"Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose." ~ "Kevin Arnold" (The Wonder Years)
To attempt to sum up the past two months of my life in Africa would be an exercise of futility, an impossibility; I couldn't possibly capture what I have done, what I have seen and what I have grown to love with a fondness I knew nothing of a couple months ago. Being back in Canada for the past ten days has been a mind-fuck, that's for sure and I have grown to love the phrase "I have a head full of fuck" because it's the only thing I can say that even comes close to describing my experience of transitioning back into "real life." Real life - what a joke.
I wouldn't say I'm bitter about being back but I'm not happy either. I'm lonely - that would be accurate - but, it's a loneliness that makes me want to isolate myself from others because being around them doesn't make me feel any less lonely. I think it's because I am lonely for a place, for a feeling and an experience that was brought about by the life I was living. Everything here seems so obnoxious, so fast, so absurd.
This will be a process, I'm aware of this fact. And, when my head is less full of fuck, I will write more and talk all about the beauty of what I experienced. But for now, I'll be "fuckity headspace magoo," a title recently given to me by a friend who gets where I'm at. It's fitting.
Showing posts with label africa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label africa. Show all posts
Hakuna Matata
Time is now being measured in "sleeps" as opposed to days. Two more sleeps until the great, long awaited journey begins. My first leg begins on Saturday night and involves the flight between Canada and London, which will take approximately six and a half hours. I land in London on Sunday morning, the day of the Olympics closing ceremony. I can't imagine anyone will be at London's Heathrow Airport on that particular day. After a ten hour layover at Heathrow I embark on my second leg of the trip, flying from London to Nairobi, which will take just over eight hours. I land in Nairobi early Monday morning. As I sit here and contemplate what my state of mind will be like upon landing in Nairobi after 36 hours of travelling, I laugh hysterically knowing that I will most certainly be a complete basket case. Thank goodness for Lorazepam. From Nairobi, I travel approximately 45 minutes to an hour West of the city by cab until I reach my final destination. And just like that, the seven weeks begin.
Today, someone asked me what I am looking forward to the most. Elephants. Hearing African children sing. Acacia trees. Snuggling babies. The Masai Mara. Being anonymous. A shift in perspective and understanding of many, many things. Notice that Heathrow Airport is not included on this short list.
Two sleeps. I'm sure it will be interesting to see just how much actual sleep occurs.
Fast Forward
"You have to go on and be crazy. Craziness is like heaven." ~ Jimi Hendrix (Musician, Best Guitar Player Ever)
I am operating at no less than 100 miles per hour at any given time of the day. 9am, 5pm, 3am....there is no differentiation or discepancy. I highly suspect that this is what people who experience manic states at least kinda feel like. I am not finding it overly enjoyable. Since quitting smoking, I've been experiencing absolute insomnia, which is adding to the ringing noise that rattles through my brain like I've just taken a hit off a crack pipe.
16 days from now, I will be flying to Africa.
Every day between this very moment and that 16th day is packed with things to do, people to see, paperwork to catch up on, planning, on-call for work (which is a fate worse than death), last minute purchases, phone calls, and so on and so forth.
All I want to do is lay around and get drunk in quiet solitude as I imagine that won't be easy to come by for the seven weeks I'm working in Africa surrounded by 70 children.
I am operating at no less than 100 miles per hour at any given time of the day. 9am, 5pm, 3am....there is no differentiation or discepancy. I highly suspect that this is what people who experience manic states at least kinda feel like. I am not finding it overly enjoyable. Since quitting smoking, I've been experiencing absolute insomnia, which is adding to the ringing noise that rattles through my brain like I've just taken a hit off a crack pipe.
16 days from now, I will be flying to Africa.
Every day between this very moment and that 16th day is packed with things to do, people to see, paperwork to catch up on, planning, on-call for work (which is a fate worse than death), last minute purchases, phone calls, and so on and so forth.
All I want to do is lay around and get drunk in quiet solitude as I imagine that won't be easy to come by for the seven weeks I'm working in Africa surrounded by 70 children.
Crossing Stuff off the Extremely Long List
"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." ~ Mark Twain (American Author & Humorist)
65 days. Unbelievable. Basically, that's tomorrow with a few days in between now and then.
340 bucks later, I have been inoculated against all that might ail me while away in Africa for seven weeks. Today was 'visit the travel clinic day' and I succumbed to yellow fever, typhoid, and hep A and B shots. I declined some others, such as polio, as it is against my nature to get vaccinated for anything. I don't even get the flu shot as some odd place in my brain has me almost convinced that there might be a government conspiracy driving these large inoculation movements. No, I am not schizophrenic. Paranoid, probably. I was also prescribed anti-malaria medication (to the tune of 400 smackaroos) and a wide spectrum antibiotic for extreme poops. In the fairly likely event of extreme poops, I also bought re-hydration salts because if you are extreme pooping, you really want to hydrate yourself. I'm less concerned about the hydration aspect and more concerned about extreme pooping into a hole in the ground. Not to be crude or anything but that sounds messy.
Now, my arm hurts...only one out of two, so there's a daily positive. I think it's funny that I should complain about this given that my largest piece of body art took about eight hours to complete and I did not complain about that during or afterwards.
Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to Africa I go.
Days Pass Quickly
"Time is what prevents everything from happening at once." ~John Archibald Wheeler (American Theoretical Physicist)
Today's count sits at 82 days until I leave for Africa. I have to start getting my shots in about three weeks. There are crucial items I need to purchase, such as luggage, which would be good to start with so I can pack the other items I also need to buy to fill the luggage. A sleeping bag, a warm one, because it gets cold where I'm going. The travel warnings continue to be fairly serious and the people who care about me are becoming unnerved because of my non-unnerved-ness about the situation. Oddly enough, my mother appears to be handling things really well but, at the same time, it's not likely that she's caught the international news on these particular events. My attitude: it is what it is. I can't wait to get there.
Time snuck up on me and yelled YOU'RE LEAVING REALLY SOON, then recommended that I start getting my ass in gear.
82 days. So excited.
Today's count sits at 82 days until I leave for Africa. I have to start getting my shots in about three weeks. There are crucial items I need to purchase, such as luggage, which would be good to start with so I can pack the other items I also need to buy to fill the luggage. A sleeping bag, a warm one, because it gets cold where I'm going. The travel warnings continue to be fairly serious and the people who care about me are becoming unnerved because of my non-unnerved-ness about the situation. Oddly enough, my mother appears to be handling things really well but, at the same time, it's not likely that she's caught the international news on these particular events. My attitude: it is what it is. I can't wait to get there.
Time snuck up on me and yelled YOU'RE LEAVING REALLY SOON, then recommended that I start getting my ass in gear.
82 days. So excited.
