teen pregnancy, and even the bakery… somehow.

There are a few students from New York that are here working for a 7 weeks. Two are architecture students and I’ve been able to help them and learn from them and even work with them. Its been fun and my days have been so long and physically draining, but I really love the feeling. The picture above is from the moringa seedlings I planted.

June 26…So tired

I feel like a movie that’s running one frame off, so the audio is not quite matching up with the actor’s lips and everything is said a few seconds too late.

Yes, that’s definitely how I feel right now. It’s a painful realization, honestly.

While in college, when I was supposed to be glued to my desk, hovering over drawings and models and designing until my fingers fell off or I passed out from exhaustion, I worked part time jobs and wanted to be social, out and about with my friends. Just after graduation, I began riding a bike, and staying in more, reading good books and really learning. I discovered all of these practices that would have been so beneficial to me during college, that I never even considered until it was over. (Especially the bike riding, considering all of those parking tickets and countless wasted minutes driving around and waiting in line, looking for a place to park.)

Now, I’ve come here and in my spare time all I want to do is sit inside my house and draw, read, paint, write, create, but I’m supposed to be out, sitting with people, socializing, integrating. I have nothing holding me back, its just that I simply desire something else now. I’m frustrated. And tired. So tired.

July 3… (Written while waiting for the carpenter)

The Grass is Always Greener

The grass is always greener on the other side, of course it is, because from far away, you can’t see the flaws, the dead, yellowing patches. The brown spots. From far away, I could resemble a model, a petite-not-made-for-the-runway-probably-going-to-end-up-in-a-catalog model, but a model all the same and why is this? Because from the other side, you’re not seeing the grass at all, you’re seeing an impressionistic view of grass. A pixilated and multi-colored image appearing green only when you’re on the other side.

I find myself in a relationship that is less than perfect. I suppose every relationship is less than perfect, however, I’m only now just seeing its flaws. I’ve glimpsed a new prospect and now the grass I’m standing on seems so boring and miserable and the new grass seems so promising and full of life, glistening, fresh and healthy with eyes a glow. So, I lie awake, my mind dreaming of the new one while my body lies stuck in the old and of course, as it always goes in stories such as this, to change would, at least in my mind, bring about all the abundant happiness I could hope for. Filled with easy living and unending smiles. Picture a girl frolicking in a field of daisies, sunlight filtering through her hair, dress billowing around her legs as she runs, arms splayed out, embracing the wind, sweet music humming all around…

Suddenly, the record screeches to a stop. I wake to find myself in the same place I lied down in with all the real world problems, my body still here and my mind fixed on new sites.

The relationship is Peace Corps Ghana; the new prospec is going home and beginning a new adventure. I’ve done it before, during college, when I fantasized about the time when I’d no longer be tied to this ball and chain educational establishment and I could just work for a living, instead of doing both and of course, the money I’d have. I did it while in a sales job after college, when I imagined traveling to foreign lands and helping all the starving children I’d heard so much about (ha ha), with the Peace Corps. I’d practically abandoned my life in America months before arriving here.

Every time, the prospect I long for, or wish to experience, is a fantasy cooked up from somewhere in my imagination with only bits of truth sprinkled into the mixture. Because I decided that I want the new prospect more than the current, I make the current one look mean and ugly and full of flaws. I begin to see only the flaws and not the beauty. I conveniently tear the old one down and dress the new up so that any guilt that may surface about breaking commitments and selling out can quickly be rationalized by my mental list of pro and con, which of course, has been rigged by my sub-conscience for the new prospect to win. I say sub-conscience because it is there that the lie to ourselves must begin, if we are to believe it.

How often have I sat across form a girlfriend as she tells me how useless and horrible her current boyfriend is only seconds after mentioning the cute new intern at work. The entire time, the friend is clueless and I sit listening like the patron in the café window, about to witness a car wreck, all one can do is stair blankly at the scene because the disaster, while being so obvious, is way too huge to stop.

Realizing this obvious-to-some-but-not-to-others-like-me truth has been pretty deflating. My once full sails now hang lifeless and wrinkled. If this is the truth, and my experience shows it is, then my new prospect is no more wonderful than my current one and I have a commitment problem. So, I’ve committed to dropping the fantasies of any other adventure and focus on participating in this one just one tiny day at a time. That means, all of my escape mechanisms have to be thrown out. Where I usually sit for long periods staring into space, my mind playing out some other story that I’m the star of, I’m now trying to snap out of it, find something to get excited about here and now, within the week at least, and then go and do something in real time.

The Break

My friend, Gray, and I often discuss our experiences with what we’ve named “The Break”.

The Break occurs when someone has been living in conditions far more stressful than one person can endure. Sometimes, The Break can happen early in life, when a person only knows only hard knocks and thus is limbered up early on, seeming ever-so-resilient, even elastic. Other times, the break occurs much later, after a traumatic event such as a terminal diagnosis or loss of a spouse. Often, though, it is somewhere in the middle, when everyday life drones on so painfully, the pressure piling ever so slightly day after day until the person snaps, or Breaks.

More importantly than the varying ages people encounter this life changing experience are the similar thoughts and emotions often present. It comes at once, as though a cane snaps down over your brow, waking you from some sort of numb sedation and suddenly you realize this can’t be what life is about and if this is what life is about then you’d rather not participate any longer. Now, this statement may sound terrible when spoken to those close to the person experiencing the Break and first impressions often cause alarm, fear of suicide or even a trip to the local mental ward, all reactions by those still living pre-Break, which often cause confusion. Hospital or no hospital, either way, what lies on the other side of the Break is freedom. Because the person has decided that he no longer cares to participate in life in the same manner as before, all bets are off. Previous worry and anxiety is abandoned. Freedom takes on new meaning. Lightness of step and abandonment of constraint take over. All desires, which until now had gone unacknowledged, now become the only importance. Society’s once sought after opinion now seems trite, idiotic, and inferior to the real goal, true happiness and pleasing the heart.

An attitude of indifference appears in the shape of walking out on a miserable career or a failing marriage, buying a sports car or a boat, or maybe a drastic haircut, followed always by the image of a happy, healthy glow, full of contentment, a look worn only by those knowing true freedom.

What happens? A person goes on living in this new freedom for as long as it lasts, weeks, months, years and then one day, if you’re lucky, you get another break, you continue to grow, evolve, be human.

Later that day, after meeting the carpenter…

If I were an animal today, I’d be a snapping turtle. Hidden in my own little world, snapping at those disturbing my solitude.

July 4… Hmmm, those sneaky words, so that’s synchrodestiny

Somehow, the thoughts I wrote down yesterday while waiting for the carpenter have found their way into the book I’m reading today. I shouldn’t be as surprised as I am because I just read a book about synchrodestiny and this morning I did say a quick prayer asking that I remain aware of the small often unnoticed coincidences that occur in my life, but the truth is, I’m stunned and amazed and all the way over in Africa, sitting in this yellow cocoon with no way to share this other than by text message and so once again, I stare at the ceiling in awe and pick up my black notebook and write these exact words, to release my dis-belief and give it the acknowledgement it deserves.

To quote from the book I'm reading, The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, who’s paraphrasing from Tom Laughlin’s talk to cancer patients…

“What happens in that instant when we learn we may soon die, Tom Laughlin contends, is that the seat of our consciousness shifts.

It moves from the Ego to the Self.

The world is entirely new, viewed from the Self. At once we discern what’s really important. Superficial concerns fall away, replaced by a deeper, more profoundly grounded perspective.

This is how Tom Laughlin’s foundation battle cancer. He counsels his clients not just to make that shift mentally but to live it out in their lives. He supports the housewife in resuming her career in social work, urges the businessman to return to the violin, assists the Vietnam vet to write his novel.

Miraculously, cancers go into remission. People recover. Is it possible, Tom Laughlin asks, that the disease itself evolved as a consequence of actions taken (or not taken) in our lives? Could our unlived lives have exacted their vengeance upon us in the form of cancer? And if they did, can we cure ourselves, now, by living these lives out?"

July 7… Fuming at 9 am

Today I am so angry I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s the type of anger that makes you want to flail your arms around and stomp your feet and scream, allowing it all to flow out of you but instead, I just got on my bike and rode to the site where I need to work. Then my dress got caught in the tire of my bike exacerbating my anger and so I got off and walked. I’ve calmed down now.

All is can say is that I am completely powerless over people and how they treat each other and whether or not they choose to be honest or manipulative or kind and considerate. I guess when you live in a place where no one has what they consider to be “enough”, then everyman is out to gain only for himself. Wait, I shouldn’t say that, just yesterday, I watched Francis, at the tea stand, give food and coins to a hungry man who came over and sat down on the bench. I’ve watched him give small pieces of bread and coins away countless times. My friend, Sandra, brings me food when she can barely feed herself. So, I know that kindness exists here and I’m constantly witness to beauty in this world, I guess this week I’ve just been hit in the face with a big pie of manipulation and dishonesty and I want to punch something.

We’ve created a monster. By we, I mean development workers, religious organizations, and all other enablers that show up on their white horses to swoop into “poor” countries hoping to save the day. How could I have been so self-righteous, so egotistical to come here? Its almost impossible to make friends because even the ones who do care for you, are still hoping for a hand out, how can they not, they watch TV, they see what they don’t have and what they think you do have it all. So much of this country is dependant on the money we place here and we’re not helping anyone. We’re enabling them to sit around and drink all day long and not do anything for themselves except beg the white man for money. I do not speak for the entire community/ country, of course there are the heart warming stories of the guy who walked to school from the village everyday as an adult, being teased by his family, wearing a uniform and sitting in primary school as a full grown man because all he wanted to do was learn to read and write and in the end, completed University, and now does grassroots work for the Upper West, a true story that my co-worker Richard lived. But, these are few and far between and don’t always compare to the pain I see others inflict on their fellow man out of fear or greed or some other drive I can’t seem to pinpoint.

WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE? I’m so confused. I want to weep but I’m so angry, the tears won’t come right now. Man, this is a rude awakening. AAAuUUUDIAGFadsfnawofihweofanfoawfehi!!!!!!

Last week, I argued with a carpenter who over-charged the women in the bakery group three times. He gave us a price for the doors and windows and then he upped it once, then he upped it again, this time to accommodate for the hardware, then months later, when we still had no doors and windows, he told them they had to pay even more for installation. This no good bastard, pretended not to understand English each and every time I’ve ever spoken to him and I stupidly viewed him as a nice humble carpenter riding around on his old beat up bicycle. Well, last week, he showed up to put the doors in, after receiving the final collection of money, which these poor women took from their nearly empty pockets and put into the pot to pay him, and he spoke English to me!!! I lost it. I yelled at him, asking why it is that I care more about his community and these women than he does? Why is it that we’re busting our asses to build a bakery for this damn community that comes along and sees a white lady and ups the price? (Which just proves that our presence only brings about greed, and it wasn’t meant to be that way but we designed this monster and after 47 years, its begging instincts are honed and his survival ones have nearly all been forgotten.) And then, the carpenter just laughs, of course, because everyone yells here so much, it has no effect. I start to take deep breaths because I’m fuming and then I look up to see him getting on a brand new motorcycle! I wanted to strangle him, I asked him how he paid for it and gave him a death stare, but then I jumped slumped down on the ledge and sat, feeling weighted with sadness, I thought I was escaping that type of treatment but now I see that it happens everywhere, how was I so naïve?

Yesterday, while I was visiting the Sunday market, greeting the local women and enjoying the wonderful breeze that lasted all day after the storm that blew through the night before, this man walks up behind me and says, White lady, why don’t you give me 2000. I turned around and looked up at him and said in the loudest voice I could muster, I should just slap you! Then I walked away, but I really wanted to slap him, so bad I can only describe it as the way your mouth salivates at the smell of food when you haven’t eaten all day. So I turned and looked up at him again and raised my arm up and said, No really, I should slap you, why would you ask me that? He said, No, no, sorry, sorry. I put my arm down, felt deflated, turned and slowly walked away. I hate this feeling. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I understand, if I was in his shoes, I’d probably ask the same thing. I just don’t know how to proceed. I’m lost. And I’m lost in a place where I was already lost. Everything is not what you think it is, even my own body is not normal here, I get sick easier, gain weight easier, get tired easier, sweat profusely, and last week, I crapped in my pants, probably due to some bad water or a thousand other things that can cause this minor malfunction.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned, that’s just it, I was warned so many times, that I’ve been so guarded against everyone, that I’ve made a lonely little world for myself. Its so messed up and I’m so tired and pissed and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to complain to peace corps admin because it’s a tactic similar to shooting yourself in the foot while your deep in the woods and still need to walk 12 miles to the main road. Admin likes to hear that things are going well. When they hear otherwise, you begin to be viewed as a lame horse, only slowing down progress and we all know what happens to a lame horse. So, preventing that, I am venting this onto paper. I am sitting and waiting until I can speak with a peer or someone I trust and get a clearer perspective on the situation. There is a kink in the chain today and its causing everything to run haywire. I feel it. Its making me tired. Its my own confusion and misunderstanding. Its my own illusions about things shattering to bits and my own little feet walking over the broken shards in order to leave the room.

