Last Days

I think the best way for me to begin reflecting on the process of leaving my home in Dar is to consider my last day in Tanzania in light of my last day in the States, over two years ago:

December 7th, 2012

My last day in the States included morning Mass and breakfast out with my mom and dad, some last minute final touches on packing, a manicure and pedicure with my mom, a stop at the bank to hand over power of attorney to my dad and a surprise visit from some family members. I had been packed or packing for at least four days, everything was in order and really there wasn’t very much to worry about. All of the necessary things had been done and checked off a carefully crafted to do list- including planned goodbyes to family and friends. 

Despite all of this preparedness, though, I was not happy when I received my surprise visitors. I was anxious and annoyed and worried about losing a few minutes even though the visitors had the kindest intentions. I put on a happy face and welcomed them, but was really preoccupied by wondering if I would have enough time for my last hot shower and final preparations. I think, in total, they might have stayed in our living room for about 10 minutes and, of course, I still had more than enough time to do everything I needed to and arrive at the airport plenty early, even for an international flight.

In hindsight, being present to my visitors in their kindness would have been the best preparation for the next two years of my life . . . but alas, it takes some of us longer to learn such lessons.

Now, flash forward two years, a few days and a transformation of mind and spirit.

December 10th, 2014

I woke up, ran at Loyola, finished some packing I had started the day before, cleaned my bedroom and bathroom all before 8:00 a.m. The rest of the day involved a constant stream of visitors. From when we began to eat our banana pancake breakfast as a community until my last bucket shower a half hour before leaving for the airport, we had guests. You can factcheck with my community-mates, perhaps my memory is a bit distorted, but I think this is a pretty accurate picture of my last day in Dar. 

In fact, I am certain that if I didn’t say to some of my students, “Ok, you have to leave now so that I can bathe,” they would have waited until we packed the car with our bags and maybe even hopped in the trunk. And you know, I was so incredibly grateful for their company, their love and their support. We looked at pictures, told stories, ate cake (lots of cake, thanks to the Nandi family!) and they accompanied me to neighbors’ homes as we said our final goodbyes. Once or twice it crossed my mind that I still wasn’t really packed, hadn’t showered since the night before and probably should wash my hair one last time, but those thoughts faded quickly as another friend knocked on the gate and joined us to celebrate and share our last hours in our Tanzanian home.

And still, we arrived at the airport, despite the chronic traffic jams of Dar es Salaam, with more than enough time to sit, reflect and process the whirlwind of visits and goodbyes of the last week. We even got complimented on our outfits as we went through immigration.

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At this point in this two year transformation, I needed those people supporting me, loving me and showering me with their presence. I never once felt alone or afraid. I couldn’t feel sad and wallow in the pain of leaving; I didn’t have time to. I only had time to be present to the person next time, accompanying me to the end of this part of the journey.

If my last days in each of my homes are any kind of indication, I think I have undergone some kind of transformation- the extent of which I have yet to truly understand, but I invite each of you to continue journeying with me as I rediscover my American home as a Tanzanian-Irish-American for the first time. 

Welcome to our home to say hello! I should probably run this past my parents, but I would love to see you and be reminded of my community of support in my American home. Often, we Americans (myself included) value our schedules and to do lists more than the person in front of us, but Tanzanians have shown me the beauty and joy of accepting visitors and accompanying friends. I hope to share this value with those I love at home. Karibuni wote!

'my story'

My Story:

On our recent Re-Orientation/Dis-Orientation Retreat facilitated by JVC staff, the second year volunteers participated in a session on ‘sharing our story.’ I’ve done this before: in community organizing, in interviews, even in my initial JVC application. For some reason, though, this felt different. It felt as if I was to summarize two years of my life that were somehow separate or different from the rest, like I was supposed to explain what I was ‘doing’ this whole time. Two years is a significant amount of time ‘away,’ after all, and no, it wasn’t a trip or a vacation or a marketable, one size fits all, package-able experience; it was and still is simply my life for two years.

What happened in your life in the past two years? Probably a whole lot of ordinary or maybe not so ordinary experiences which have formed you in some way into who you are today. When I started to think of it this way, it all seemed much more manageable. These past two years in Tanzania fit into the natural flow of my life, but they’re also special in a way . . . now, how to communicate this clearly, concisely and thoughtfully? to the neighbor I see for the first time in December? to my grandmother? to my college roommate? my professors? and everyone else who will surely ask, “How was it?”

Well, my 4 year old nephew seems to ask the hardest questions, so if I can explain, ‘why Aunt Katie was in Africa for soo long’ to him, then I can explain it to anyone. Right?Just like, if I can explain the Resurrection of Christ on Easter Sunday to my 14 year old students for whom English is a second or maybe third language, then I can explain it to anyone. Right? I can try . . . 