Stopping Waiting
"The test of an adventure is that when you're in the middle of it, you say to yourself, 'Oh, now I’ve got myself into an awful mess; I wish I were sitting quietly at home.' And the sign that something's wrong with you is when you sit quietly at home wishing you were out having lots of adventure." ~ Thornton Wilder (Pulitzer-Prize Winning Playwright & Novelist)
Tonight I took what I consider to be the 'big step' in the African adventure plans.....I booked the flights. Realistically, I know that the 'big step' was making the decision to go but this particular step seemed to solidify that first one. I have been looking at tickets for a few weeks now and, quite honestly, every time I found one that was reasonable, I got a little lightheaded and decided to keep on looking (which translated into, keep on waiting). Tonight, I decided that waiting was for suckers, so I booked the damn thing. I leave on August 11th and arrive the morning of August 13th, making my previously noted countdown dates a little off. I now firmly sit at 135 days.
It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Africa
"The difference between great people and everyone else is that great people create their lives actively, while everyone else is created by their lives, passively waiting to see where life takes them next. The difference between the two is the difference between living fully and just existing." ~ Michael E. Gerber (Non-fiction Writer)
Opening up my Christmas presents and seeing items such as a bug net, water purification tablets, and a Whiz It (a contraption that allows women to pee standing up - hahaha), made things even more real. The date is creeping closer and, as of today, I sit at 214 days until departure. Time is moving so quickly all of a sudden and there's so much to accomplish.....so much I still don't know and need to figure out.
When I close my eyes and picture myself there, the place I've dreamed of for so long, I get butterflies in my stomach.
I like butterflies.
The Hockey Punch
"In Canada, you're not a hockey player until you've lost some teeth." ~ Andy Bathgate (Professional Canadian Hockey Player)
You might be wondering what the hell hockey has to do with my trip to Africa....and I'm going to tell you. Nothing. Nothing outside of the link I am about to make. My mom was recently asking me how I plan to protect myself while in Africa, meaning should I be kidnapped, raped, and tortured, what's my plan of action? In not knowing how to answer this question, but wanting to appease my mother's worry, I told her that I wanted to perfect the art of the hockey punch. You know, the ol' pull the jersey over your opponents head and start wailing on him punch. What?? was her reply. I explained that in Africa, no one would see this move coming.
The humor was lost on her.
If you'd like to see a demonstration of the ol' hockey punch, you can see it here:
Pool Rockets
"Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save." ~ Will Rogers (American Cowboy, Comedian)
My sister and I have developed on the opposite ends of a very long spectrum. But comparatively to the differences between the moon and the sun, there are also similarities between us much like how the sun and the moon share the same sky for the purpose of illuminating us here on earth. Cut from the same cloth, yet sewn very differently. My sister is conservative and introverted, married her high school sweetheart who she never lived with prior to marriage, would never even consider smoking a joint or getting a tattoo, likes safe automobiles, enjoys making crafts, and lives a quiet and sensible life. Me, on the other hand, I am extremely liberal and loud, have never owned anything of any significance, avoid commitment like the plague, have smoked more joints than I care to define and have many tattoos with more in mind, and experience love with reckless abandon without considering consequences. That's all to say that the advice my sister gave me about Africa this past summer, while sipping "pool rockets" (alcoholic drinks consumed around a pool...there are also walking rockets, party rockets...well, any kind of rocket, really) on a hot, sunny day while on holidays together was fairly uncharacteristic.
I believe it went something like this: "Just fucking do it. Get the time off, get a loan from the bank and go for as long as you possibly can."
Hmmmmm. "Yes, I suppose I could do that." So, that's what I did.
My sister isn't someone I've always gone to for advice. And in the times I have done so, there's been many times I did not listen or wished I had never asked in the first place. However, as I have gotten older and my sister has gotten cooler, I have come to realize that she's one of the only people I know who gives really sound advice. Probably because she's normal.
A week later, back at work, I booked a meeting with my supervisor and the executive director to discuss just how long I could push this Africa trip, as five weeks was already a go. Much to my chagrin, the first opportunity they had to meet with me was three weeks away. I started a countdown on my desktop. September 22. On the afternoon before the meeting, when I was quite literally, but very quietly, bouncing off the walls about, my supervisor emails me to tell me the executive director couldn't make it. Remember that balloon sound that I mentioned in my last post.....that again. Unfortunately, this was not uncharacteristic of the executive director, so I emailed him to see if we could move the date to a time when he could attend.
The week before, I had spent hours preparing for this meeting. I developed a thorough proposal for extended time off that accounted for everything that needed to be taken into consideration for me to be able to take more time off. I had sent them both the proposal a few days before the meeting so they could review my thoughts and ideas. The most considerable portion of the proposal surrounded the benefits to my agency should they let me have the time off to go to Africa. This required some creativity and commitments on my part....all of which are totally worth it. Surprisingly, my executive director re-arranged his schedule so the meeting could occur.
In my work place, coming up with obstacles as to why a plan of action cannot take place is a past time. Unfortunately, we are not the best problem solvers; however, we are awesome problem creators. Given this, it was much to my shock (and delight) when both my supervisor and executive director transformed into problem solvers right before my eyes. I won't get into the conversation, however, I will get to the final decision. I was approved for 8 weeks of time off to travel to Africa.....and that's all that really matters.
The next step, following my sister's very sound advice, was to secure a line of credit from the bank, as my ass was certainly not going to be able to save enough money for an adventure of this magnitude. Never gonna happen. Again, I was super pleased to find out that the bank will give practically anyone funds that they cannot afford to pay back. After signing some simple forms, $10,000 was put directly into my bank account with a low interest rate. Fantastic. Now, you might be asking....what in the hell did I need that much money for? Well, flights are around $2000-2500, the medication/shots needed are about $550, spending money while there, covering my salary while gone....it all adds up - QUICKLY. And, besides that, I knew that I'd want an Africa-memorial tattoo upon return and I wanted $1000 put aside for that adventure.
Let's recap. As of this point, I now had:
- 8 weeks off work;
- $10000 to travel with; and,
- a place to volunteer at.
Everything fell into place, as everything had prior to this moment, as everything had since making the decision to go to Africa in the first place. My countdown has now changed to my anticipated date of departure and, as of today, it sits at 256 days.
Jiggers
"We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us." ~ Joseph Campbell (American Mythologist, Writer & Lecturer).
To be honest, I didn't have a planned life to get rid of, making the transition into a new life far easier. I don't plan ahead, I don't save for retirement. I rent an apartment because I refuse to purchase a house and I can't imagine living with another person or getting married. I am okay living with some financial debt, as I know it is my reality. When I die, I just want to keel over, untroubled by the events, accomplishments and misfortunes of my life. This is me. I have wasted so much time and there's no more time to waste. Wine should be drank. Music should be listened to loudly. Feet are for dancing. Lungs are for taking deep breaths. Lips are for kissing and smiling. Family is for loving and driving you crazy. I should go to Africa. To Limuru, Kenya. As soon as possible.
After dinner at my colleagues place, I let myself sit with the knowledge that a journey to Africa was actually possible. With my mind spinning with the information I had learned, I didn't feel scared about what emerged as my potential future. Ron's son had described the beautiful and "not-so-beautiful" aspects of life in Kenya, at least the parts of life he personally experienced. In his three months there, he got malaria and what's known as "jiggers" - a flea parasite that burrows into your feet, lays eggs, and eventually pops your toenails off (*shudder. He treated his jiggers before it became problematic). He had pictures of "bathrooms" (latrines) that would make most people resort to peeing in their pants....personally, I'd rather pee in street. And he had pictures of very poor, starving, HIV positive children. That was hard, but it was also reality. These images were mingled amongst beautiful photos of sunsets, jungles, locals, smiling children, and amazing adventures. I wanted to experience it all...not to sound too, you know, cliché.