I know why its called “development work” because it causes the people who sign up to develop whether they like it or not. My soul really does have stretch marks.

Later that same day, after the flood gates broke and I sat sobbing trying to type what I was feeling so that I could let some of it out, its pretty much just rambling but I was in a lot of pain…

I don’t understand how I got to this place. it seems as though I have turned bitter. I weep today for the innocent eyes I once saw people and the world through. Now, it seems as though I only see the negative parts. The angry, selfish, ego driven. Is this what I am run on? It makes me so sad to think that I am seeing a reflection of myself in all of these people and that what I am seeing is so ugly. I don’t understand how so much beauty could exist in the world and all I can see around me is the un-beautiful. Is this what lies inside of me? where did the love and care and true concern for others go? Where did I lose it along the way? How have I become so self-absorbed that I feel complete sadness through and through my entire being? I don’t feel as though an ounce of love or compassion could be squeezed from me. and I can blame no one except myself. It was my grand scheme of helping others that has placed me in this horrible place. my self righteous attempt to escape the misery that I watched others living day in and day out, thinking somehow that I had an answer that out witted the one they were using, but I seem to be the dumbest of them all, the idiot that didn’t know she was an idiot.

The hardest part of this part, the painful part, is that no one can take this away and crumple it up and throw it in the waste basket. No one can come along and hug me or wipe my tears and make it all better. This is the type of thing that you have to walk alone for some reason. No one can tell me which path I’m supposed to take and I’m so confused and alone in the dark, just sitting, waiting for the dawn that I know will come eventually. It doesn’t make the dark any less scary or its depth any more shallow. I’m here, sitting in my yellow cocoon typing this, hoping that the laptop doesn’t go off because I procrastinated on paying the electric bill and now they shut it off and I can’t get it back on for two days. Now I just sound like a pitiful piece of shit, but the truth is I’m just lost.

Oh Divine Soul that lives inside of me, please, I beg you to find me. be bigger than me. tell me what I am to do? Is this as good as it gets? Is this why I came here? just please help me today.

Where have I been selfish, self-seeking, dishonest and afraid?

I came to Ghana because I thought that I’d escape some sort of trap in America that everyone falls into. I thought this was my ticket out of that. I also wanted to push myself past what I thought I could handle, past all of the comforts I was used to. I even judged myself for wanting comfort and material possessions.

I thought it was better to choose this life over the one I was leading. I imagined I was following in the footsteps of the great people that had already given up everything and walked away to help others.

I also wanted to escape from the pressures of always having to look a certain way. Always having to be a certain person, I wanted to go away and find more of who I am.

My motives for wanting to do the cultural center were selfish because I thought people back home would really honor and value that, rather than if I just taught people how to wash their hands with soap.

I’m afraid of so many things here, especially what I think people are trying to get from me. I don’t even want Ghanaians coming into my house because I’m scared they will rob me. I never even locked my door in America, why and where did this come from? I want to have an open heart, but it seems so so closed off.

I’m even afraid of the peace corps and what they think of me. I’m always afraid of what people think. Why am I like this? I’m so miserable like this. I wish I didn’t care at all. I want to be free from it somehow. Just neutral, not for or against, just neutral. I saw how my friends are able to eat and drink and smoke in moderation when we were in Lisbon and I felt retarded somehow. Like I was born without the ability to stop. So I just have to deprive myself of these things. Then when I think about it sometimes, I feel lucky, because I’m forced to just go without, relying only on whatever is inside of me for strength and guidance and fulfillment because in the end, those things never really got me to the point I was looking for anyway.

I think that somewhere along the way, my ego took over and began calling the shots and I need it to go away. To be smashed. Into little pieces. For a long long time. I really miss AA and the 12 steps. These are the steps, right here, step 10. in real time.

I don’t want to leave here today. I don’t know why except that when I leave here, I don’t really know what I’d do next. So I want to stick it out longer I just don’t know exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.

Work in library

Plant moringa

Make doors

Relax

Work on the play

Relax

Breath

Sit

Be still

Know that I am God

I love you

Thank you

Amen

(so, I wrote this and then cried a little longer, then somehow, it all just got better. I was drained and empty and quiet and still. I talked with one of the student volunteers and she was so helpful and I just helped her all night to finish weaving her bamboo windows and everything just felt better… this too shall pass, I suppose)

“There is something unwholesome about such a concentration of sweetness. A promise, half fulfilled, of the forbidden. I try not to look, not to smell….

…And now? What do I believe right now? I believe that being happy is the only important thing. Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.”

-excerpt from Chocolat, by Joanne Harris (a truly divine little novel that has once again, taken me away)

A very brief account of a truly amazing experience…Lisbon!

My three loving friends brought me to Lisbon, to eden really. Monique, Keisha, and Marian treated me to the most delicious, breathtaking vacation I’ve ever known in my 28 years on Earth. We spent 10 days in an apartment in Alfama, the ancient part of this beautiful city, amidst native Portuguese sitting on their front stoops, music playing in the distance, grilled fish, and children running and laughing up and down the steps. Our days were long and our nights longer.

We ate, and ate and ate, food I’ve never known before. Food that dances in your mouth like a symphony of fresh peaches and figs, dried apricots, medleys of soft cheese and melted butter atop warm fresh baked bread, cod topped with melted cheese poured over soft creamy potatoes; food that I’ve actually dreamt about since leaving Lisbon, food that never ended.

And the music, the vistas, the sea, the museums filled with ancient art that I’d only ever read about in text books.

Then there was the dancing, Oh the dancing! We left Lux, the oh-so-ever-exclusive-hard–to-get-into night club, long after the sun rose one morning and then another, once as it was just breaking light over the water. The dancing and the energy of all those bodies, strangers, moving in a rhythm with us, was enormous, amazing.

Connecting with my friends was bittersweet. They get me. We get each other. Then I have to leave them, actually, two of them left first and I cried more than when I left for Ghana. Then Lisbon cried too, after 10 days of bright un-ending sunshine, rain fell on the city’s streets to match our mood and end our trip, as though no more fun should occur in the absence of two.

I spent the last night with Marian, we walked beneath a famous pavilion I’d studied and wrote about in school and only just remembered it was in Portugal that last night, so she took me there. It seemed smaller in real life, but no less grand. I stood beneath it, cold from the wind blowing in off the ocean, staring up at the concrete stretched between the two buildings, marveling at its spance, happy to just be.

Monique, Keisha, Marian… thank you, thank you, thank you… from my depth.

There is so much that happened to me while traveling, but now is not the time to write about it. I never force myself to write about anything and I need more time to digest it all, to let it stew within until it is ready to be served.

Here are a few photos until I can load the rest...

The return

I’ve returned to my cocoon with its warm yellow walls. I am growing here. Simply due to solitude, it seems. I create more here than any other place. But to write one must live and therefore, I need to leave sometimes because I’m growing too accustomed to this little town, nothing really surprises anymore. I didn’t know what to expect to feel returning to this country. It was refreshing to be in a place where people don’t expect anything from you. And disheartening to be in a country like Lisbon, where Americans are not so well liked. I can’t blame them, there is much I dislike about it and many I disagree with. But how do you convey that to someone you interact with momentarily, someone you purchase fruit from or simply pass in the street? Do I yell, Oh, sorry, I know what you think, but I promise I’m not like them, really I’m not. But then, I am to some degree.

So it is back to no privacy and smiling faces that greet me so warmly and are so happy to see me.

Back to my simple, slow life of inner reflection and change.

Thieving in Jirapa

So far, from the locked office I use, I’ve had a peace corps manual and an entire package of paper stolen, from people whom I know. This morning, someone actually tried to take the ink cartridge out of the printer I am using. An elder man, who I shooed out of the door and told him not to come back. A man who works here with me and should know better.

So, now I’m repeating my mantra for the day, through deep breaths and clenched teeth…

I am a Ripple in the Fabric of the Cosmos

I think its working, because I do find it all amusing, greedy bastards

Good evening for a haircut…

Most evenings I sit in my yellow living room with soft music, tea and whatever book I’m reading or making at the time. This evening, however, I cut all of my hair off. I’d been wanting to all day; all month really, Lisbon did it for me. Once I returned, I just wanted to be free of all that extra whatever I’ve been holding on to since leaving America. Afraid to totally lose myself and be forgotten by those at home, I wanted to somehow appear exactly as I left. But holding on to unnecessary things only causes exhaustion. So I cut it off, well, I asked someone to cut it off and I told her what I wanted and she looked at my hair and looked back at me and said no, that I was crazy. So I begged. I said its her or me but its getting cut and since she can see the back and I can’t, I feel she’ll do a bit better job than me. then, when she made the first cut of my long pony tail, she looked at me and said yes, this is you. Almost as though I’m leaving some part of me behind, some finished, dead part of me. I love it. Its above my shoulders and it feels so good. I just kept moving my head back and forth letting it run across my shoulders. Something is stirring, changing, and its good.

For those of you who prefer to scan the pictures rather than read the articles... this montage is for you.

(Note: the first two days are missing because Chad's camera was stolen, boo...)

After arriving, checking out Accra, seeing a dead man washed up on the beach and taking a 20 hour bus ride with 4 break downs, we finally arrive in Jirapa, exhausted and dirty, but happy to be home.

So, during our five day stay in my town, we:

did laundry

and walked to my favorite spot

and Chad found some bats sleeping in the trees at the hospital

we visited my teen mother group

and then, of course, there are the pigs that sleep beneath my window during the day

After leaving Jirapa, we went to Wachaiu to the Hippo Sanctuary

and took a river safari. On the way, our guide stopped to greet the family of our boat captain and they offered Chad some tea. (Only Chad was offered the tea, since he was the only male traveling in our group)

These cuties wooed Chad with their homemade instrument

The river was beautiful

Chad got to ride in the front

then the rain set in, so we took cover beneath the trees on the bank, which happened to be in Burkina Faso

but then the rain stopped and in the distance, we saw eight hippos playing in the water (they told us it was eight, honestly, i didn't have my glasses and i could only see grey and pink blotches moving around, but it was still pretty surreal)

on the way back, Chad and the guides stopped and picked a few oysters for us to try

The rain left a sunset with nothing to be desired

That night, Chad and I sat around the coal pot talking, something I deeply enjoyed, then we sat on the roof of the lodge and watched a massive storm roll in...

The next day we made our way to Cape Coast, this is how you eat an orange on the move...

after walking in an uphill circle, carrying heavy bags we finally find a hotel room, only feet from where we began...

with an exceptional view

At dusk, he showed me the magnitude of standing on the beach during sunset. At the moment where day becomes night and water meets land. Its a powerful place to be. The body can seem so small amidst this transition. Small yet amazing.

to be continued...

Before coming to Ghana, there were certain images I held in my imagination about Africa and about my future experience here. Upon arrival, most, if not all were destroyed. I imagined a two year camping trip where I’d be surrounded by indigenous people and traditions, limited access to power and water, and cell phones would be a distant memory. I also imagined impoverished people eking out a living in a mostly undeveloped world.

I arrived in Accra to complete insanity, cars and buses, lights flashing, a two hour mad dash trailing behind police escorts, hurrying us out of the city. My jet lag mixed with shock and surprise left me confused and exhausted. Fast forward 8 months. I live in a town with electricity, where most of the people my age have trendier clothing and gadgets than myself.

I find that I continually expect nonsensical things to occur, always followed by constant disappointment.

For example: I expected people to be stuck in the middle ages, but I find myself angry when they behave uncivilized. I longed to be away from the hustle and bustle, while I secretly yearn for modern conveniences, high heels, and hot showers. I hate the smog and pollution cast off by automobiles but I ride in taxis in Accra as often as I can. I’m saddened to see electronics becoming the most sought after product in the country, even in the Upper West, the poorest region, yet I covet my laptop, camera, cell phone and mp3s. Why is it that I think these people should be grateful for what they have and preserve the ancient traditional methods of life, when I really believe that its better where I live? (not completely better, just the comfort and convenience of it all)

The development here is occurring so rapidly in regards to consumerism, yet its at a snails pace for clean water, toilets and gender equality. I suppose to anyone who’s traveled in the developing world, this is all old news and my realizations are somewhat immature, I just keep astonishing myself with each unrealistic expectation of a place I’ve never even lived before!

And these, Madame, the ancient voice echoed as the man standing in front of me stepped aside and waved his hand toward the aisle, are all story books. I looked up at the dust filled shelves filled with old books, my eyes darted from spine to spine and my whole being filled with joy. The same joy I imagine Edmond Dantes felt when Abbe Faria stumbled upon his cell accidentally in the Count of Monte Cristo.

This morning, I stumbled upon a library. A library filled with dusty books that I’ve always wanted to read. As I investigated the shelves, I wondered if this man really knew the treasure that lie in this dark old building. Where had all these books come from? Shipped here as donation I suspect. So much to choose from, but how will I ever sort through them all, nothing is in order, then, aha! An idea. I will take on this project. I begin to imagine clean orderly shelves, alphabetical order, nicely painted signs, children’s stories read once a week to local students. Yes, I think so, but not today. First, I must win this man’s trust before I barge into his sacred library and suggest making changes, no, not the white lady. But soon enough.