Here’s the ‘John’ explanation: 

(read on if you want more justification, but I think, really, the John explanation might suffice)

The children and the families I lived and learned with are just like you and just like our family. Later on in your life, if you hear someone tell you that they’re not as good or different in a bad way- remember what I am telling you now: they were my friends and family for two years and they still are. We all deserve the same love and the same chances to learn and grow.

. . . extended story.

Extended version . . . 

Image:

Standing at the top of a hill before coming down to sit by the pond to attempt this ‘story’ exercise . . . I could see the big picture, maybe not the details of the yellow birds fluttering across the pond with sticks to build their nests, but I could see how the pond fit in as part of the larger landscape of trees and mountains, valleys and sky. There are also different details to observe around me at the higher vantage point- the flowers right next to me, the Chapel behind me, the tree in front of me . . . and they are important, too, and they all fit together as part of my experience.

I want to share the details of the pond and also how those details fit into the larger landscape of my life. I must appreciate the beauty and the details around me, no matter, what vantage point I’m currently taking.

“Be with us and PROCLAIM the richness of our life which you can share with us.”

Like the Acts of the Apostles and the other books after the Gospels, Jesus is no longer with the Apostles in the same way. The witness portion of their ministry seems distant, their friend is no longer with them, curing the sick, feeding the hungry, multiplying bread and wine, etc. They’re afraid: of telling the right story of Jesus’ ministry, of facing persecution, of missing the everyday miracles and conversations they shared with their companion and savior. But God knows this, and sends them the Holy Spirit to be among them, to journey with them as they struggle to share their story of their time with Him, their time of witness and accompaniment. They even receive certain helpful gifts, like courage, wisdom and discernment. 

What richness should I proclaim? . . . hospitality, faith, presence, community, generosity, people > things

“Be with us and be open to what we can give.”

It is not about the work I did or what I gave of myself, but what I received and who I have become.

“Be with us as a companion who walks with us- neither behind, nor in front- in our search for life and ultimately for God!”

It has been a journey of discovering faith and family.

NOW: “Will you use the faith you’ve found to reshape the world around?”

Now, I must share this faith and put it into action, allow it to form me and inform my next steps on this journey and my everyday, whether I am sitting by the pond or standing at the top of the hill observing the landscape as a whole, I must notice the beauty of the details around me wherever I am.

COLOR*BOLDNESS*BEAUTY

Small Miracles/Miujiza Midogo

A reflection on my 23rd year of life and the everyday miujiza midogo  (small miracles). 

This week’s gospels have recounted events of Jesus’ life which he clearly takes as activities kama kawaida (as usual) and his disciples take as alarming, confusing and mystifying miracles. 

On Sunday, Jesus casually turned five loaves and two fish into food for five thousand and then some. 

On Monday, he walked across water to get to his friends in their boat. 

On Wednesday, his transfigured-self chatted with Moses and Elijah on top of a mountain. 

And the disciples’ reactions to these miracles are just so . . . human. 

Sunday: ‘It’s not possible, send them away to buy food.’

Monday: ‘It’s a ghost!’ 

Wednesday: ‘Let’s stay up here and build each of you a temple!’  

They didn’t know how to react. Of course they didn’t. We probably wouldn’t either.

And sometimes we don’t know how to react to the everyday miracles which can go unnoticed. Even the most devoted and earnest of Jesus’ disciples questioned his greatness. On Monday, as Jesus is assuring them that he is not, in fact, a ghost, Peter demands, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Then as he is walking towards Christ, a strong wind comes along and he freaks out and begs for help.  Well, you got what you wanted, Peter, what now?

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I don’t know about you, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen five thousand people fed in one place, never mind with one loaf of bread, and for all of my time spent by the seaside, I have yet to see anyone successfully get from point a to point b without becoming wet and/or swimming, and I definitely haven’t had any visions of Jesus, Moses and Elijah up on a mountain top- Dar es Salaam is pretty flat. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not experiencing God’s love everyday. The small, everyday miracles are the things to which we must pay great attention in order to experience the same human emotions of awe, fear and disbelief like the disciples.

I recently turned 24. A good age, I think. Better than 23. 23 doesn’t really seem like an important number or age. It’s not impressive or interesting or evenly divisible by 2. But my 23rd year of life is significant in that it has been my only full year of life spent outside of the U.S., away from home. 23 is significant because of all of the everyday miujiza midogo which I have experienced and witnessed. And much like the disciples, I frequently did not know how to react and probably didn’t always recognize God’s presence in those moments. 