I emailed Ron asking him to contact his connections in Kenya and then waited for approximately one month before skipping that step entirely and directly emailing the volunteer coordinator myself. Something that had taken so much time to develop now seemed urgent and immediate. By this time, I had spoken with my supervisor at work who had been hearing of my dreams of Africa for quite some time and wasn't terribly surprised to discover that I was putting a plan into action. Initially, I had no idea as to how much time I could take off and when I originally approached the conversation with my boss, five weeks somehow sprang into my head as a reasonable amount of time to travel to Kenya. Five weeks. It seemed like the perfect amount of time to travel to Africa, do some volunteering and return home. It didn't seem too long or too short - just enough time to get some experience. Barring all complications and potential limitations that could be placed upon my travel via the executive director, my supervisor agreed that five weeks was a possibility. I emailed a woman named Marlies, expressing my interest in volunteering. I proposed the five weeks and attached my resume. Then, I waited another month.
That was a long month. I imagine my waiting for her response was similar to a child writing Santa Claus and then waiting for Christmas morning to arrive to see if their wishes were answered by the jolly guy upstairs. When she finally wrote back I spent 2.3 seconds being terrified to open the email and then another 1.4 seconds deciding that was ridiculous. Email opened, the first few lines read beautifully....."perfect fit..." "skills and experience are very relevant...." "love to have you....." Then came the however....."however, we would prefer for you to come no less than two to three months in order for the children and workers to get used to you." Well, that was never going to happen. Balloon, deflated, flying around the room making that puhhhhhhhhhffffffff noise.
Damnit.
Enter racking brain to see how I could make this work.
Karma
"When good karma dawns, the wall of doubt is torn down." ~ Sri Guru Ganth Sahib (this is difficult to explain; google it).
If I didn't believe in Karma before this process began (which I did), I certainly would have been forced to afterwards. To me, not a lot of other explanations outside of karma make sense, but I'm sure - to others - there might be a more concrete interpretation of these events.
Last April I was able to attend the 90-minute webinar with MSF, which comprised of an overview of the organization, the recruitment process, and practical information about what it is like to work for them, what to expect, etc. The information was terrifically exciting but defeating at the same time. The biggest, most relevant piece of information was that MSF only accepts about 20% of all applications made to work for them. That's not a lot of people (if basic math is not simple for you, that's an 80% rejection rate). MSF relies heavily on what's called national staff, which are individuals from the area receiving support who are trained by MSF staff to be able to keep services sustainable once MSF pulls out. International staff, which is what I would be, make up a small portion of the overall staff pool and generally spend 60% of their time training national staff and 40% of their time in direct intervention with the people using MSF's services. This was not a problem for me, as I am very comfortable presenting and teaching and have a lot of experience doing so. It actually seemed like a nice balance between working front line and working as an educator.
The second biggest, most relevant piece of information was around the stringent recruitment criteria, some of which I met with my current education and experience. A heavy emphasis was placed upon having previous experience working and travelling outside of Canada/USA, as well as speaking French (and other languages that may be considered applicable). This was an issue. Although my last name is French and my father is Acadian French, I do not speak French outside of statements helpful to find a bathroom or engage in a simple greeting. As for the travel/work experience, well, that's what MSF was going to be for me. I had no idea there would be an expectation of accomplishing that before starting with MSF; although, upon reflection, it made perfect sense. Basically, MSF needs to know that, as an applicant, you know yourself well enough (through experience) to know: whether you can live in harsh conditions, face situations daily that are traumatic in nature, take a huge step outside of your comfort zone, and walk away (for a year) from everything you know and love, without poking your eyes out with a sharp stick. They are not going to invest time and money into you without knowing that you can manage all of that, plus more. MSF exists in some pretty conflict filled areas where staff are only allowed to travel between the compound and their place of work for months at a time because it is not safe to venture outside of that very small box. And, you cannot know if you can manage this without experiencing it first; you simply cannot know. You can think you know, but, you don't really know....you know?
At first, this information made me think my dream (which I had finally decided to act upon) was out of my reach; this was a huge bummer. From the research I had done, I knew that volun-tourism was booming in places like Africa and that organizations were making lots of money offering volunteer opportunities to tourists in combination with an African tourist experience. The cost of joining some of these projects totaled somewhere around $6000 and that did not count your air fare (which, as you can imagine, is expensive) and only provided you with six weeks of travelling/volunteering. I knew I could not afford something like this to gain the experience needed to become part of MSF. That was not going to happen.
Two days after attending the webinar (the day after my 33rd birthday), I was walking through the parking lot of my agency in the afternoon, when I ran into my colleagues husband, Ron. My colleague, a clinician, and her family are some of the most interesting people I know, as they are adventurers, environmentalists, and activists. They have two sons between them, both in their early to mid 20's, who are some of the coolest, most socially conscious kids I know. I am constantly asking her how she managed to raise such great kids, such great men and her answers are always wonderful. I wish she had been my mom. As I stopped to talk to Ron and he asked me what I've been up to, I found myself describing the MSF webinar and the obstacles I was now facing in accomplishing my dream. He listened to me and then responded by noting that his oldest son had just returned from working on a project in Mudete, Kenya (Western Kenya), a project that he had been working with himself for quite some time. He suggested that I come over for dinner sometime so that he and his son could tell me more about it, in the event I would like to become involved. I asked him how much this would cost, to volunteer for this particular organization, and he said that it wouldn't cost anything outside of the plane ticket and a small amount of cash needed to buy necessities. Now, that sounded interesting.
It didn't take long for the dinner to be organized and I ended up going over to their place about two weeks after the conversation in the parking lot happened. Over some wine, salmon and yummy dessert, the dialogue revolved around Africa and Kenya, tribal wars, aid projects, and specifics around the organization Ron and his son had worked with. As it turned out, Ron was working on a documentary that featured the small Fairview School in Mudete, Kenya, where orphaned children - many with HIV - attended classes. Their stories were captivating and I was able to view pictures and videos of their adventures in Africa and, as the discussion progressed, Ron introduced me to another organization that he had visited in Limuru, Kenya - about 20 miles outside Nairobi. As far as he knew, there was little to no cost to volunteer with them either and he could connect me to the appropriate people at either organization. All it took was watching a 10 minute informational video about the organization in Limuru and I knew that's where I wanted to go. Watching that video sparked something deep inside me that, since then, has not diminished.
So, I made another decision...Limuru, Kenya. Full steam ahead.
If I didn't believe in Karma before this process began (which I did), I certainly would have been forced to afterwards. To me, not a lot of other explanations outside of karma make sense, but I'm sure - to others - there might be a more concrete interpretation of these events.