Books I borrowed:

The Catcher and the Rye

Jonathon Livingston Seagull (one of my all time favorites)

A Room with a View

I’m so excited.

My work…

I’ve rarely written about my work here, for several reasons. From the time I wake until I go to sleep, I am thinking about my work. Work that isn’t happening, work that I want to happen, work that I feel like should be happening. I worry that I’m not doing enough, thanks to my American standards of justifiable “relaxation time” I often push myself to extreme limits, then I worry I am doing too much and missing the experience I came here for. Over analyzing aside, this blog, my sketch book and my photographs are the rare moments I don’t focus on work. However, today I need to describe these new endeavors and how they’ve come about. I’m awed by it all and I know I am one of the fortunate ones who actually has work to keep me busy. Work that I’m growing passionate about.

Culture, art and all that jazz…

Well, my hopes of preserving traditional african art have taken on a life of their own. One day, I simply mentioned a desire to save the dying arts here in the upper west region and the next day, I was being introduced to an artist called Young Peter. Far from young, Mr. Young Peter has been successful at Cultural Preservation in other regions in Ghana and is sort of an expert, if you will, on this sort of thing. He happens to have recently returned home to Jirapa to retire and I happen to be a very lucky girl that he did.

At our first meeting, I sat nervously in his front yard as he explained the work he’s done and the places he’s traveled, proving himself to me, the white lady. At our second meeting, where he assembled an exhibit, for me to view, of the locally crafted products along with his own work, we sat in wicker chairs, in silence, something I’m slowly becoming accustomed to. Finally, something occurred to me. I turned to him and told him that I believed that when one person’s heart has a specific vision, it calls the others who share the same vision, and eventually, the momentum they create unites them into one place. A serious look came over his face and he looked at me, but then he looked deeper into my face, like he realized we do speak the same language. He nodded and his face bent into a smile covering the majority of the lower portion of his head. I knew he knew and that was all I needed.

Now, working with an elder means that I must be “proper” as he’s so used to saying. He calls me early in the morning, when I’m not used to anyone interrupting my silent, breakfast ritual, Erica, he says, Good morning. Can we meet?

Yes, Mr. Young Peter, of course we can, When?

Oh, maybe in half an hour, he says, testing me.

Ok, I’ll be there.

Oh, Erica, we must first meet the man at his work before we meet him at his house, because you know it is the proper way, he says, looking at me, waiting for a response, a grimace or rebuttal. I just smile.

Oh, you see, we must, we must, we must, because, you see it is the proper way.

When he drags me all over town in the middle of the day when no one is even awake due to the terrible heat, the sun beating down on my arms, chasing after a man that supposedly has a color printer, and the sweat is dripping down my bright red face, he turns over his shoulder and hollers that in Africa, when we work, sometimes it means that we give all of our time. I shout back that I’m happy to be here and pedal faster to keep up with him.

I can’t figure his age, but he surely isn’t slowing down any. His wife looks like an Africa queen, high cheek bones, silky smooth skin, glowing eyes and radiant smile. He’s 100% aware of her beauty and so proud to be married to her. He talks about her, shows pictures of her and takes me to meet her as often as I’ll go. I suppose the artist’s eye he possesses misses little, as opposed to other Ghanaian men, who seem to over look beauty for status most of the time.

So, we’re going to actually do it, I think, at least. We have a collective vision: to bring the artists from the village, give them a central place to produce their art and a museum space to exhibit it, sell it, create exposure. It’s a project that will sustain itself and he will, in the end, manage it after I’m long gone. I can’t believe its actually happening.

One interesting situation that occurred, making me aware of the difference in gender roles is that he expects me to be available during times when I’m either cooking or fetching water, which actually means filling the water barrel between 6 and 7 am, both tasks that he does not do because he is a man and his daughter tends to these jobs. He simply wakes, and sits and food is served to him in his chair, as is the scenario for all men across this country. Neither does he fuss over house cleaning, laundry, or buying food. In fact, most men have never once considered doing these tasks, why would they, these are jobs for women. Interesting enough, women are not exempt from men’s tasks, such as farming and trading. In this area, it is common that men don’t do much and women are picking up their slack everywhere. I’m not sure what I make of it all, but I do know that I’m grateful I’m not a Ghanaian woman. The interesting thing is that I somehow get to experience both gender roles while living here.

Another issue, while on the topic, is the harassment that is thrown at me that I often ignore, yet at times I’ve certainly had the urge to deck a few young men. They sit around doing nothing all day either because they’re no jobs to be found or they have no reason to look for one because whether they work or not, there’s still a woman to cook, clean and fetch water for them, be that mom, sister or wife. It isn’t so much that they holler, but that they believe they are entitled to me because I am a woman. I was warned that I’d get marriage proposals and I have, mostly from elder Muslim men seriously wanting to add an additional wife to their family, or elder men who are joking and I joke right back in their language, which always produces laughs, but what these young men bark out is entirely different, a statement that makes my blood boil. White lady, come, I want you. Maybe it’s the lack of vocabulary in Dagaare and the generally aggressive nature of the language, both vocally and bodily, but it makes my skin crawl and I often want to go straight home and lock the door. There they sit, through out the town, slouched back, leaning against a building or a tree or a truck, several sitting in a row, always in a group, just waiting for something to happen and then I ride by, BAM, target, Hey White lady, come, I want you. Laughter erupts, my dignity evaporates. On a few occasions, I’ve slammed on the brakes to my bike, screeching to a halt and turned and yelled not to ever say that to me again, then I just began ignoring it, but today, while riding with Mr. Young Peter, I felt horrible as these young men screamed these remarks. Being belittled as a woman, being disempowered, in front of my colleague was a new experience, one that has left much to be desired tonight.

Xylophone man…

Last night, Young Peter called me and informed me of important business early this morning. He said he’d secured an opportunity for me that he thought I’d enjoy. Of course, he wouldn’t speak of it unless we were in person because it wouldn’t be proper, so I agreed and showed up at 7. He explained that an important Cardinal in the Church had died and the oldest xylophone player would be playing at the funeral. He’d requested permission for me to photograph it if I wanted. He also pulled out an old tape recorder and asked if I could make it work. I told him it needed batteries and a blank tape. Of course, he asked me to find those for him.

So, at one o’clock, we took a long bike ride to a very large funeral. He asked me to sit and wait for his signal, while he greeted all the elders and secured their consent, again. He waved me over and I pulled out the camera, which of course caused a disruption, though I tried to be as discreet as possible. My skin color alone attracts all eyes, a camera just adds fuel to the fire. I watched this man play his instrument, old bells wrapped around his wrists, old voice singing an old song. It reminded me of the way I felt listening to my friend Walter Two Feathers sing songs in his native tongue behind the flute and drum. Walter passed away since I’ve come to Ghana, and today was a little tribute to him in my own way.

The xylophone sounds like those bamboo wind chimes, only much louder and faster. Its hollow, in a rich sort of way, like someone calling into a cave, the emptiness creating its own space. Four men sang in addition to the old man, their old songs piercing the air, voices moving up and down, the intensity of the xylophone increasing as momentum built between the musicians.

“A new lens passed over everything she saw, the shadows moved on the wall like skeletons handing things to each other. Her body was flung back over a thousand beds in a thousands other rooms. She was undergoing a revolution, she felt split open. In her mattress there beat the feather of a wild bird.” -Excerpt from Evening by Susan Minot

From my journal:

I want to crawl into the book I just finished and have its pages and words wrap themselves around me and allow me to dissolve into nothing. Evening by Susan Minot. It was so beautiful, my heartbeat is pounding in my chest. It was vivid and real and depicted the end of a long intrepid journey that I felt I actually experienced.

I see it so clearly now, one must abandon fear to find passion. I am the embodiment of sensuality. To see, touch, taste, hear and smell, that is why I exist in this body, that is the point.

Easter…

From my notebook on the bus:

I don’t know the date, I’ve been traveling for the holiday. My adventure this time has brought me into so many new experiences. I’ve seen more of this country and seen many new faces. I’ve missed buses, danced in the moonlight, glided in the air over the forest next to a mountain that I ran right off of, and now, I find myself riding on a cramped bus, heading North again. We’ve just stopped in a small town to buy food for lunch. I am alone on the bus, watching people and animals and carts pass by. At the door to my right, is a blind man with a voice of gold and a tambourine, singing a sweet, sweet song that almost makes me cry through my delirium. Now we’re off again and the paved road has slipped away and its too bumpy to write…

Life is flying…

After my mom mentioned a paragliding festival here in Ghana, I decide there is no way I can pass up the experience. I settle on the notion that I may have to make the three-day trip alone, but am happily surprised to find three amazing women who are already planning to go. Mandy, Terri, Caitlyn and I set out for Nkawkaw on little sleep since we stayed up the night before laughing hysterically at stories about our lives prior to meeting.

I sit in quiet excitement mingled with bits of fear while our taxi zigzags up the mountain. We reach the top just in time to catch the end of the opening ceremonies. I sit in the grass, looking down the slope ending in a cliff and beyond to the town below. The pilots are gearing up and I walk over, following my friends, anticipation building. When I’m nervous, I become silent, serious, lost in my own thoughts of preparation. My fear of heights is building and my attempt to destroy those feelings at their start is taking all of the energy I possess this morning. I remind myself that I want to live without regret and that no amount of fear will ever again prevent me from experiencing my heart’s desires.

We line up and pair up with pilots, mine is a nice guy from California, a base jumper who travels the globe jumping from various moving and fixed heights. The pilots’ origins range from America, South Africa, Germany, The Netherlands, Canada, and beyond. He explains the process and the gear and straps a helmet on my head with his own video camera attached to the top. While standing in the cue, waiting our turn, I decide that all fear has ceased from within me and I can do this.

Its our turn, he walks out to the running strip, and begins laying out our chute. I stand, facing the edge, breathing in the view while he hooks me up to the gear. Run, hang, sit, run, hang, sit his directions flow through my mind. He says go, I run with all my might, I’m running, running, running…uuuuhhhh…the wind picks us up and my legs are still running in the air, I drop to hang and wait, my heart is rushing, racing. You can sit now, he says, so I lean back and pick up my legs.

I’m sitting comfortably, hanging over the forest, the wind rushing by me, around my neck, my ears, pushing through my breath, I’m drinking the air into my lungs. It’s so fresh, the air at this height, free from everything, enriched only by the trees and plants growing on the mountain’s edge. He tells me were turning left, and to look over my shoulder. I realize this prevents passengers from becoming sick in the air, always look in the direction you’re turning toward. We turn and I’m facing the cliff, the mountain, we’re higher than where we were standing minutes before. I feel exhilarated. We turn again, I’m looking out and I see a hawk soaring, even with me, yards away. I’m in communion with the enormous bird. We are one momentarily, and then she flies away, soaring to somewhere else. This experience lasts nearly thirty minutes yet ends in the blink of my eyes. Suddenly, we’re heading for the field, faster, faster, wait, he didn’t tell me what to do when we land. I pick up my feet, like I’ve seen on TV, not the right move, so basically, he lands for both of us. We hit the ground, I land on my knees, he falls on top of me, I’m laughing, he’s worried I’m hurt. I’m not. (Well, perhaps my pride, but only a little.)

My Birthday

This weekend, my friend Janet insisted on coming to visit for my birthday. I traveled to Wa to meet her and while we were sitting there drinking tea, three other volunteers walked up to surprise me. They each traveled a long way and I just stood there stunned. The five of us hugged and talked and shared the experience of our first three months at site. Then we got a hotel room and spent the evening sitting on the roof talking. They brought me earrings and cookies and cashews and a beautiful weaved bag from the cultural center. It was wonderful and touching and I still feel like I imagined it. Three of them had to leave the next day but Janet got to come up to Jirapa for a few days. It was wonderful and more than I ever thought would happen. I wasn’t even concerned with celebrating it at all.

My actual birthday, is March 11, which was Tuesday. I was born on Tuesday, which in Ghana means I am called Abina, (Tuesday born). So, I have completed some sort of cycle I imagine, 7 complete four year cycles, seems important, but maybe its not. I’m 28 and it feels as though I only just became an adult. Life moves by so fast.

On my birthday, I said goodbye to Janet and saw her off on her journey home. I went to the office and added some info into the database we are creating then I went home for lunch. In the afternoon, I went to meet a beekeeper, who showed me how to build bee hives. We set out on our bikes and he took me to various spots in the bush where he has his hives set up. Later this week, I’m going to help him set out more hives. Its really a simple process. He told me about his plans to plant cashew trees near his hives because its nectar makes the best honey. At various points throughout the day, I spoke to Chad, my sister, my mom, and my friends Liz and Adria, all surprises which I relished. Later that evening, I was called upon to meet an artist. He is an amazing elder man who has been traveling the world showing his art and teaching art and he has finally returned home and he lives just behind my house. Friday, he is setting up all of the art for me to view. We want to work together to build the cultural center here so that the traditional crafts are preserved. Again, this just came about with out me doing anything. Someone just showed up at my house and told me to come to a spot at 6 pm to meet a man, I didn’t know who or why, I just went. I am amazed still at the preciousness of the map of life that exists before us. Before leaving the artist’s home, he commented on the smell of rain in the air and I told him that I thought it wasn’t supposed to rain for another 6 weeks. He said that it had already rained somewhere near there, that he could smell it, the rain is coming.