There were times when I felt like saying, “It’s not possible, send them away to buy food.” And then, we fed a few more guests than we had initially planned for. Or, ‘There just isn’t enough . . . food/resources/clothes/money/whatever.’ And then the community came together and there was more than enough.

There were times when I was afraid and confused and felt like I was looking at a ghost in place of a home and a family I used to know and understand. There were times when I demanded Christ, or God, or the Holy Spirit, or Someone to prove to me that I could do more and then in my frustration and fear, stumbled and again called for help.

There were also times that seemed so perfect or miraculous that I wanted to stay there and build a temple and not return to the everyday. There were people and places and moments that I was attached to, that I loved too much to let go. But when I did, I was able to find a new miracle in a new person, place, or moment. And I discovered the beauty of detachment as I was liberated to find joy and community in unexpected people, places and moments.

In this 24th year of life, which will be spent navigating significant transitions and exploring old relationships and places from a new perspective, I pray that my eyes will be open to the miujiza midogo of everyday life. I pray that I will be open to loving the present moment, the person next to me and the place I occupy. I pray this prayer for myself and for each of you.

(Gospels referenced: Mtt. 14:13-21, Mtt. 14: 22-32, Mtt. 17:1-8)

Ordinary?

I’m not writing this blog post after any particular ‘critical incident’ or from any specific source of inspiration. I hope you’ll continue reading anyway. 

I’m writing because I’ve been using, “but there’s nothing new,” as an excuse for not writing for almost three months. This is partially true. There really isn’t ‘much to write home about.’ I am here. I have been here for a long time. And I have kind of forgotten which incidents are unique, or special, or noteworthy. They are just part of my life. It’s as if I’ve forgotten that there’s something worth sharing, worth writing. And maybe there isn’t; and maybe my parents are the only ones who will read this; and maybe that’s o.k. 

My life has gotten smaller. I don’t watch the news everyday or read the newspaper. I am not in communication with a great many of my friends and family on a daily or even weekly basis. I am also not really lamenting this distance. I don’t mean this to sound harsh or callous. I do miss and love many people from home, but this wound just isn’t so excruciatingly fresh anymore. It’s more like the scar on my right shin. With time, Vitamin E supplements and sun exposure, it has mostly blended into the pale, freckly landscape of my leg. It’s there; you can see it if I point it out to you; I could explain in vivid detail the act that initially formed the wound, if you were interested, but most days you probably wouldn’t even notice it. I love my family, I love my friends and I will be happy to see them again, but I’ve healed. I’m here and I’m at peace with this.

I have a community here. I have co-workers and a parish and a neighborhood of people whom I see everyday and greet and pray with and share my life with. I guess this is immersion. This is the whole point after all, right? Then why does it feel so devoid of significance? of blog-worthy moments?

Last Sunday, I went for a run, showered, went to Mass, made fruit salad, graded essays,  sorted beans, baked bread, ate with my community, read my book and . . . went to bed. I think my life as a five year old actually may have been more ‘blog-worthy’- at least then I played out imaginary dramas and wrote raps with my big brother. 

My daily life is quite remarkably ordinary. I wake up at around 5:00 a.m., exercise, make coffee, read the readings of the day while eating breakfast, go to work, come home and do something very similar the next day. It might sound dull, but it isn’t. There are still those moments of joy I wrote about in a previous post, there are still moments of confusion and misunderstanding, but I’m just more balanced. I’m happy, healthy, joyful, enthusiastic and at peace. I am grateful for this peacefulness and I’m grateful for the ways it has allowed me to be present to God in others, in the everyday details of life in Mabibo.

after the storm

There will come a time, you’ll see, with no more tears and love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears. Get over your hill and see what you find there with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

(Mumford and Sons, “After the Storm”)

This past month has been very difficult. Many of the things I hoped wouldn’t happen, or couldn’t even anticipate happening while I was living so far from home seemed to happen. People I loved got sick, died, suffered, grieved, lost hope, became confused, distant and overwhelmed. And it seemed like it all happened to all different people in my life at the same moment. I was being pulled, yanked even, from this place and these relationships back to my roots. I became confused, distant, overwhelmed and sick(thanks to a nasty little parasite). But through all of this, I felt God drawing me closer.

God had given me all of the people, love and support I needed at exactly the right moments to sustain me, to give me hope, to allow me to love and to forgive despite my confusion. Yesterday, I found clarity as I reorganized my room as a physical sign of renewal. I read through letters, cards and notes from the last two years and some things I had written in college. The love from family and friends in those letters and physical signs of support was overwhelming, but what was most surprising was something I had written as part of my “Public Service Autobiography” for my Public and Community Service Capstone in 2012. Generally, when I look back on things I wrote in college, I do so while laughing at my pretension and self-righteousness. This, however, was the exception. It was totally and completely honest and relevant.  