Last April I was able to attend the 90-minute webinar with MSF, which comprised of an overview of the organization, the recruitment process, and practical information about what it is like to work for them, what to expect, etc. The information was terrifically exciting but defeating at the same time. The biggest, most relevant piece of information was that MSF only accepts about 20% of all applications made to work for them. That's not a lot of people (if basic math is not simple for you, that's an 80% rejection rate). MSF relies heavily on what's called national staff, which are individuals from the area receiving support who are trained by MSF staff to be able to keep services sustainable once MSF pulls out. International staff, which is what I would be, make up a small portion of the overall staff pool and generally spend 60% of their time training national staff and 40% of their time in direct intervention with the people using MSF's services. This was not a problem for me, as I am very comfortable presenting and teaching and have a lot of experience doing so. It actually seemed like a nice balance between working front line and working as an educator.
The second biggest, most relevant piece of information was around the stringent recruitment criteria, some of which I met with my current education and experience. A heavy emphasis was placed upon having previous experience working and travelling outside of Canada/USA, as well as speaking French (and other languages that may be considered applicable). This was an issue. Although my last name is French and my father is Acadian French, I do not speak French outside of statements helpful to find a bathroom or engage in a simple greeting. As for the travel/work experience, well, that's what MSF was going to be for me. I had no idea there would be an expectation of accomplishing that before starting with MSF; although, upon reflection, it made perfect sense. Basically, MSF needs to know that, as an applicant, you know yourself well enough (through experience) to know: whether you can live in harsh conditions, face situations daily that are traumatic in nature, take a huge step outside of your comfort zone, and walk away (for a year) from everything you know and love, without poking your eyes out with a sharp stick. They are not going to invest time and money into you without knowing that you can manage all of that, plus more. MSF exists in some pretty conflict filled areas where staff are only allowed to travel between the compound and their place of work for months at a time because it is not safe to venture outside of that very small box. And, you cannot know if you can manage this without experiencing it first; you simply cannot know. You can think you know, but, you don't really know....you know?
At first, this information made me think my dream (which I had finally decided to act upon) was out of my reach; this was a huge bummer. From the research I had done, I knew that volun-tourism was booming in places like Africa and that organizations were making lots of money offering volunteer opportunities to tourists in combination with an African tourist experience. The cost of joining some of these projects totaled somewhere around $6000 and that did not count your air fare (which, as you can imagine, is expensive) and only provided you with six weeks of travelling/volunteering. I knew I could not afford something like this to gain the experience needed to become part of MSF. That was not going to happen.
Two days after attending the webinar (the day after my 33rd birthday), I was walking through the parking lot of my agency in the afternoon, when I ran into my colleagues husband, Ron. My colleague, a clinician, and her family are some of the most interesting people I know, as they are adventurers, environmentalists, and activists. They have two sons between them, both in their early to mid 20's, who are some of the coolest, most socially conscious kids I know. I am constantly asking her how she managed to raise such great kids, such great men and her answers are always wonderful. I wish she had been my mom. As I stopped to talk to Ron and he asked me what I've been up to, I found myself describing the MSF webinar and the obstacles I was now facing in accomplishing my dream. He listened to me and then responded by noting that his oldest son had just returned from working on a project in Mudete, Kenya (Western Kenya), a project that he had been working with himself for quite some time. He suggested that I come over for dinner sometime so that he and his son could tell me more about it, in the event I would like to become involved. I asked him how much this would cost, to volunteer for this particular organization, and he said that it wouldn't cost anything outside of the plane ticket and a small amount of cash needed to buy necessities. Now, that sounded interesting.
It didn't take long for the dinner to be organized and I ended up going over to their place about two weeks after the conversation in the parking lot happened. Over some wine, salmon and yummy dessert, the dialogue revolved around Africa and Kenya, tribal wars, aid projects, and specifics around the organization Ron and his son had worked with. As it turned out, Ron was working on a documentary that featured the small Fairview School in Mudete, Kenya, where orphaned children - many with HIV - attended classes. Their stories were captivating and I was able to view pictures and videos of their adventures in Africa and, as the discussion progressed, Ron introduced me to another organization that he had visited in Limuru, Kenya - about 20 miles outside Nairobi. As far as he knew, there was little to no cost to volunteer with them either and he could connect me to the appropriate people at either organization. All it took was watching a 10 minute informational video about the organization in Limuru and I knew that's where I wanted to go. Watching that video sparked something deep inside me that, since then, has not diminished.
So, I made another decision...Limuru, Kenya. Full steam ahead.
Momentum
"Just trust yourself, then you will know how to live." ~ Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe (German Writer, Physicist, Biologist)
Let’s chat a little more about that momentum I was speaking about during my last post.....
Developing a relationship with yourself is assumedly one of the more challenging journey’s in human existence, as I believe this is often the relationship that is left neglected and starving in the corner. Learning to trust yourself after years of indifference...well, that's a little more difficult. Here's how I view this process:
Inside of each of us lives a small child that represents the truest form of our being. This inner child has a lot of power, as they are the keepers of our happiest and most terrifying moments and experiences. And, they never forget. If you love yourself in the healthiest of ways, pay attention to this little person inside, and nurture yourself above all others, it is my opinion that this little person generally remains content and docile. However, when you neglect that child, when you forget to love yourself and compromise all that you are and depend on others for primary nurturing, that inner child often will raise their voice to shout for attention. In essence, that little person doesn't trust that you will take care of him or her and, therefore, when you attempt to make change that is unfamiliar, he or she freaks out like a kid in Wal-Mart when the newest, shiniest plastic toy isn't purchased for them. The inner child is temperamental.
Unfortunately, my inner child has experienced the latter category for a very long time. It has been my tendency to silence her when she is screaming for attention, rather than nurturing her, me, us. Through my meetings with Jenny, this process has begun and it has been extremely difficult. When applied to my dreams of going to Africa, my inner child was doubtful at best. She consistently told me self-defeating messages that lead me to distrust myself and my abilities. She convinced me that, due to the neglect I had imposed on myself over the years, I did not possess the strength and fortitude to take care of myself under such strenuous circumstances as travelling and working in Africa. I mean, let's be honest, you really need to have things "under wraps" to take on an adventure such as this and, to me, that meant having my spiritual, emotional and physical health in tip-top shape.
If you have read any of my previous posts, you will know that I have been struggling with my spirituality since I was a child. I need to continue writing those posts, as my journey with that continues. I have made enough progress to now understand that I cannot continue to neglect this aspect of my life, as I am continuously searching. My emotional health - well, that's what Jenny was for. And, upon making all of the above discoveries, I was super happy to know that I had someone competent guiding me along the rough terrain in front of me. I had been neglecting my physical health for ages in terms of my eating and exercise habits and I was constantly feeling under the weather, fatigued, and experienced headaches and lethargy. Basically, I was a mess in all of the areas I felt needed significant attention. Out of them all, I felt the most secure in the progress I was making with Jenny, in looking after my emotional health; however, the other two were seriously lacking.