Returning home, I met my friend Sandra and while talking, off in the distance I saw lightning strike. She asked me if I could smell rain in the air, she said she could smell that it had rained somewhere earlier, just as the man mentioned.

Rainstorm

Last night I dreamt that I was sitting beneath a tree, the tree that sits at the top of my favorite spot. While leaning against his trunk, the tree whispered to me that it needed rain. It told me it was losing hope and it was beginning to die. Upon hearing this plea, my heart whispered back the greatest prayer it ever uttered, a prayer for the tree to live, for it loved the tree deeply. Watching this act of unconditional love, the sky was so touched that it began to cry, weeping giant tears of joy. The tears fell to the earth, covering the tree and its leaves, covering me and the rocks, then they ran onto the dry cracked earth and fell into those cracks, nourishing all it touched. I raised my face to the sky and wept with thanks. My tears blended with the sky’s tears and both washed deep into the earth.

I woke in the night to a crashing rainstorm, nearly two months ahead of schedule. Rainy season doesn’t begin until May. The power was off and the sky was so dark, I couldn’t see my hand in front of me. In my shock that it was actually raining, I walked outside and reached my hand out to touch it. The air felt and tasted clean. I stood there breathing it all in, then I walked back to bed and laid there listening to the soothing sound of the earth being fed with love.

This morning, I woke and showered in the courtyard, washing my hair in the rain. Close your eyes and imagine this feeling. The water was soft and slightly cool, causing my skin to form little bumps and my sleepy muscles to slightly contract. It ran over my arms and shoulders down the length of my legs and over my feet. It washed my shampoo out of the courtyard in little streams, running beneath the gate door. I wrapped up in my giant warm towel and now I am clean and warm sitting at my desk. This is one of my favorite days in Ghana.

From my journal “…I have come to the site. My favorite place. I can hear drumming far away. I can hear the rhythmic chopping of a tree for firewood for dinner. Faster, there is a soft chirping from the tree above me. The wind blows a bunch of dried leaves below me. A fly buzzes. Now a baby shouts out. The drumming increases intensity. Nature is performing a symphony and I am its audience. I am its witness. Two ears, one heart, atop these rocks, hidden from site, absorbing everything.

Now, the crunching of rocks beneath a bicycle. The sun is setting and the music is getting louder. The insects have joined in. I imagine they are percussion, though I don’t really know for sure if that fits.

The wind blows and it looks as though all of the trees and leaves are lightly dancing, swaying to this symphony. I am happy to be here.”

I have undergone a profound change over the past few weeks. I can trace its origin to my travel to Bole, a small town four hours south of here. I visited Janet, a PCV, who is almost 60 and quite amazing. She simply has an attitude of nothing being impossible and if you don’t like it, change it. I spend two days with her, amidst the running water, outdoor shower and new latrine, all built by her own hand and left with quite a lot to think about. Thus the metamorphosis began.

Upon return home, and finding I’d left my mobile phone in Bole, I spent a week setting right those things I’d been whining and wallowing in self pity over. (And a week with no communication by phone.) First, I needed to confront the children who chase and attempt to pull down my bicycle while I’m riding, a truly traumatic occurrence that had taken place more than once. The next time I encountered them, I stopped and stood before these miniature criminals and in the loudest voice I have, told them not to ever touch my bicycle again. They stared at me, and then began to giggle, which made me feel a bit hopeless, though I did not show this. I stared at them, and as solemnly as I could said, I AM GOING TO YOU MOTHER. They stopped mid giggle and stared back, with that, I turned, mounted my bicycle, and peacefully rode away, not to encounter them again.

Next stop, the teen mothers who refuse to work and continue to get pregnant and drink home brewed beer all day with the baby strapped to their back. I stood before them, shaking (inside), with my voice a bit wobbly, though I don’t think they noticed, and I explained that I did not come to Ghana to carry the whole bunch of them up the mountain side. They need to actually walk up it and that I am not willing to work for them if they are unwilling to work themselves. Their complaint about not making soap or tie and dye because they do not have the capital to start, was met with a suggestion that they walk into the bush, chop down some fire wood, bring it to town and sell it, thus providing them with the capital to begin their endeavor. I gave them one week to get a job. The following week, they were all doing something to make money. Now I’ve asked them to spend one week keeping track of what they make and what they spend, this should be interesting.

Third stop, the ominous bakery group, which had spent all of their money, had no way of showing me where, and wanted more. (They actually spent over $10,000 on this project and the community never contributed the 25% they committed to.) After several sleepless moments, wondering what I could do, not wanting to consult the peace corps until all options were considered, the answer dawned on me. I went to them and simply said, I can not get you any more money. The community must contribute, so I suggest taking out a loan. You know, when you don’t lay down like an idiot to be walked, you don’t get walked on, but I so often forget this and just immediately think that every problem is my problem. They spent the money incorrectly, not me, why was I losing sleep over it? So they asked me to gather information about loans for them, amazing! So I’ve arranged for a guest speaker to explain micro-financing to the group in two weeks. Wow, so simple when I stop trying to fix everything myself.

The last thing, the smallest thing, the most uncomfortable thing, is everyone calling me white lady. Well, they call me Nansa Pog, which means white lady and they say it in this sassy tone and when I hear it, I am immediately on the defensive and I’m often rude to the person with whom I’m speaking. Right off the bat, I just want to slug them, but I’ve been taking deep breaths, reminding myself that it’s a cultural difference and grinning and bearing it to the best of my ability. Well, after this empowering week of triumph, I began to softly, simply say, Please, I am not called white lady, I am called Erica. Well, let me tell you, this changes everything. Immediately I am one of them, speaking to them in their language, allowing them to know me, and then they tell me their name and then we’re acquaintances and not strangers and its just been beautiful, with children and adults. I’ve also been taking the time to explain that in my culture, its impolite and offensive to call someone according to the color their skin. This has been so interesting, they all just stand there really thinking about this and then I see the light bulb click on and they turn to me with an understand nod and smile. Its been truly amazing.

So, to further describe the hurdle I’ve jumped, this morning, as I sat at the tea stand with my morning friends, two young white men (ha ha) walked by and we all looked at each other and someone turned to me and said that it seems that there are strangers in our town this morning. I said yes, it seems so and I realized that I was one of them, no longer a stranger, even though I’m white. I can’t describe in words what this felt like. Maybe the words don’t exist, but a feeling peacefully and slowly, coursed through my body and I felt at home in my own skin, sitting on that bench, in Jirapa.

Passion redesigned…

A few weeks ago, I finished the book, The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. An amazing story about an architect with a vision that was suggested reading long ago, and I’ve just now been meant to read. So, I read this story and as I tend to do, fell in love with every moment, idea and character. I pondered the importance of this story in my life at this very moment and the inspiration it provided. I sat for a long time at my spot in the bush and I thought about everything I’ve learned so far.

In the end, I decided that I want to finish what I began and get my master’s degree in architecture. I knew at that very moment, sitting atop that rock, listening the sounds of all that was around me, hidden from view of the few passersby, exactly what my thesis is going to be. It didn’t take much thought or any debate. The idea was born as though it had always existed within me, only until now, it had been covered with an opaque sheet and that sheet had slipped off and fallen to the floor of my mind, revealing a simple and beautiful vision. I am to design a temple for the African Traditionalist. I know the site and sit at it as often as I can, documenting the land and rocks and trees with photographs and drawings. I note the path of the sun and direction of the wind. The sounds one can hear, the smell of the harmattan blowing in from the north. A building, taken from the same rock that it sits on, no sign, no marquee, no promotion. A place that when the elder, walking through the bush, comes upon it, will instinctively know that it has been placed there for him to practice his sacred ceremony. He will not even wonder why or how, he will only be called to enter. This is what I am to design. It’s as much a part of me and this journey as my work here. After making the decision to return to school, I was asked by three people for designs for buildings here. I sat with this, simply knowing and understanding that when you set foot on the path that you are meant to, that foot step resonates with the entire universe and the path opens up effortlessly. Paulo Coehlo describes it as a personal legend that the whole universe conspires to make happen.

So, the designs requested are a Hotel/ Conference center/ Restaurant in Wa, an addition to an International School in Jirapa, and a Cultural Center/ Arts School in Bole. Following this, I was asked to design an Arts Center in Jirapa and a residence. Needless to say, I have been busy, and loving every second of it. These are buildings that will be built while I am here, hopefully, and I could not have made any of this happen, I’ve simply just existed here and allowed life to happen, trying my hardest not to allow fear to speak for me, since its answer is always NO.

Where I felt as though two years seemed like forever, I now wonder if it will be enough time to accomplish all of these tasks. The weeks have been flying by and I’m fulfilled in a way I haven’t felt since leaving my precious community.

More adventures from my kitchen…

Well, let me just say, I am living in the upper west, the land of milk and honey, sort of… When I went to Bole, I discovered cashews and yogurt. Cashews are grown and processed locally, so a large bag sells for 2 bucks, hooray! The yogurt is delicious and after eating yogurt with fresh mango and cashews, I had to find a way to make this at home. I had been given yogurt starter, but its also possible to make yogurt from yogurt. So, I set out to attempt this, at first thinking I’d have to have milk sent form Bole, but as luck would have it, I found the Fulani women selling it in Jirapa!

Now, its not labor intensive, but it is a bit tricky. My kitchen began to look like a lab, mid experiment, with thermometers and jars filled with various levels of white stuff. I’ve made real butter, buttermilk and sour cream. Only the sour cream was unintentional. I’ve also made yogurt, twice and its amazing. The funny thing is that in America, I rarely ate dairy since I felt uncomfortable with the dairy industry and the synthetic hormones and antibiotics injected into the cows, finding there way into my body, making me unhealthy. These cows have never seen an antibiotic, much less synthetic hormones. They are herded by the nomadic, eerily beautiful Fulani people, who wander the land across West Africa, carrying all their possessions and selling milk for money. They will pasteurize it for you, but I buy it straight from the cow and pasteurize it myself, that way, I can make butter. Next endeavor, Ricotta cheese!

“Alcoholism”…

The other day, I attended a presentation about HIV and someone asked how we can get people to use condoms if everyone is always drunk. The room erupted into laughter and the presenter simply said, you are right, ALCOHOLISM is a huge problem in the Upper West. I almost fell off my chair. I couldn’t believe they actually had heard the word, much less knew it as a disease.

I sat with this info for a couple of days, let the fear pass and went to speak to that man. All I told him was that I had experience working with alcoholics and I’d like to be available to anyone wanting to stop that can’t. (I decided not to mention my own recovery since that would be pretty stupid in this tiny town, I’ll cross that bridge when I’m presented with the dying man.) He was excited and has so many questions, he’d been trying to research it on the internet. He directed me to the hospital Public Health department where I found a very friendly man who scheduled a meeting me for me with the Hospital Director so that we can decide what can be done. I left there with eyes filled with tears and I’m crying as I type this. Words can’t explain how easily helping alcoholics is for me and how fulfilling. It’s a message I can’t screw up because I lived it, its part of me. Its like saying my name, or shaking someone’s hand, its that natural. I’ve been given the most beautiful life as a result of sobriety and I didn’t even want to be alive before I got sober. After moving to the upper west, I let go of any hope of doing anything with alcoholics. I wasn’t even interested in attempting because I didn’t think these people were ready for something like that (there I go again underestimating everyone) and so I just accepted that I wouldn’t be doing that sort of thing.

Even if all I do is hold the hand of someone caught between life and death, scared to live without alcohol and let them know that I have known that pain too and that they aren’t alone, because ultimately, you feel like the only person who’s ever experienced anything of the sort, I would be so grateful. I suspect there will be more than only that, but I don’t know what and I’m open to anything.

Prior to coming to Ghana, I was propelled forward by certain mental images and physical emotions, both carrying great weight. One was the overwhelming urge to break from the society I was a part of and seek refuge within myself and within the isolation of strangers, wanting to be unrecognizable. Another, often held in great detail in my mind, was the image strongly connected to my spirit, of being free to move about within a natural environment, allowing the movement of my body and my breath not to be confined by any lifestyle, but to just be, surrounded mostly by the natural environment. And yet another, an image connected to and driven forth by my ego, was the image of myself as a humanitarian, bringing help to those less fortunate and therefore, in need.

I sit here tonight, forced out of bed by an overwhelming desire to relinquish this realization from my thoughts. I have seen all of which I just described become reality and through this experience, I know the truth. My ego is deflated once again. I am no wiser, no greater, no more prepared than the people I have intended to help. It is hugely unfair to degrade them by assuming they need my help. My position here is simple; I am to exist among them. I realize that to bring an attitude of teacher-student, undermines the greatness that exists in each human being. In my attempts to help people, I have often missed the greatest lesson, they were never really in need of anything from me because they already possessed the answers, just as I have always possessed the answers I needed.