(I refer to the story of “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” several times- it’s worth reading if you haven’t already!)

Here it is:

 “I am constantly trying to answer the questions I did not know I was asking myself when I was five-- how do I walk away from Omelas? How do I identify an injustice and rectify it? How do I make my communities more honest, complete and accepting? How do I bring peace into the world? And most importantly, how do I walk away from Omelas while maintaining and developing my relationships with my loving, supportive, undeniably hard-working and selfless family in the suburbs? It has taken time, thought, reflection, and a range of emotions including anger, sadness, joy, bliss, and confusion to understand this dilemma.

I now know that I will always challenge myself to consider this question of my place in the world. I haven’t been complacent since I was five and I don’t think I will ever allow myself to be complacent. That does not, however, mean that I will never allow myself to be content. On the contrary, I will not be content with my most important relationships unless I am working on my relationship with the child and slowly walking away from Omelas, slowly working to live more honestly. At this pivotal transition point, it may seem exceptionally important to reflect on how I do this and how I will continue to live my life, but in reality, this is a question I have been asking myself since I was 5 and probably won’t stop asking myself until I’m 105. 

I am at peace with this realization. It may seem completely intimidating, unstable, impractical and unconventional to many, but I gain inner calmness, stability and purpose from challenging myself to think about my relationship with injustice and my place within or without the walls of Omelas. The inner calmness, stability and purpose which I gain from working for justice is what sustains me and allows me to be present to my family and friends throughout the world.”

I have found this inner calmness, stability and purpose here in Dar es Salaam, living as a JV- learning to teach and be taught, learning to love and be loved, learning to listen and be listened to, learning to give and receive, learning to be gentle and accept gentleness. This is a grace. It is a grace I am thankful for. It is a grace I pray for and try to nurture while recognizing my own flaws and brokenness.

“So, in the quietness of this place, in this group, in this particular moment, on this particular afternoon, surrounded by the presence of the Holy, my heart whispers to me: keep fresh before me the moments of my Highest knowing that in fair weather or foul, in good times or in tempests, in the days when the darkness and the foe are nameless or familiar, in the mix of voices, mine and others, in my fears and my frets, my weakness and my love I may not forget that, to which my life is committed.”

(excerpt from Deep is the Hunger by Howard Thurman)

Paka na Ng'ombe

This past Monday evening, after returning from a full day of school and basketball practice, I planned to continue my own exercise routine at home before eating dinner with the community. Like clockwork, just as I began my evening workout, our lovely neighborhood children began banging (no, really. not knocking- banging) on our gate. Either a reserve of endorphins from basketball practice or God’s hand was responsible for my generous and patient response to the gate. I calmly explained that we can’t play right now because we’re cooking and exercising. Case closed. Goodbye. See you tomorrow, when you will surely return and try again. 

Surprisingly, and to my dismay- my calm, but somewhat curt response did not deter them . . .

Their response: “Can we exercise with you, teacha?” 

My intentionally delayed response: “Are you sure you really want to? We can’t play around.” 

Their immediate and enthusiastic response: “YES, YES, teacher! We want to do exercises with you.” 

So, intrigued and incredulous about where this could lead, I welcomed them to the porch where I continued with my routine. I figured I would start with a challenging exercise so maybe they’d want to go home early. Of course, my attempt to discourage and tire them out also failed. In fact, it had the exactly opposite effect. They loved it. They laughed, counted together and cheered the whole time. “Another, teacher! Another!” 

We did jumping jacks and high knees, lunges and downward dogs; we took turns counting in English and Kiswahili. When I finally gave into their joy and gave up trying to keep my ‘me’ time just for me, I realized that I was having way more fun meowing for paka pose and mooing for ng’ombe pose than I have ever had inhaling for cat pose and exhaling for cow alone in my room. We all had a blast, and, in truth, I probably got a better and longer workout from all of the laughing and the joy distracting me from my tired body. I finally understood what the yoga instructors mean when they say, “have fun with your practice!” Making animal noises and helping some chubby kids find their way into warrior pose was definitely more fun than my calm, solitary practice.

I am now certain that God was in that moment reminding me, yet again, to let go of my plans and make room for joy. 

“The simple life is one in which there is always time to remember the divine purpose behind each of our tasks, time to listen for a possible divine amendment to the day’s schedule, and time to be thankful for the divine presence at each moment of the day.” 

(from Plain Living: A Quaker Path to Simplicity by Catherine Whitmire)