It takes a lot of energy, this self-discovery business. It’s worth it; don’t get me wrong, but exhausting. And expensive (in my case). Although this is getting a little ahead of ourselves, I will say that over time, the expenses associated with this journey – the therapy sessions, the visits to the Osteopath, the classes on meditation, the complete change in diet – have tallied quite the ongoing total. It’s worth it. Every single day, it’s worth it. And, over time, you just get used to being broke. To say that I have done all of this, all with the goal of getting to Africa, is accurate and astounding. To say that it is out of character for me to engage myself on this level over an extended period of time is a gross understatement. But, I have. And I plan on continuing to do so for a lifetime – or at least until I get to Africa. My inner child is quieter these days; although she is not yet still (hence the meditation classes).
It’s a work in progress.
As mentioned in my last post, 7 months ago, I made the decision that I was going to Africa. That switch-flipping I was talking about....it was what lead to all of the movement described above. As my head became clearer, I started investigating what would be involved with getting on with MSF. Although I had read a lot about the organization, I had not actually explored the practical aspects of working with them. As I reviewed their extensive criteria and application process, I was surprised by how many aspects I fulfilled with my education and experience. I would qualify for a para-medical staff position as a social worker, particularly given my experience working with kids who have suffered trauma. I was surprised to find out that MSF offered a monthly salary and, although it isn’t a large amount, it is far larger than I had imagined. As a Canadian, working for MSF would pay me $1700/month and all of my expenses (from the time I left my home until the time I returned) would be covered. That would allow me to keep up with my student loan payments while away, which was my main concern. The contracts ranged from 9-12 months for field staff, with mandatory breaks and holidays along the way. I imagine MSF doesn’t want you poking your eyes out with a sharp stick after working for months at a time in the most demanding and taxing circumstances out there. Breaks are good. The website (provided in a previous post) was extremely comprehensive and user-friendly; however, I did not feel that I could get all of the necessary information that I needed from it. Karma kicked in and, next thing I knew, a free 90 minute webinar was being offered in a month’s time that I could easily register for. And I did. And that’s when it all really began.
Money Well Spent
"You have brains in your head and feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You're on your own and you know what you know. And you are the one who'll decide where to go." ~Dr. Seuss
We're finally getting closer to the point in this story where it will reach real time....but, we have a little bit further to go before we get there. After reading all these books, I began to wish that I could just place my head on top of a book and just extract all the information it contained directly into my brain. I had merely scratched the surface of what I wanted and needed to know and it was impossible (for me) to keep, for example, all the tribal wars straight. As I moved through this process I began to reflect on the idea that I was engaging in a lot of research for something that was simply a dream.
A brilliant man once told me, every good therapist has their own therapist. He also told me that, every good social worker is always one step away from being fired and I can honestly say that I live by both. This post is to talk about the former who we shall refer to as 'Jenny' (which is a name that I love, for no apparent reason other than a possible loose association to the movie Forrest Gump). Jenny and I began working together close to a year ago and she wasn't my first crack at the therapy-show. I have a tendency to make up names for my therapists that fit their personalities, such as Doctor Question Mark and Dr. Geeky Pat (he reminded me of a geeky version of my old friend Pat). Doctor ? was a fucking quack....we'll leave it at that. Jenny has always been Jenny, no fancy made up name for her.
Initially, I sought Jenny's services because I was being triggered by a kid at work that I was engaging in therapy, which was distressing for me professionally and personally. Counter-transference is not a good thing. Interestingly enough, we only talked about that particular problem for a few sessions and then we got down to the real work. I identify this period as being the beginning of the journey that lead me to where I presently am in my life, which is at a distinctly different (and happier) place. As Jenny and I worked through tough topics and experiences, my valuable dollars being spent on therapy were put to work as I refused to engage in this fairly expensive process without doing what was necessary. Apparently, I am a "good client," as I continually do my "homework," which is a nice way of saying I do the work required to re-wire my brain to think, see and understand things a little differently. Not an easy task, if you ask me.
Our main focus became - the primary focus of almost all therapeutic relationships - working through issues related to my family of origin (which is fancy way of saying immediate family). This was interesting and difficult, as my relationship with my family has often been coloured by tension, unease and what I perceive as non-acceptance over the years. We're a great bunch, my clan, but we have our issues. These conversations transitioned into work around my relational style with other significant people in my life, which then - somehow - transitioned into fulfilling one's dreams by being true to oneself. I guess the connection was exploring the most important relationship of my life - my relationship with myself. Money well spent. I guess it was around month three when I expressed my desire to travel to Africa to Jenny, although I cannot remember the exact context of the entire conversation. Her words of wisdom were shockingly simple: well, why couldn't you go to Africa? For the first time in a long time, my contrived arguments were drastically weaker in strength. The arguments revolved around finances and time off work and an ignorance about what opportunities were actually out there to support my dream in coming into fruition. In a moment, I realized that all the books I read, although rich in information and beautifully narrated, really did not give me any information about actually going somewhere to do something. I was basically and acutely dense about how to pull that off, regardless of my new level of social consciousness. No wonder I didn't think that I could go to Africa.
I hate this metaphor but, it is appropriate here: it was like a switch flipped in my head and everything changed. And, now - seven months later - the switch still hasn't turned off. Jenny has been integral in this process, as she created a space wherein my inner momentum could be recognized. She has continued helping me along my way by encouraging me to keep that momentum moving forward instead of sucking me backwards like a vacuum. It seems like every new personal discovery since that time has somehow nicely fit in with the transition of my dream into a goal into the foreseeable future. Oh Jenny, how valued you are by me. I often wish the boundaries of our professional relationship could bend just a little bit to include wine in our conversations and exclude a bill at the end of the hour.
"So, tallyho; it's forward I go. Where I'll land, I finally know. It's onto Africa, my dream from long ago. Where I might see a lion, giraffe, or a hippo. Fuck it, let's do it - that's my new motto." ~ Me.
First Hand Accounts
"The world needs dreamers and the world needs doers. But above all, the world needs dreamers who do." ~ Sarah Ban Breathnach (American Author)
I started with reading books. Being a social worker I figured that I knew a lot about the issues in Africa, what I came to find out was that I had an unfathomable amount more to learn. I knew the basics whereas I needed a masters to really understand. And, after all the books I've read, I know that I do not truly understand as I believe no one can....unless they actually go there. I read about the HIV crisis and its direct linkages to the pharmaceutical industry; I read about children being abducted by rebels needing new soldiers for their wars; I read about orphaned children and the kindness of poverty stricken Africans who take them in; I read about the genocide and I read about using rape as a weapon of war; I read about the historical context of slavery. Eventually, I started reading about international development and various humanitarian aid projects, which proved to be interesting and exciting. When I would travel home for vacation to see my family, I would often make a conscious effort to check the title of the book I was reading to ensure it wouldn't be upsetting to anyone. At times, I found myself wandering the isles of Chapters for serious chunks of time...looking for new information to find and devour. It was amazing how little I knew, as I felt myself to be a socially conscious individual. I was wrong in that assessment of myself; however, I've been making significant strides over the past while in becoming one.