I see my life so differently at this moment. I am at total peace with my position here. I am simply just meant to exist here for an allotted time. Those whom encounter will teach me with out pretense; I wish to do the same. I am detached from the outcome. I am just content to exist here and be in the moment, present of each gust of wind, each explosion of laughter, each barking dog, and even, the buzz of the mosquito in my ear, searching for a place to land.

As clearly as I can remember, I have always been preoccupied with love. Being the most honest I can be, not a day has ended, since my early teens, where I have not wondered about the man I was, hopefully, destined to meet.

I have been fortunate to love deeply in the 27 years I’ve lived. I have no regrets and possess fond and passionate memories of each relationship I’ve taken part in. I’ve also been fortunate enough to know great heartache, something I believe to be a necessity at least once in life, and I have also been the cause of great heartache. Both experiences have taught me compassion.

When I came to Ghana, I craved solitude. My entire being yearned for companionship with myself. I wanted to get lost. I wanted to be alone, and so it was.

Once I was removed from everything familiar, the world became bigger and smaller. My priorities simplified. Clarity arrived and has many times over.

I found myself in love with a man that had been a great friend to me. Almost like another part of me that I didn’t know was separate, but then there it was, sitting across from me at the laundry mat, telling a story that I felt as though I’d lived, only I hadn’t. I sat with these feelings not sure if I would ever mention them, feeling I had nothing to offer him from so far away. But, as life would have it, the opportunity appeared and I opened the door.

He was on the other side, already loving me as well. The beautiful friendship that we already shared so comfortably, had become a deeper love of the purest nature.

On December 22, the winter solstice, he called me, here, and asked me to marry him. It was the easiest question I’ve had to answer. I already knew and hoped that I would one day share my life with him, I just didn’t realize that he knew it as well. I’ve not ever respected a man as much as I do him. He encompasses a spirit full of love and integrity and I am a lucky woman. He respects me as much as I longed to be respected, deep within my soul. He is devoted to his own journey and his own growth, just as I am to my own. We are both deeply respectful of each other and the path that has now joined between us, moving parallel through life, an arm’s length apart.

I have been blessed with a wonderful family and now he has joined that family. He’s also been blessed with a wonderful family that has drawn me in with warmth and love. This union is just another account of the beauty within us.

I couldn’t think of a better time to share this story.

I love you Chad, Happy Valentine’s Day.

Evening walk

Is there any doubt why I walk at sunset? This is a glimpse of what I see. It calls me, each day around 5pm. Today, I walked for two hours. I just kept going, eventually ending up in the middle of a mango field, with tall dried grass that I ran my finger tips through as I walked. Soft, it felt soft and smooth and light. The sunset seems foggy because the sky is filled with dust from the winds blowing in. On the days that the wind blows hard all day, rattling the windows, I know the next day will be pretty chilly.

I’ve been tracking the moon each night. Tonight it will rise late, around midnight. Now, I realize, between the full and new moon, the moon rises about an hour later each night.

Today has been simple, quiet, peaceful. I wish this for everyone, everywhere, my simple prayer, springing forth from my chest. I hope it reaches you.

Priceless

Sheet of roofing metal = $5.50

Dismantled bamboo chair = free (I owned it)

Hair rubber bands used to hold it all together = .99 for 100

Getting my socks white again without bloody knuckles = priceless

This is my newly constructed washing board. I can’t express in words what this has done for my life. I used to dread laundry, and my socks never really got clean and my blue jeans really never got clean. It only took about two hours to make. I wasn’t sure how I was going to use the bamboo, but it turns out that while I had the chair upside down, taking it apart, I sat up and thought, hey, this works, I can do laundry like this. So, I sit on the back and lean forward, run my soapy wet clothes along the zinc and my knuckles aren’t scrubbed to death and cut up anymore. After I washed the first sock, I just sat there, holding in it my hands, staring down at how white it had become. I was really stunned. I’m so glad for my Cajun roots, otherwise, I don’t know if I’d have thought this up. Life is goooood.

Is there anything better than…

Over-ripe plantains, lightly brushed with olive oil, and sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg, cooked to a wonderful, warm, golden brown, topped with cold, fresh papaya and a tomato, cucumber, avocado salad on the side? Hmmm, I can’t think of anything at the moment. Trust me, it was delicious.

I think I might have a plan

1/24/08 Sunday night, I sat in this house, again feeling frustrated and confused about being here. I sat here and prayed from the deepest part of me, begging to be shown what it is I am really doing here and how is it that I’m supposed to help. (I’ve been approached for money several times recently by people I thought we genuinely interested in my friendship and its weighing heavy on my chest, increasing the loneliness and isolation to an unimaginable degree). I set out Monday with a positive attitude and an open mind, hoping to see some area where I can be usefull.

When I get to work, the Director of the Environment Dept. asked me to come to his office because he felt like he could use my help. He showed me a project that involves traveling to each outlying village and documenting every water source and every important environmental factor that affects these waters sources. He also explained that from this data, we can create a map of the district, which they do not have.

Well, wouldn’t you know, just last week, some IT guy told me he downloaded a few new programs on the computer at the office and when I looked at them, one of them just happens to be Auto Cad. What are the chances that I’d have access to Auto Cad in Ghana, much less in the impoverished Upper West? I guess pretty good, considering. So, I told him I’d be so happy to help him. I walked around in a daze just sort of digesting it all, so many thoughts crossing my mind, like, little puzzle pieces falling into place effortlessly. I began to think about my job with the engineering firm, where I created maps in Auto Cad and how it was preparation for this experience and how amazing that this man asked for my help, not having any idea that I have experience with any of it.

I noticed today how fast January has gone by and I feel like maybe I am really still getting used to everything. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been gone forever and other times I’m shocked that its almost been 5 months. Still trying to focus on each day as it comes.

Is there anything better than…

Over-ripe plantains, lightly brushed with olive oil, and sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg while cooking to a wonderful, warm, golden brown. Topped with cold, fresh papaya with a tomato, cucumber and avocado salad on the side? Hmmm, I can’t think of anything at the moment. Trust me, it was delicious.

Tell Tale Signs

Sunshine is the laughter of nature. Live out in the sunshine. The sun and air are good medicine. Nature is a good nurse for tired bodies. Let her have her way with you. God's grace is like the sunshine. Let your whole being be enwrapped in the Divine spirit. Faith is the soul's breathing in of the Divine spirit. It makes glad the hearts of human beings. The Divine spirit heals and cures the mind. Let it have its way and all will be well.

-God Calling, August 17

I’ve experienced a bulging sadness vibrating through me for two days. It doesn’t feel like I’m sad, but if I pay attention to the signs my body is giving me, then I must see that my swollen, sore lymphnodes are telling me just that. And honestly, its true, I do have a bit of ache in my chest this week for home. Anytime I connect to home via phone, email, or packages, I get really sad. Especially when its measured against the loneliness that I experience here. I want to clarify, I do not labels these emotions as negative, they simply just are a part of life. I can’t be blissful each and every moment. This part of my experience is simply just that, part of my experience.

Its amazing what I’ve learned about myself emotionally by being aware of my body. I may have written about this before, but its worth mentioning again. A few weeks after arriving, I got burned really bad. In one week, I had the worst sunburn ever and I burned my mouth pretty badly on my breakfast, causing my palette to blister. When I asked myself what was going on with me emotionally, I saw that I was really feeling burned by someone’s abrasive, sarcastic comments. Another experience like this occurred not long after; I had a tormenting blister and in the same week, my under arms chaffed. I asked myself if someone was possibly rubbing me the wrong way and yes, there was a person I’d been butting heads with everyday in class. Its amazing to me. I can even look deeper into at the fact that when I’m not so sensitive, these same conditions don’t affect me, so it all begins with me. Likewise, the answer lies with in me; the sooner I come to peace with the person I’m in conflict with, the sooner my body heals. Usually, this means resting and taking time to soothe my inner conflict. I must slow down for each part of me, physical and emotional to heal. Once, I became aware of this, I feel thankful for these little ailments, the are like tell tale signs to my growth.

Its not always clearly connected in my mind, the physical and the emotional so I often consult the dictionary. Today I looked up swollen which was defined as bulging. Then I looked up sore and it was defined as painful, sad or angry. Then I look up throb and it was defines as to beat or vibrate strongly. It all made sense then. Though, I would not have admitted that I was feeling sad and homesick because I try not to dilly dally with those feelings since I’m isolated here and it seems a bit dangerous and maybe even self pitying. However, I suppose that if I don’t acknowledge the emotion, my body will show it to me in another manner, because it needs to get out somehow. Whether its through writing about it, talking about it, creating art, exercise, or unfortunately, an infection or illness. It really makes since now to think about each and every illness we have and what it could be connected to.

One of my friends here, had parasites. So, I asked her what a parasite does? Well, it feeds off of a host. She looked at me puzzled. Then I asked her if anyone in her life was feeding off of her emotionally. Sure enough, one of her family members heavily relies on her as their emotional outlet.

The easiest to see, for me, is weight. It’s a layer of protection we place around our bodies. No matter what you can say about, at its root, being over weight is about protection. I’ve watched two women here open themselves up to the possibility of romance and with that simple act, they have shed pounds and inches, while many others have gained. Which also seems likely, since there is an enormous amount of unwanted attention forced on women here, so I can see where we would sub-consciously desire a bit of added protection around this largely aggressive male-dominant culture.

Next time you’re battling an illness or ailment, ask yourself what it is doing to you. Then apply those words to the rest of your life and see how it pans out. I’m guessing some bits of truth will be revealed.

Raining Cats

1/22/08 As I write this, I’m still trying to wrap my brain around what happened just now. I’d just woken up and I was sitting on the sofa, waiting for my bath water to heat on the stove. I was still pretty sleepy, staring at nothing on the floor, trying not to fall back asleep. The sun was just coming up, so the sky was beginning to lighten up. Just then, in my peripheral vision, through the window, I saw something fall into the courtyard. The blur looked pretty big and I could here it, scrambling between the wall and the water tank. I assumed it to be a bird, since I don’t know any other animal to be cruising around in the air and there’s an enormous family of birds living in and on my roof. As I stood up, I saw ears poke up, white ones, I got scared at first and then a cat popped its head up and looked at my just before it fell back into the space. My heart sank.

I walked out and I could see it hiding in the dark, his eyes squinting, but he never made a noise. I tried to talk to it, and soothe it, but it just sat there. I opened the courtyard gate, since the walls are about 8’ high and left it open until I had to bathe. I checked again, he wasn’t there anymore, I looked in and around and beneath, but couldn’t see anything since it was too dark.

I went to work and decided I’d look again when I got home. I came home and began constructing my washing board and while I was sitting in the courtyard, I saw the cat move, so I climbed as close as I could and he’s just lying there, scared, awake, maybe hurt and I can’t reach him. I have some tuna I will try to lure him out with, but its not like I can take him to the kitty vet, cats aren’t eaten here like dogs are, but they aren’t pets either.

The crazy thing is that I can not figure out where he came from. Well, the roof, but I can’t see how he got into the roof. Its been puzzling me all day, very odd. Very very odd indeed.

I’ll be sure to post the outcome of my four-legged friend.

While on the topic of bizarre occurrences, I locked myself in the house the other day and it was hilarious. I left through the courtyard with my bike and came home for lunch, parked my bike out front and entered through the kitchen. When I was ready to leave, for a meeting, my key wouldn’t open the lock. I was trapped! I couldn’t leave through the courtyard because the padlock was on the outside from that morning! I tried the lock a dozen times, it had always been tough with one little sweet spot, but nothing was working. Eventually, I cranked open the slatted window, and called to a girl passing by. She looked around, confused, its really hilarious now but I was pretty late. I kept calling her and finally she saw me but didn’t speak English. I kept jiggling the handle and finally pushed the keys to her beneath the door for her to try to open it. Sure enough, it worked from the outside, just not the inside. The door opened and the girl looked so scared to see a white lady on the other side.

I thanked her and hurried off to my meeting and laughed so hard the entire way.

Oh but why?

1/23/08 I could complain about the number of people who’ve come to me for money this week, then I thought, oh but why? That’s what we say here. Each word sounds like its own little sigh. Ohhh, buuut whhhhy? So, instead, I’ll take the time to describe my walk this evening.

Each night, I walk further into the bush. I take a path behind my house and every evening, I start out a bit earlier and walk a bit farther. I’m always disappointed when it gets too dark and I know I have to turn around. I walk through these hills and valleys and the air gets warm then cool then warm and cool.

Tonight, I climbed a hill and stood atop some rocks and looked out over the empty land and watched the sun go down, in all its glory. These walks have replaced my morning tea as my favorite part of the day. If I do nothing, but take that walk, with those big steps, and deep breaths with my arms swinging, I still feel like its been a perfect day.

Food for thought

I must express something I’ve tested several times and found always to be true. I feel the best, meaning, most energetic, clear headed, content physically and emotionally, when I eat a certain way:

Fruit, only, for breakfast

Vegetables and Starch

Or

Vegetables and Protein

It’s from the book Fit for Life. It made sense to me when I read it, so I tried it and the state of lethargy that I’d experienced after most meals over my entire life, disappeared. Not only did the lethargy disappear, but my energy actually increases after I eat, like I’ve fueled up and now I can really go. This is not at all how we are taught to eat.