Reading first hand accounts of the young girls in Uganda impacted me deeply, as they spoke of their terror at being kidnapped and used for "pleasure" and war (Stolen Angels by Kathy Cook). Reading stories of journalists who travelled into war torn Africa to observe scenes that left them flirting with post traumatic stress disorder was dumbfounding. However, it was the stories of the African women who took in orphaned children that spoke to my heart, such as the story of Mrs. Haregewoin Teferra (There's No Me Without You by Melissa Fay Greene) - an Ethiopian woman who filled her home with hundreds of children with HIV/AIDS. I've always enjoyed reading about real life and I have often heard that I read depressing and disturbing novels.....I mean, who wants to read about little girls being kidnapped in Uganda? Not many people, I imagine, or may be a lot...who knows. Regardless, I began to educate myself on a variety of issues that were happening in different parts of Africa and, as a result, I began to learn about how individuals, groups of people and organizations are attempting to help.
I was immediately drawn to the work being done through Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF, Doctor's Without Borders), a well-established medical relief organization that has been working internationally since 1971. What spoke to me about the organization is that they are not affiliated with political or religious groups and that they observe impartiality in their medical ethics, providing humanitarian assistance to all people, regardless of ethnicity, gender, religion, and political views. No one has to 'sing for their supper' or pledge allegiance to anyone else to receive aid. So, I began reading books that provided first hand accounts of MSF field workers experiences working in various African locations, such as Six Months in Sudan by James Maskalyk and Hope in Hell by Dan Bortolotti. Instead of quelling my interest, these books simply fuelled it as they described the conditions Africans were living in and the relatively small sucesses of humanitarian aid organizations in comparison to the population of people needing assistance. It was facinating.
As I became more informed, my dreams of travelling to Africa became more defined and easier to articulate; however, they remained dreams due to having no idea of how to transition them from this place. I started to wonder, then imagine, what it would be like to actually go away to Africa for a period of time and I asked myself, is this even possible? Most days I answered myself with a resounding 'NO!' as it seemed unattainable from many aspects. Financially, practically - in terms of work - and the biggest element being that I was still kind of a mess....mentally, emotionally and spiritually. Despite any other reasons I could surmise, in knowing myself as intimately as I do....it didn't seem possible or, at best, did not seem likely. I felt disappointed in myself, knowing that other people do these kind of things regularly because, if they didn't, organizations like MSF would not exist. I wanted to be one of those people but, at the time I didn't understand that I possessed the fortitude to become one because I was too lost.
Despite feeling wayward, when people asked me what I wanted to accomplish in this life.....marriage, children, establishing myself within my career....my standard answer became, I want to go to Africa. It was virtually the only thing on the bucket list. I wanted to be able to provide my own first hand accounts of my experiences.
http://www.msf.ca/
I started with reading books. Being a social worker I figured that I knew a lot about the issues in Africa, what I came to find out was that I had an unfathomable amount more to learn. I knew the basics whereas I needed a masters to really understand. And, after all the books I've read, I know that I do not truly understand as I believe no one can....unless they actually go there. I read about the HIV crisis and its direct linkages to the pharmaceutical industry; I read about children being abducted by rebels needing new soldiers for their wars; I read about orphaned children and the kindness of poverty stricken Africans who take them in; I read about the genocide and I read about using rape as a weapon of war; I read about the historical context of slavery. Eventually, I started reading about international development and various humanitarian aid projects, which proved to be interesting and exciting. When I would travel home for vacation to see my family, I would often make a conscious effort to check the title of the book I was reading to ensure it wouldn't be upsetting to anyone. At times, I found myself wandering the isles of Chapters for serious chunks of time...looking for new information to find and devour. It was amazing how little I knew, as I felt myself to be a socially conscious individual. I was wrong in that assessment of myself; however, I've been making significant strides over the past while in becoming one.
Reading first hand accounts of the young girls in Uganda impacted me deeply, as they spoke of their terror at being kidnapped and used for "pleasure" and war (Stolen Angels by Kathy Cook). Reading stories of journalists who travelled into war torn Africa to observe scenes that left them flirting with post traumatic stress disorder was dumbfounding. However, it was the stories of the African women who took in orphaned children that spoke to my heart, such as the story of Mrs. Haregewoin Teferra (There's No Me Without You by Melissa Fay Greene) - an Ethiopian woman who filled her home with hundreds of children with HIV/AIDS. I've always enjoyed reading about real life and I have often heard that I read depressing and disturbing novels.....I mean, who wants to read about little girls being kidnapped in Uganda? Not many people, I imagine, or may be a lot...who knows. Regardless, I began to educate myself on a variety of issues that were happening in different parts of Africa and, as a result, I began to learn about how individuals, groups of people and organizations are attempting to help.
I was immediately drawn to the work being done through Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF, Doctor's Without Borders), a well-established medical relief organization that has been working internationally since 1971. What spoke to me about the organization is that they are not affiliated with political or religious groups and that they observe impartiality in their medical ethics, providing humanitarian assistance to all people, regardless of ethnicity, gender, religion, and political views. No one has to 'sing for their supper' or pledge allegiance to anyone else to receive aid. So, I began reading books that provided first hand accounts of MSF field workers experiences working in various African locations, such as Six Months in Sudan by James Maskalyk and Hope in Hell by Dan Bortolotti. Instead of quelling my interest, these books simply fuelled it as they described the conditions Africans were living in and the relatively small sucesses of humanitarian aid organizations in comparison to the population of people needing assistance. It was facinating.
As I became more informed, my dreams of travelling to Africa became more defined and easier to articulate; however, they remained dreams due to having no idea of how to transition them from this place. I started to wonder, then imagine, what it would be like to actually go away to Africa for a period of time and I asked myself, is this even possible? Most days I answered myself with a resounding 'NO!' as it seemed unattainable from many aspects. Financially, practically - in terms of work - and the biggest element being that I was still kind of a mess....mentally, emotionally and spiritually. Despite any other reasons I could surmise, in knowing myself as intimately as I do....it didn't seem possible or, at best, did not seem likely. I felt disappointed in myself, knowing that other people do these kind of things regularly because, if they didn't, organizations like MSF would not exist. I wanted to be one of those people but, at the time I didn't understand that I possessed the fortitude to become one because I was too lost.
Despite feeling wayward, when people asked me what I wanted to accomplish in this life.....marriage, children, establishing myself within my career....my standard answer became, I want to go to Africa. It was virtually the only thing on the bucket list. I wanted to be able to provide my own first hand accounts of my experiences.
http://www.msf.ca/
Creeping Back
"Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress." ~ Bruce Barton (American Author & Politician)
After Sue died, things drastically changed for me. Not in all of typical ways you might think, but, there was change. I imagine that many people, after losing a friend so suddenly (particularly when said friend was only 41), would take inventory on their life to see where changes could be made. After Sue died, I made a lot of promises to myself that never came to fruition. For example, I vowed to quit smoking - that was over two years ago....and here I go, lighting another cigarette. I vowed to start engaging in physical exercise - again, two years ago, not a lick of exercise has been done. I guess these promises were akin to making New Year's resolutions that never actually happen. Frankly, I think Sue would have been disappointed....not in my lack of commitment, but from me thinking I would change these things in my life simply because she died. In fact, she would have been wholly against quitting smoking, something that we tried to accomplish together when she was alive and never succeeded in past the 24 hour mark. At one point we attempted to channel the "just for today" philosophy and would attempt to quit smoking for just one day (with the goal of quitting again the next day, and so on). Yeah, it didn't work, but we had fun trying.
The changes I experienced were a little more philosophical than that. If there was any remaining doubt as to whether god existed or not.....that was finished. Probably unfair to the 'big guy upstairs' should he actually exist as someone dying likely isn't good evidence of his non-existence. But, that was the final nail in the ol' proverbial coffin (no pun intended). There was also a profound understanding that someone could be there one minute and gone the next. This was a lesson I had begun to understand with the loss of my previous relationship (see previous Africa entries); however, he was still alive, just figuratively dead. She was gonzo. And in beginning to understand that this was a reality of life - the understanding that life was extremely short became overtly pronounced.
To say I have wasted many years may be, in fact, a gross understatement. My sister once told me that the secret to life is that you don't know how short it is before you've wasted countless years of your existence. I think she's on to something because I have been kicking my ass over my wasted-years-a-plenty, of which I am solely responsible for. In saying this, I am also extremely grateful I have started to figure this stuff out by 33 rather than 43 or 53 (or never). I am also appreciative of the fact that during the years I didn't have it figured out, I did not produce any children who would have been forced to bear the brunt of my meanderings. If you read my profile, you know that I have admitted to suffering with chronic immaturity. I don't mean the kind where you get drunk and do stupid stuff (which I've done countless times) or the kind where you can't have a normal conversation with another adult or hold down a responsible job and lifestyle - not that kind of immaturity. What I mean is the kind of immaturity that results from not being nurtured in the way you needed as a tiny human, resulting in this kind of internal searching that is never fulfilled or complete (similar to an itch that you cannot scratch). The kind of immaturity that results from having attachment issues that were dealt with poorly (understatement) from an early age. So, wasted years....yeah, I have complied a astounding amount of them.
I guess the fundamental evolution that came from Sue's death was my understanding that my life needed to be (and could be) different in order for me to achieve genuine happiness. Rather than bumbling through life randomly (and destructively) I realized that I needed to become an active participant in my life. This realization took awhile to fully set in (awhile meaning at least a year) and took even more time to actually work into my "doing something." I am an idea-person, not an action-person. This was one of the things to change. Dreaming of Africa was also one of the things to change; however, doing that took some deep self evaluation and exploration that traversed many hours of reflection on countless numbers of my combined life experiences. Basically, I had to get to know me and that was hard and unpleasant at times, and enlightening and freeing at other times.
I miss Sue. On my recent annual summer holiday I visited her grave, as I have done every year since her death. I might miss our visit next year if/when I am in Kenya....but, that's jumping ahead of where we are in this story. When I visit her grave, I talk to her - which doesn't make a lot of reasonable sense because I don't believe in heaven, but I do believe in spirits....it makes sense in my head. Sometimes, I talk to her about the changes that have occurred in my existence since her death. Sometimes, I talk to her about how the immense grief of her sudden death, combined with the loss of my former partner at that time, was so intensely painful that I was forced to recognize that actually I survived it. And in that, I was able to make change - gradual change - that was profound and required strength. I got that strength partially from her death and some of that strength has gone into my developing journey to Africa. And for that, I am grateful.
After Sue died, things drastically changed for me. Not in all of typical ways you might think, but, there was change. I imagine that many people, after losing a friend so suddenly (particularly when said friend was only 41), would take inventory on their life to see where changes could be made. After Sue died, I made a lot of promises to myself that never came to fruition. For example, I vowed to quit smoking - that was over two years ago....and here I go, lighting another cigarette. I vowed to start engaging in physical exercise - again, two years ago, not a lick of exercise has been done. I guess these promises were akin to making New Year's resolutions that never actually happen. Frankly, I think Sue would have been disappointed....not in my lack of commitment, but from me thinking I would change these things in my life simply because she died. In fact, she would have been wholly against quitting smoking, something that we tried to accomplish together when she was alive and never succeeded in past the 24 hour mark. At one point we attempted to channel the "just for today" philosophy and would attempt to quit smoking for just one day (with the goal of quitting again the next day, and so on). Yeah, it didn't work, but we had fun trying.
The changes I experienced were a little more philosophical than that. If there was any remaining doubt as to whether god existed or not.....that was finished. Probably unfair to the 'big guy upstairs' should he actually exist as someone dying likely isn't good evidence of his non-existence. But, that was the final nail in the ol' proverbial coffin (no pun intended). There was also a profound understanding that someone could be there one minute and gone the next. This was a lesson I had begun to understand with the loss of my previous relationship (see previous Africa entries); however, he was still alive, just figuratively dead. She was gonzo. And in beginning to understand that this was a reality of life - the understanding that life was extremely short became overtly pronounced.
To say I have wasted many years may be, in fact, a gross understatement. My sister once told me that the secret to life is that you don't know how short it is before you've wasted countless years of your existence. I think she's on to something because I have been kicking my ass over my wasted-years-a-plenty, of which I am solely responsible for. In saying this, I am also extremely grateful I have started to figure this stuff out by 33 rather than 43 or 53 (or never). I am also appreciative of the fact that during the years I didn't have it figured out, I did not produce any children who would have been forced to bear the brunt of my meanderings. If you read my profile, you know that I have admitted to suffering with chronic immaturity. I don't mean the kind where you get drunk and do stupid stuff (which I've done countless times) or the kind where you can't have a normal conversation with another adult or hold down a responsible job and lifestyle - not that kind of immaturity. What I mean is the kind of immaturity that results from not being nurtured in the way you needed as a tiny human, resulting in this kind of internal searching that is never fulfilled or complete (similar to an itch that you cannot scratch). The kind of immaturity that results from having attachment issues that were dealt with poorly (understatement) from an early age. So, wasted years....yeah, I have complied a astounding amount of them.
I guess the fundamental evolution that came from Sue's death was my understanding that my life needed to be (and could be) different in order for me to achieve genuine happiness. Rather than bumbling through life randomly (and destructively) I realized that I needed to become an active participant in my life. This realization took awhile to fully set in (awhile meaning at least a year) and took even more time to actually work into my "doing something." I am an idea-person, not an action-person. This was one of the things to change. Dreaming of Africa was also one of the things to change; however, doing that took some deep self evaluation and exploration that traversed many hours of reflection on countless numbers of my combined life experiences. Basically, I had to get to know me and that was hard and unpleasant at times, and enlightening and freeing at other times.
I miss Sue. On my recent annual summer holiday I visited her grave, as I have done every year since her death. I might miss our visit next year if/when I am in Kenya....but, that's jumping ahead of where we are in this story. When I visit her grave, I talk to her - which doesn't make a lot of reasonable sense because I don't believe in heaven, but I do believe in spirits....it makes sense in my head. Sometimes, I talk to her about the changes that have occurred in my existence since her death. Sometimes, I talk to her about how the immense grief of her sudden death, combined with the loss of my former partner at that time, was so intensely painful that I was forced to recognize that actually I survived it. And in that, I was able to make change - gradual change - that was profound and required strength. I got that strength partially from her death and some of that strength has gone into my developing journey to Africa. And for that, I am grateful.