The simplest was I can imagine it, is that with fewer things for my body to break down at one time, more energy is reserved for me to live on. So, no processed foods, they just don’t work well for me.

The insanity in all of this is that I don’t eat this way all the time, even though I know that know matter what, I’m going to feel tired, lazy, brain dead and probably have gas, in other words, complete discomfort, all of which I do not experience when I eat according to that simple formula. To add to this baffling truth, the discomfort usually lasts for nearly two hours after eating so this means I spend 2,190 hours of self inflicted physical discomfort a year that easily could be prevented.

I really saw this affect after coming to Africa, where I was not able to choose my own menu for the first three months. After resuming my previous eating habits, I as immediately thrown back into feeling good. Well, after I stopped craving the junk, which took a few weeks. Now I feel wonderful most every day.

Everyone here reacts with shock that I don’t drink soda and they want to know why. I tell them its just sugary water and that I prefer plain water. They look at my like it really makes sense and then they look at the bottle of Coke, which is flat here, and seem perplexed. Also, if you really care to know, I no longer support Coca Cola in any way, which means not buying Dasani bottled water, which is also sold here. The reason is that Coca Cola moved into a small village in India, several years ago, and began using their water. Now, before this the village had plenty of water for all of its uses, drinking, cleaning, cooking, farming, and livestock, but Coca Cola had enough money to dig really deep pumps, so that they got to the water first and the villages’ wells began to dry up. Coca Cola actually pumped 1.5 million liters of water a day out of this ground that didn’t belong to them. The water that the villagers could still get tasted bad and had a terrible odor, it caused rashes and people began to get sick. Years went by and finally, people began to protest, to no avail, since the government was the only entity reaping any benefits. There was a protest of several 1000 and Coca Cola agreed they would send a water truck into the village every day, but unfortunately, it wasn’t enough water to care for all of the villages needs. I wish I had a happy ending for you, but I don’t. That’s it, the end. And I don’t buy Coke or Coke products. I’m out here living in a place just like that, where my water gets pumped out of the ground every night and I just can’t imagine someone taking it away from me. I went a day without water here and it was horrible. I couldn’t bath, I had nothing to drink, I couldn’t wash anything. How can people hurt people so easily? I guess because they forget that we’re all the same. I don’t care if you stop drinking Coke, I just can’t contribute another penny to their greed, and trust me, they won’t miss it, everyone in Ghana drinks Coke, it’s the only thing here to drink, besides water.

Some people wish for a life of no problems, but I would never wish such a life for any of

you. What I wish for you is the great inner strength to solve your problems meaningfully

and grow. Problems are learning and growing experiences. A life without problems

would be a barren existence, without the opportunity for spiritual growth.

- Peace Pilgrim

Observations

1/15/08 Each morning, I sit at the tea stand, sipping my tea, people watching, absorbing all of the morning sounds and daily activities going on around me. The most amusing part of this daily ritual is watching what “western” clothing the men have decided to wear. Most clothes worn now by men are imported, second hand clothes from Europe and America. Women tend to still wear traditional Ghanaian outfits, but for men, this means wearing dresses and toga-like get ups. The funniest part of this is that no one knows the difference between men and women’s jeans, not to mention that they wear wool sweaters and down parkas in 70 degree weather and the other day I saw a man with the only the hood of a rather warm jacket, snapped around his head, with the jacket else where, making him look like the “knight of winter”; I wish I’d had my camera that day. But, back to the jeans. At first, I couldn’t understand why some of the men’s legs where stretching the denim so tightly, they looked as though they would split any second. Then it dawned on my that those were actually blue jeans intended for a teen ages girl, low-cut waist with flared legs and spandex all the way through. I stared at this man, only guessing at his discomfort in the crouch area, which was covered by his parka, imagining the sorrowful fate of his future offspring, clutched to death in the grips of spandex. However, the best so far occurred this morning. The gentleman who runs the kiosk next to the tea stand is a large man, burly and strong with enormous shoulders and broad chest, and even facial hair, which isn’t all the common. As I absent-mindedly watched him stirring a pot, filled with what I imagined to be his breakfast, he stood to show off his painted on, extremely trendy, skinny-legged jeans! They looked like a pair of tights, like a black Paul Bunyan in tights! I love this place.

New Discoveries

My life here is not at all what I imagined in many aspects, like having electricity and living in a rather populated area, but there are things that I’m learning that are beyond the expectations I had. Most are just foods that I’m learning to make, and they are things I could have learned in America, but since they were easily bought in the store, I always just took the easy way out. Like, for instance, making fresh Ginger Green tea and soymilk and tofu. These are things I enjoyed in America, but not by my own hand. And they are easy to make when you have the time to make them.

Ginger Green tea:

Take fresh ginger, peel it with a spoon, and chop it into 1/2 inch pieces. Then boil the ginger in a pot of water for 5-10 minutes. Reduce the fire and add 2 or three bags of green tea, or if you have fresh green tea leaves, add those. Steep 5-7 minutes. Strain the tea and discard the rest, or you can feed it to the pigs if you have them, like I do, ha ha ha. Voila, its so delicious. I drink a few hot cups and then I take the rest and pour it into a water bottle and chill it, so the next day I have ginger green iced tea. These simple joys make my life here so wonderful.

Here are some pictures of my making soy milk and tofu.

Its so amazing. I don’t think I’ll ever buy it again since its so good fresh. If you have a blender, its extremely easy. Here, however, I have to hand-mash the beans and this takes a while. The cool part is, when you use your own energy for tasks like these, you don’t waste electricity and you don’t need extra time to work out, your body just gets toned from everyday life. I like that a lot. I like using fun activities to keep my body healthy and conserve nature’s energy. When I was a member of a gym, 20 minutes of lifting weights seemed to last forever and was so boring, but I mashed those beans for an hour, switching arms several times and it went by so fast. Its getting into that lifestyle that makes all the difference. It’s easy once I made the shift, then the old tasks that were never fun become something I literally couldn’t imagine doing and the new activities I’ve picked up instead add so much more to my life. For instance, I can buy enough soybeans to last six months for around a $1.20, (even better, I can grow them myself which would mean that I spend time in the sun, bending and stretching and moving and giving back to the earth). But, even if I buy them, its still a difference of paying around 6.00 a week, which is what I would pay for a pint of soymilk and 1 small container of tofu, plus, $45 a month for a gym membership, totaling $426.00 in 6 months. And not to mention, the gas driving to and from the gym everyday and the time I used to waste sitting in traffic to get to the gym. By walking 30 minutes in the morning and 30 minutes in the evening, I get to greet the sun and the moon and stay healthy, all for free, and my walks always end up lasting longer than 30 minutes because its so beautiful and I don’t want to go home yet. Plus, the air is so much better outside than in the sweaty gym with all those TV s blaring at me, I never liked that part, but the machines are so crammed in that I didn’t have a choice, I once tried closing my eyes and tripped and almost busted my face on the front of the machine.

There are other things I’m learning about that I want to incorporate. I knew about these ideas before, from studying architecture, but now I’ve been able to see how to put it all to use, such as solar energy. Solar panels have been used throughout Ghana to bring power to small village clinics and other businesses existing out in the bush. Why wouldn’t I take advantage of the big old sun shining up there all day long? Africa and Louisiana get plenty of sunlight. Its free! It so simple, it makes me scratch my head. And it works the same as any other power source, you have meter and what ever power you use is depleted from the power you’ve acquired from the sun that day. How amazing. I think about all that wasted energy up on my roof back home. Then, what about rainwater? I have an enormous old structure in my back yard that could catch rainwater. With a little money and energy, you can install a reservoir that holds and filters your free water and then pump it into the house each morning by spending about 10 minutes riding a stationary bicycle! I love this. More exercise, less waste, no money, better health. Why aren’t we all living this way? Its amazing to me. Now that I’ve seen this, I won’t live another way. I’m just so grateful that I’ve been shown. With the amount of rain in Louisiana, I’d think everyone would want this way of life, but I also respect that many people just don’t have the time or the energy to shift and that’s cool too. I just want to be as considerate of the earth and my fellow man as I possibly can and so I’m thrilled with what I’ve seen here. There are other smaller ways to help. Recycling is probably one of the easiest simplest ways to make a difference. I wish it were a law in my community. I have a goal to get all of the local businesses and schools recycling. I don’t know, maybe the schools already do, but I have a suspicion it isn’t so. Just the paper that I’ve witnessed being wasted in the several offices I’ve worked in is enough to make me nauseous. I’ve never met a person that’s said, oh, I don’t really care for the shade from that tree, actually, I don’t really like trees at all, I think I’d rather just sweat out in the sun. Not to mention that every green living plant gives us air to breath. So in some weird way, its like we’re greedily swallowing up our own well being every time we hit print and then toss the paper in the trash. Don’t get me wrong, I love books and magazines and I like to hold them in my hand, but I recycle them when I’m done. And plastic!! Oh I love its many uses and I’m the first to use it to organize this or that, but its all recyclable. Imagine if it weren’t, I don’t think you can unless you’ve lived in a place with no trash pick up, where I watch the cows, goats, pigs and dogs eating plastic everyday, simply because it’s all over the ground.

The Power of Now

1/4/08 I have a delightful story to tell this morning. I’ve just read A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle. It is a masterful tale of the author and his wife’s first year in Provence. While reading it I felt the urge to cook an enormous meal and drown everything in olive oil! Since I've finished it, i now have a bit of a what-to-read-next dilemma. I traveled to Wa yesterday to use the internet and check the post office for my long awaited packages sent sometime last month. The volunteer’s in this area keep a locked box, at a local store, with the post office box key inside. It is also a place to exchange books and information. While digging around in the box, I came across The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. The title had been mentioned to me several times before I left America, so I grabbed it, happy that my what-to-read-next dilemma was solved. I returned home last night and sat here reading some of the things I’d downloaded while at the internet. Feeling so inspired by one website, I began to write. For several hours I sat absorbed in the articles and then allowed my words to pour forth from my heart. Today, when returning from work to take my lunch, I picked up my new book and began to read. I’m stunned by its message. It mirrors last night’s inspiration. I’m left breathless. Below I’ve included my writing from last night.

Waiting can bring such clarity.

1/3/08 My feelings of doubt and fear have subsided and an overwhelming sense of peace and belonging has crept in its place.

When I moved here, I inherited an old dusty stack of magazines. Copies of Newsweek (which I can’t stomach to read anymore), health magazines and a few New York Times. I’ve all but destroyed these periodicals, savoring every article again and again and finally cutting them into little pieces for my collages. It was in one of the health magazines that I came across an interview with Robert Gass. His career of traveling and inspiring individual’s spiritual growth appealed to me. I jotted down his website for later research and forgot about it.

While at the internet, in the midst of confusion about my decision to come here, I remembered his website and downloaded every page to sort through later. The site is a combination of the work of he and his wife, Judith Ansara Gass, both devoted beings living life to its most beautiful potential.

As I sit here, reading their writings, its as though every question that has coursed through my brain this month, was intercepted by the couple and answered for me. Judith’s article, “How Shall We Live?” has given new meaning to my coming here. I’m so stunned by the perfection of the universe providing exactly what I need when I need it, I actually had to stop reading the article and just sit here and breath and really absorb how perfect it all is. I just keep saying, thank you. Three days ago, I sat in this same chair in despair, confused and alone, unsure who to ask for guidance. The feelings were so powerful, I felt almost nauseous. This was New Year’s Day. Now I sit here and read her words, confirming everything about me being here.

She wrote about the earth being part of our bodies and that any part of the world that is hurting is a place I can help, even if I can’t see the healing occuring, that just my loving intention being present in that place will make a difference eventually. It’s the intention that matters.

She mentions this same theme that continues to come up in everything I read, that it is through our sense of separation that exists the source of much human suffering. Chuck Chamberland says it in A New Pair of Glasses, when he speaks of our problem being conscious separation and the answer being conscious unity. Ram Dass, Dan Millman, Lame Deer, every author I’ve read since I’ve arrived here mention it. The word written here when I arrive, Ubuntu, is this idea simplified.

I sit here in true and utter amazement at the perfection of everything. Before I left America, while I was still working with Hurricane survivors, I strongly wished for more time to read, write and collage. I wished for this through my entire being. I could see a life where I had freedom to create. I never imagined while applying for this, that it would be here that this dream would manifest itself. As a volunteer, we have to be available to everyone 24 hours a day but work is slow here. Of course at first, I thought I’d be an exception and just create my own schedule, no sitting around, etc. I wonder how many other volunteers thought that as well. Our normal American frenzy of rushing just doesn’t happen here. There’s no place to rush to because once you arrive, you’ll just end up sitting under a tree waiting for the others to show up. Much of my time here is spent waiting. I don’t mind, I actually plan for it and take that time to read and write. No one really ever knows what time it is, since most people don’t wear watches. I now have learned tell what time it is in the evening by the shadows in my living room. 4 pm is the most glorious time when the light stretches across the yellow wall and the beams of light stream in from both sides and meet in the middle, making a large burst on the wall, resulting in a sort of amazing sun-like image. Sort of like an interior sunset.

I’ve realized through all of this: whatever life your living is from your own dreaming, wishing, hoping, fears, doubts. Is it the life you want to be in? If you aren’t happy, why are you creating a life that makes you unhappy? I realize that we can all have any life we want, just dream it, and it will come to you, trust me. The catch is, to not grab hold of a lesser dream thinking yours isn’t coming. Dream and be patient, drop any fears and doubt and prepare for delight. It helps to know what you want too and that takes quiet time. Without some clarity and mindfulness, we can wander around lost for a long long time trying out this path and that path. This has its purpose as well, however, most people don’t know that their happiness is just a wish away. In the end, its all up to what you want. Even the most impoverished people in the world have created their own lives. Maybe my greatest purpose here is to help these people dream greater dreams. The rest will manifest itself.

One of the greatest things I’ve realized here is that every path is honorable. I get a lot of emails about what a great job this whole thing is and how everyone is so proud but in reality, this is no better than any other path, as long as its your heart’s path. My little sister is such a beautiful mother to two precious babies and three step children. Being a mom is her heart’s desire and my goodness, she’s amazing at it.

My mom loves animals and now that she’s retired, her dream is to own a pet day care. Her passion for this dream has made the process relatively smooth. My dad’s a biker. When I was a little girl, he got rid of his motorcycle to save his family after an ultimatum came to chose between the motorcycle or us. 25 years later, he purchased a another Harley and I’ve never seen him more at peace. These days, when he isn’t working, he’s riding and it suits him so well.

So often we become used to turmoil and think that we have no choice about our situation. I thought that way for a long time too. I can remember a boyfriend so patiently explaining to me that I always have a choice in everything, and though I may not like the consequences, I certainly have a choice. He said this just after I tried to convince him I had no control over canceling our plans. He’s an attorney now and he certainly won that day. Its true, we are not at the mercy of anything except our own positive or negative thoughts.

Paulo Coehlo calls it a personal legend, my friend Helen calls it the heart’s desire. Both describe the yearning that resonates within us that we don’t always understand. To ignore it only increases our unhappiness. This is why the quiet time is necessary. It is in this space that the inner voice can be heard. I’ve been led to find my heart’s desire and I’ve led women there as well. I’m planning to take a few female volunteers through the process this spring. I must pass on the gifts that are given to me. Part of my legend is uniting women, uncovering the truth and fostering spiritual growth. Basically, to be a light that love can pass through. I don’t know why this is my legend, it just is. I began to feel most comfortable on this path after sobering up when I was 15. The stillness came much later. It took a long time for me to stop wanting to jump out of my own skin. A feeling I’d been plagued with since birth. I wandered around on this path blind to an actual direction for quite a few years. With the quiet came the strength to let go and follow my dreams. This led to more quiet and deeper clarity, which led to a better idea of my heart’s desire. Now I wake unsure if this life is real, for it seems just like a dream.

Ok, so the long awaited pictures of my house are in, Mom, I know you are thrilled. I’ll take you through the process provided you should ever want to decorate with little to no funds in an impoverished country. (some of the pics are included here, the rest can be viewed as a slide show, its listed under My House, to the right)

First let me say that one of the most important aspects to my personal comfort is an attractive space. Maybe it’s the architect in me, but I’ve been this way since childhood, moving my bedroom around every few months and staying up way too late to put every little thing in its place before going to sleep. I’m not going to pretend that I keep everything in its place after, but nobody’s perfect.

I also love to create something out of nothing. I practically majored in dumpster diving, considering that several projects had material lists which ordered us to go to the salvage yard. In my own home, everything was recycled from somewhere. I don’t think I’ve actually ever purchased a piece of furniture in my entire life. Oh, yes I did, the beautiful mahogany vanity with the busted mirror, whose life I saved for 20 bucks and free delivery in North Carolina. Beyond that, it’s all hand-me down, and resurrected stuff.

So, to begin, I live in a duplex, with concrete walls and glass windows. (Here’s the plan.) This is far nicer than I ever anticipated. The furniture was already here and I have no idea how old it is, but its really heavy. Moving one of the chairs practically breaks me. The place was not cozy in the least and the walls were plain old dirty white. I couldn’t wait to begin the transformation, so the first Saturday I was here, I found paint. You only have about 5 choices for paint, so I chose yellow and red.

(The bedroom was already green and I decided to leave it for later.)

First, I painted, which took a while because the ceilings are high and I don’t have a ladder, so I had to climb on the backs of the chairs and stretch and somehow, I reached. Tip: when painting in sub-Saharan climate, paint will dry as fast as you roll it on. You have no choice but to finish the job that day because the paint will dry up. I ran out of paint at the very end of the living room and I just haven’t bought more. You can only buy gallons and I need just a tiny bit, so for now, there’s a giant unpainted square beneath the windows.

I decided to paint a chalkboard on the wall by taping off a square and filling it in with black oil based paint. I didn’t really know what I was doing and once I painted it, it was too glossy for the chalk to work, so as it dried, I patted the entire square down with baking powder, allowing it to dry with the baking powder on it. It worked!! I have a real chalk board and its awesome for my schedule and shopping lists.

OK, SO I WROTE THIS WITH THE INTENTION OF PLACING PICTURES IN IT BUT I'M OUT OF TIME, SO THE TEXT CORRESPONDS WITH THE SLIDE SHOW, YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO VIEW THEM SEPERATELY, SORRY.

I bought the cheapest fabric, its used as lining, in plain white and washed all of the windows and hung the curtains using simple nails and just hammering it in leaving a little extra in between so that it has a nice flow.

I used the old broken door from the bedroom closet as a bulletin board, because you can’t really use the walls since they’re concrete. I took some of the extra panes of glass and placed pictures of Louisiana between them and placed them on the coffee table.

I found some chicken-wire fencing and cut a piece big enough to fit the space above the sofa and cut some pictures out of a book someone left behind here and made a wall hanging. It suspended by two rubber-bands between the window frames, the only thing you can hammer into.

I used stuff I already had to decorate, like my straw hat and market bag, they’re easily accessible and look nice hanging in the red kitchen. I moved the furniture around and brought in the wooden reclining chair from outside where it was never used. I cleaned up the kitchen counter, which was disgusting, and repainted it with the left over black paint.

The Christmas tree is from my mom. I can’t remember if I mentioned the day I got it. I came home from the post office and opened the box with the little tree and the tiny ornaments and I just couldn’t get over how much mom’s know what you need. She made Christmas so special for me by sending that tree, words escape me. I love it so much, I’m not ready to put it away.

So that’s it really. I love it here now. I sit in the living room listening to all of the hustle and bustle outside while I paint and draw and boil water for tea and I feel at home. It makes such a difference.

My courtyard is small but nice because I can hang my laundry privately and store my bike. This is my gate to the outside. I’m not ready to take my camera out in front of people here yet, so I only have inside pictures. I’m going to gradually ease myself into taking pictures here. Its different since I live here. I am trying to be equal, not the rich white lady.

The pigs are behind my house in a mud pen and I save all of my peelings and food compost and feed it to them. Someone had just fed them, so when I got there they were pretty happy. As I stood there, I saw this sunset.

And finally, my little bathing area and my room ready for bed. It’s a great little place.

1/2/08 Today I am celebrating 13 years of sobriety and almost 3 years without cigarettes. I have a 13 year chip that my sponsor gave me before I left America. I am as far away from a meeting as I could possibly be in this country. The only meetings I’ve heard of are exactly diagonal from me on the other end of Ghana. As much as I’d love to attend one, its fine that I can not. I didn’t expect the luxury of being able to attend any meetings while here and I know I’ll get a chance to return to them once I’m home. My life today is a far cry from the terrified teenager I was, hoping to die rather than give up drinking. Its even a far cry from only a few years ago. I suppose a few from now, I’ll be saying the same thing. I can honestly say every year gets better and better.

I’ve been feeling bits of doubt and frustration, unsure of my purpose here. On New Year’s Day, I stayed home, put on some music, brewed a pot of tea and sat down and wrote, collaged, drew, painted, and read. I allowed the creativity in me to flow naturally and today I woke up with a new sense of enthusiasm about my work here. Its amazing to me that simple things like meditation and creativity can turn my mood and perception around so easily.

Today has turned out to be just like every other day, pretty amazing. I’m feeling like my presence here is warranted and has purpose.

Should I be here?

(I’d like to preface this entry by stating that my feelings about this have begun to change. I’m not as frustrated as I have been. I am trying to be open to my purpose here and I am trying to find the positive impact that the Peace Corps has made in Jirapa. I’m taking each day as it comes and making baby steps.)

12/30/07 It is known that spirituality for the African Traditionalist encompasses his whole life. Just as one cannot separate man from his own breath, severing an African from his spiritual practices will surely cause harm.

Since I was a young girl, I’ve admired anyone who chose to devote his time as a volunteer providing international aid. It is here that Hebert Spencer’s theory of contempt prior to investigation takes on new meaning, for it is truly impossible to access any situation in life prior to one’s own experience with it. It is only now that I realize the power and responsibility that the Western world holds when entering a country with the motive of providing aid. Prior to living here, I imagined to find suffering so terrible that nothing would have prevented me from coming to help. Much to my surprise, people here are doing just fine.

Like every story of invasion through out history, this one is the same:

There exists some group of people, native to the land, eking out a life, oblivious to the rest of the world. Then along comes another more powerful group, deciding for one reason or another, that these people should change. They slowly begin invading, bringing along their new religions, new behaviors and big dollars, convincing the innocent people that the way they’ve carried on all this time is faulty. The problem is, as you can probably see, what works for one may not work for another. Eventually, the unsuspecting people begin to doubt their happy lives, especially after being informed that they are barbaric, filthy and even evil. Their “inhumane” spiritual practices are condemned and new churches are built with foreign currency.

Thus, his breath is severed. It is impossible to separate man from spirit, inevitably some part of him will die.

The culture begins to shrivel before the eyes of its people as that of a three-day old umbilical cord. With the life force snipped, eventually, the dangling piece will dry up and fall off permanently. Enough decades elapse and the memory of the old ways slowly disintegrate. Few even remember the traditions that preceded the synthetic imported world that now surrounds them. Anything indigenous is viewed as inferior. A finely crafted, hand-weaved, reclining chair is sold for 3 dollars while flimsy uncomfortable plastics ones are sold for 5. Finely woven, natural fibers are discarded for imported see through synthetics. Drumming and singing are replaced with the blaring tunes of foreign musicians in a language no one understands. The younger generations believe these ways are modern and therefore superior. The elderly are shunned and left grasping their traditions in their frail hands with heads bowed in reverence and mourning.

Missionaries and volunteers are different in approach but similar in outcome. One attacks the soul and the other body and mind, together leaving, in their wake, skeletal robots unsure of their origins though they’ve never left their homeland. Even more baffling is the result that such extreme disempowerment brings about: the people begin to think they can not function without foreign aid.

A depiction has occurred to me as follows: A healthy young man is standing on a street corner, minding his own business. Walking towards him is a generous group of men all breathing through oxygen tanks. Upon seeing the young man with no oxygen, they tackle him and rush him to the nearest hospital. After many hours, they finally succeed in forcing his healthy lungs to use the oxygen. The poor young man lies helpless and confused, since he does not speak their language. The band of men stand proudly over their newly rescued success, smiling and patting one another on the back. The victim lies in bed, longing for his lost breath and all that is heard is the whirring of the oxygen machines.

So, where does this leave me?

When I was 20, a loving woman, whom I deeply respect, kindly pointed out that I had no integrity. She was right. As long as everything appeared to look good on the outside, I was content. It didn’t matter if the truth was ugly because all you could see was the pretty picture I painted. Living that way caused me extreme turmoil that I was comfortable with for many years. Today, you can see the whole picture and uncovering the truth plays an important role in my life. Since there are varying degrees of the truth, I try to remain open, mindful and considerate of my fellows and the environment. As I’ve been made aware of this reality, its been painful to be honest with myself. Do I keep my mouth shut, turn the other way and continue working? Do I quietly play the role of volunteer, adding to the previous 45 years of disempowerment, telling myself I’m helping? Do I tell the truth as I see it? I don’t feel like I’m here by mistake. How do I keep my integrity across the board with the peace corps and the people of Ghana? These are the questions that I ask myself tonight as I sit in my home on the last night of the year.

I know one thing, thanks to my beautiful friend and spiritual guide, Nina, when you don’t know what to do, wait until the answer is revealed. It is always revealed, sooner or later. So I keep plugging along through the days. I’ve made plans to meet with a traditionalist to learn what’s been lost. Maybe I’m the needy one. I’m open to what ever my purpose turns out to be.

The book responsible for my current mind-set: Lame Deer: Seeker of Visions, by John (Fire) Lame Deer and Richard Erdoes. A book about a Sioux Indian and his life. While reading it, I became nauseous from the similarities between the torment endured by the Native Americans and the assistance inflicted upon Ghana. I believe books make their way into our lives providing the next course in life. I came here with no books, deciding all that I am supposed to learn will find its way to me. It is no coincidence that I read this book.

Market day

12/30/07 Today was picturesque of the life I hoped to experience here. I woke and had a leisurely morning drinking tea in the center of town. Later I walked down to the grand market and greeted the few people I recognize from my weekly trips. I bought the same foods I always buy, garlic, ginger, limes, tomatoes, cabbage, bell peppers, bananas, papaya, carrots and fresh wheat tea bread, which I can only find once a week from a lady living in a remote village. She greets me with a hug now and even though we can’t understand each other, the purchase is filled with smiles and plenty of head nodding.

I walked home, during the hottest point in the day, kicked on the fan and began preparing hummus and salad. I found Tahini paste in Techiman and there’s a bean here that is close enough to a chick pea to use in place of. Mix in a little lime, fresh garlic and olive oil. Its delicious. The only hard part is hand mashing the beans, this takes time and elbow grease. Here they mash everything, so I have clay mortar and pistil that I mash the beans in.

One Man’s Trash…

The question arises; when living in a third world country (is Ghana actually third world, I’m not sure) what do you do with your trash? I can tell you what they do with it, they just throw it where ever and eventually some stuff gets burned. I hate to burn plastic. I try to give the children any containers that they can make into toys and I hide batteries because they’re dangerous. But what about everything else? What I don’t burn will be claimed and then I’ll see it sitting along the dirt path in front of my house, left behind by whom ever claimed it and deemed it unworthy as well.

I now understand how housing compounds with courtyards began. You enclose yourself, plant a little garden in the interior courtyard, make everything look beautiful inside the walls, then you toss the refuse, rubbish, ugly, unsightly things outside the gate for whom ever else to deal with. Well, that won’t work anymore, our land and water are eating it and so where are we supposed to get clean nourishment from? Its not going to come from the same dirt we’re polluting. I understand though. It is more than tempting to place all of the trash that was left behind by the last three volunteers, the stuff that no one knew what to do with, outside of my gate and forget about it. Since that’s not an option, I need a plan.

I’m here to help with Sanitation and I’m living in the District Capital, there must be someone who wants to se a change. Up here, in the North, people tend to be more conscious. I don’t know it it’s the remaining tradition that still exists or the fact that they’ve been exposed to Western influence since the 1920’s but I think something could happen. Time will tell. I can’t impose my own agenda; I have to help where they want me to, so unless this is an issue that they see needs attention it may go untouched.

When I was packing up my house to move out, I spent two weeks slowly going through everything (I had lived there 7 years) and piled up every single thing that I could recycle, give away, or offer to someone. I managed to make several trips to the recycling depot, Goodwill, and friend’s houses and only threw away three garbage bags of stuff. Everything else was recycled. That’s tremendous and all it took was time, patience, and consideration for the planet and humanity. That’s it! I felt so good about myself after that effort. (In the past, I’d just bag up EVERYTHING I didn’t feel like dealing with and leave it by the roadside for someone else to deal with, Granted, the last time I moved I was only 20, and could have cared less about these issues.) I think that the difference is my attitude. To me, it was a priority to recycle all of that stuff and to take accountability for acquiring it in the first place. I didn’t miss the time, in fact, I felt like it was a loving act to my community. In the end, I was peaceful not having anything anymore, it all went somewhere useful and that was extremely fulfilling.

Mighty Mouse.

I have met my match, he is small and fury and loves my room as much as I do, however, he’s not invited. A few nights ago, I was laying in bed reading and the curtain started to move. I stood up on the bed and just stared at it, paralyzed. Now, I can handle bugs, the biggest, ugliest, scariest insects are no problem, I even scoop them into something and place them outside: it bothers me to kill them. But rodents are different. They’re different somehow. Maybe because they’re bigger and fury and run really fast and squeak and you don’t know which way their going, oh I could go on and on. So this stupid mouse runs into my closet, which is actually just a set of built-in shelves. I sit on my bed unsure of what to do. Finally, I decide its no big deal; he probably found his way out the back and has left. What I failed to take into consideration, silly me, is that I live inside concrete walls, there is no escaping through the back of the closet. The walls are solid. Ok, so it runs across the room and then back and then stays all night, I think.

Next night, mousey runs out, by this point I’m talking to it, threatening to get a cat (but I don’t want a cat because its hard enough to feed and water myself in Africa, I don’t want to take on the responsibility of another mammal). I explain that I don’t want to hurt it, I only want it to leave and then I’m trying to be patient because after all I believe that we invite every situation we experience into our lives, well, what the hell did I want this for? I’m not sure what else happens, but I can’t sleep. With every little noise, I turn on the light and I’m totally freaked out. Then, early in the morning, I’m finally asleep and I hear a tatter on the bed or was it? I’m not sure, was I dreaming? I jump up, onto my knees, facing the pillows, questioning what I heard and felt, then I slowly lift up my two pillows and he runs out and jumps off the bed! I bang to pillow on the bed like a mad woman, so full of rage I want to jump out of my skin and tear the closet out from the wall and just demolish this little rodent.

Night three, I don’t see him anywhere, I’m so happy. I climb into bed with my book but then decide to get some water; I should be drinking more water right? I open my door to walk out and the mouse falls from the door jamb and runs into my closet! I freak out, I’m yelling and banging things, I’ve had it at this point. I’m asking myself what the stupid mouse represents in Native American culture to try and figure out why on earth it’s visiting me. At this point, I am so exhausted from lack of sleep and feel so powerless over this stupid animal, I hang the mosquito net that’s too small for my bed, tuck it in all around me and go to sleep. That night, I dream that mice are everywhere, running back and forth in my room, I can’t tell if I’m sleeping or awake because in the dream I’m beneath the mosquito net and then this big black cat appears and I’m elated, I start to cry. Then, all of a sudden the cat stands up on his hind legs (he’s as tall as me) and begins to claw the mosquito netting, and so I back up until I hit the wall and scream. When I wake, I’m angry, tired, scared and frustrated. Later, I leave for work and close the mosquito net to keep my bed clear.

When I return at noon and walk into my room, the mouse is on my bed, inside the net and is stuck and can’t get out! I’m thinking, what is your problem!!! Why can’t you go away?? There’s no food in my room, nor is it connected to any room with food, its all by itself on THIS side of the courtyard, go live in the kitchen if you want to but get out of my room and off of my bed!!!) I grab a bucket and I’m going to try to capture him and set him free, outside the gate, where he’ll be someone else’s problem, ha ha, but as soon as I return, he’s gone.

Words can’t explain my feelings at this point. Imagine me as Ben Stiller in, well, anything really, I just can’t get a break. I leave the room and leave the door open and tell it to leave whenever it wishes. I see him, later, outside, on the screen of my living room window and I yell and close all of the windows and he runs behind the water tank, so I go outside with a huge stick and start beating everything I can. I’m whacking the water tank, the house, the gate, the ground, yelling at it, telling it to get out of my life!!! I come into my room and duct tape every single crack and crevice and close the door and I haven’t seen or heard him since. Tonight will be night two without mousey and I’m thrilled beyond words.

Painting and Pineapples…

I’ve spent the past two days painting my house and completing other small art projects to make this place more me. I’m tired, filthy, covered in dust and paint and I just sat here, bare feet, on the floor and devoured the best pineapple ever. I was starving and my stove is dismantled while the paint dries, so I grabbed a knife and a plate and this enormous fresh pineapple and began cutting. I dripped juice all over me and the floor and my legs and laughed at how barbaric I must have looked. Seriously, at one point, eating the fruit off the edge of the knife while holding another piece in my hand, I felt I must look like some sort of cave woman having her first pineapple experience.

The Hero’s Journey…

I’m so bummed tonight. One of the girls I’ve gotten close to has decided this place is not for her. She’s one of three amazing women who’ve been on the fence about staying here. I’m so disappointed. Its lonely enough being here, but it increases when those you have made connections with decide to leave. I respect this woman so much and I can’t wait to find out what she ends up doing with herself. I know it will be amazing.

In my grief, I text messaged a friend of mine, back home, who told me she wanted to know how I really felt here and that I should tell her the gut level stuff I go through (she’s a counselor, it makes perfect sense). So I tell her I’m sad and how, just like in AA, when people start to leave and do others things, I begin to question myself. Her response has me in tears. She said, it’s the hero’s journey. They meet companions, but none are consistent. They journey is taken alone and that it is fulfilling. I am connecting with my essence, she says! It is so true. I felt the truth of her statement course through my veins. I am so thankful for her words. They strengthened me tonight. Thanks Keish.

On a lighter note, this morning, at church, the pastor’s wife asked if I’d help out with a single woman’s workshop this week. Its to help single mothers understand birth control options and how to generate income, etc. There are so many topics that I can talk about. I’m excited! And I have two other meetings planned, with the water board and the woman’s bakery. I can’t believe this, I’m actually working in Africa. It just became real on a much deeper level.

“Being in a foreign country means walking a tightrope high above the ground without the net afforded a person by the country where he has his family, colleagues, and friends, and where he can easily say what he has to say in a language he has known from childhood.” –Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

How amazingly true. He said it so beautifully. I love him.

I was moving at what felt like 80 miles an hour and then someone slammed on the brakes and now I’m moving at 5 miles an hour. But my head is still somewhere around 40, so I think a lot in my spare time.

I’ve arrived at my new home and began work. Or, should I say, began showing up at work. This week, I seem to be waiting for everyone to return from somewhere else. Once this whole thing kicks into gear, I think I will be pretty busy.

The assessment of Jirapa’s water supply and sanitation methods will be quite a lot of work in itself. I look forward to it.

My day is broken into three parts: first, I go for tea every morning at the tea stand around 7 am (or earlier, this is my favorite thing each day), where I read and chat with the locals; second, I go to the District Assembly around 9, greet everyone, ask who needs my help, then its off to the hospital to help there, then home for lunch; last, prepare food for the day and visit with neighbors, bath and go to bed to read or write or draw or whatever. This leaves a lot of extra time for thinking, trust me. I love my little home and today I bought paintbrushes and rollers (thank God, I thought I’d have to brush the entire place) and tomorrow I will begin painting!!

Ubuntu…

My friend Harry, who I met by happy co-incidence, in Las Vegas oddly enough, sent me a wonderful message the other day. It was the word Ubuntu, which means "humanity toward others", "we are people because of other people", or "I am who I am because of who we all are," The interesting thing is that there was a torn sheet of paper, taped to my wall containing this word when I arrived at my home. I love how life flows together. Not a word could mean more to me than this one right now. I am who I am because of all of you! This word originates from South Africa, as does my friend Harry. Thank you Harry for another happy co-incidence.

Eulalia…

My sixteen year-old neighbor has lived through a horrible experience. She became pregnant around 14 and had an illegal abortion, which consisted of someone being paid to shove sticks inside her womb, killing the fetus. This resulted in extreme internal damage, fissures, and ended in her uterus rotting, leaving Eulalia septic and near death. So, with no other choice, she had a total hysterectomy and can no longer have children. In Ghana, this means she will end up a prostitute or go to school, which can be very expensive.

So, my dilemma, she knocks on my door, actually bangs on my door several times early yesterday morning and when I answer, gives me a terrible sob story about needing money to buy paper and pens and a compass for a math project.

I tell her I don’t have the money, which was true actually, and asked what she would do if I didn’t live here. She began to tell me that the previous volunteer would give her money and I stopped her and asked the question again. She said she would ask her parents and that she had and there was no money. So I asked her to think of a way to earn the money. She just stared at me. I said, Eulalia, think think think, and pointed to my head about what your talents are and how you can earn this money.

Now, here’s the other side to this coin. I was just like her. As a teenager, I’d sneak into the house with two boxes of new shoes, after my mom went to sleep and then not have enough to pay my car insurance. It did not stop there and in fact, I misspent money just before coming to Ghana. I don’t want to enable this girl. My intention is to build her up. I know I’m capable of it. To show her a picture of herself that is beautiful, intelligent, capable, talented. Though I am still learning to correctly budget, which is hard no matter how small or great your salary is, I certainly know how to make money. I’ve been working a long time and am so grateful for it.

So, I closed the door and felt a pain in my chest and thought of myself at her age and felt so confused. I’m glad I didn’t have enough to give her because the choice was made for me. There is so much more to do here that water sanitation.

Ramblings from the night…

I fall in love with nearly every writer whose work I indulge myself with. It never fails, male or female, living or dead, I connect so deeply with their work, their characters, so often while reading, I’ll pause and reread the author’s note or stare at their picture. I’m constantly wondering what has brought them to the point where they had no choice but to place their words on paper, for all of the world to see.

I fell in love with a writer just before coming to Africa. After a series of chance meetings, he entered my life at such a time when connection was the last thing I expected, yet there it was, in all its ferociousness. Yet, in the end, we both chose something else. Me, Africa and him, well, I’m not exactly sure what he’s chosen.

This has all been rolling around in my head, so I’ve forced myself out of bed to type it out, in case I cannot recall it in the morning. Though, I suppose once I wake and reread it, it may not actually be the sound reasoning I’d imagined it to be and quite possibly something I’d never wish to share with anyone.

None the less, here it is, my late night wonderings about love and life. I wonder if all this time to think will result in clarity or sanity. I suppose time will tell.

I’ve just begun reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kunderas. I believe he is to blame for my mind set this evening.