Children Singing
"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." ~ Robert Frost (American Poet, one of my personal favourites)
Slowly, I crawled back into the world of living. It took the sudden death of my good friend and then the entrance of a new friend into my life, who I undoubtedly credit for bringing me back to life.
Sue - the only person who's name I'll use on this blog because she's dead and can't complain about it - was one of those people that you totally loved or totally disliked and there was very little in between. Most people, including myself, loved her for her unique nature as she was different in every way possible. Sue was a good 'ol girl from a small community in Prince Edwards Island (god's country, they would say) and she had salt in her blood from the ocean that surrounded her. She was wild, totally out of control, and her antics put other people's shenanigans to shame. We met through work, as she worked with the kids directly 'on-the-floor' and, as soon as I was introduced to her - I wanted to get to know her better. She was totally unfeminine and people at work, those who knew and loved her, often joked about Sue being the boy in the Johnny Cash song, "A Boy Named Sue." Her voice was husky, likely from too much smoking and drinking. She was loyal and funny and would do anything for you that she could. If I had ever killed a person and needed an accomplice to help me out, I would have definitely called Sue. She was "that" friend. The closeness that existed within the friendship we developed, in relative terms, was surprising as we did not actually hang out for all that long. I think that's why it was so special. Sue had beautiful blue eyes that reminded me of water swirling around in a pool and I doubt she never knew that she possessed such beauty. Her spirit was old and wounded, while simultaneously wise and youthful. She was simply Sue, no more, no less.
At 41, instead of coming to pick me up at the airport when I flew in from Halifax, NS on a Monday night, Sue died. No warning, no sickness (that was obvious), she just died. As tests later showed, Sue had Acute Leukemia that literally sent her white blood cells out of control on that particular day, attacking her organs - including her brain. When I got to her she was being kept alive by machines, waiting for her parents to arrive from PEI. I got to spend 17 hours with my friend, just me and her, before her parents arrived and the machines were shut off. It was precious, those 17 hours, so precious. I talked to her about so many things and, for once, she shut up and listened. Sue had this terrible habit of laughing inappropriately when you attempted to talk to her about anything serious or emotional; her silence that day was deafening.
I heavily grieved Sue. She was this gigantic presence in my life and, like blowing out a candle, she was gone. Totally and utterly gone. I read at her memorial: Ecclesiastes, To Every Thing There is a Season....
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
I haven't been one for prayer in quite some time, but this - to me - is beautiful. After the ceremonial portion of her service, the minister invited people to get up and share stories about Sue. Her mother, a lovely woman who is absolutely hysterical, got up and told a story about her and Sue once being in a restaurant that got held up. Great story. I didn't get up and share any of my stories but, in reflection, I might have shared this particular memory....
Very often, Sue and I sat outside on her very small porch that was extremely narrow, which meant we could sit in our chairs with our feet propped up on the top of the railing without much difficulty. Most times, we would sit out there as the sun was setting, smoking our cigarettes, her drinking beer and me drinking wine. And, we would chat out there as her two crazy cats would climb in and out of the small window that sat directly (behind) in between the two of us. Many times, we discussed my dreams to go to Africa, dreams that were - at that time - under developed and not quite goals yet. I remember one conversation when she asked me why I wanted to go and I replied to her that I really, really wanted to hear African children singing. She joked and commented that it would be cheaper to purchase a CD. She found it odd that I would travel to Africa to hear children singing, even though she knew there were many more reasons than that. I told her that the African tribal music I'd been listening to made me feel calm and at peace. For some reason, it made me feel like I understood myself better. When I sat down and listened to this music, I could vividly picture myself there and that made me happy. She sat there, smoking her cigarettes, and listened to me babble on and on about it. She ended the conversation with a simple statement: you'll go...someday, you'll go.
I remember thinking to myself, I just might.
Here's to you my friend.....
If you care to hear a beautiful song of such singing, it can be foud on the Blood Diamond Soundtrack. This one is my favourite:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnvnHNEEINs
Slowly, I crawled back into the world of living. It took the sudden death of my good friend and then the entrance of a new friend into my life, who I undoubtedly credit for bringing me back to life.
Sue - the only person who's name I'll use on this blog because she's dead and can't complain about it - was one of those people that you totally loved or totally disliked and there was very little in between. Most people, including myself, loved her for her unique nature as she was different in every way possible. Sue was a good 'ol girl from a small community in Prince Edwards Island (god's country, they would say) and she had salt in her blood from the ocean that surrounded her. She was wild, totally out of control, and her antics put other people's shenanigans to shame. We met through work, as she worked with the kids directly 'on-the-floor' and, as soon as I was introduced to her - I wanted to get to know her better. She was totally unfeminine and people at work, those who knew and loved her, often joked about Sue being the boy in the Johnny Cash song, "A Boy Named Sue." Her voice was husky, likely from too much smoking and drinking. She was loyal and funny and would do anything for you that she could. If I had ever killed a person and needed an accomplice to help me out, I would have definitely called Sue. She was "that" friend. The closeness that existed within the friendship we developed, in relative terms, was surprising as we did not actually hang out for all that long. I think that's why it was so special. Sue had beautiful blue eyes that reminded me of water swirling around in a pool and I doubt she never knew that she possessed such beauty. Her spirit was old and wounded, while simultaneously wise and youthful. She was simply Sue, no more, no less.
At 41, instead of coming to pick me up at the airport when I flew in from Halifax, NS on a Monday night, Sue died. No warning, no sickness (that was obvious), she just died. As tests later showed, Sue had Acute Leukemia that literally sent her white blood cells out of control on that particular day, attacking her organs - including her brain. When I got to her she was being kept alive by machines, waiting for her parents to arrive from PEI. I got to spend 17 hours with my friend, just me and her, before her parents arrived and the machines were shut off. It was precious, those 17 hours, so precious. I talked to her about so many things and, for once, she shut up and listened. Sue had this terrible habit of laughing inappropriately when you attempted to talk to her about anything serious or emotional; her silence that day was deafening.
I heavily grieved Sue. She was this gigantic presence in my life and, like blowing out a candle, she was gone. Totally and utterly gone. I read at her memorial: Ecclesiastes, To Every Thing There is a Season....
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
I haven't been one for prayer in quite some time, but this - to me - is beautiful. After the ceremonial portion of her service, the minister invited people to get up and share stories about Sue. Her mother, a lovely woman who is absolutely hysterical, got up and told a story about her and Sue once being in a restaurant that got held up. Great story. I didn't get up and share any of my stories but, in reflection, I might have shared this particular memory....
Very often, Sue and I sat outside on her very small porch that was extremely narrow, which meant we could sit in our chairs with our feet propped up on the top of the railing without much difficulty. Most times, we would sit out there as the sun was setting, smoking our cigarettes, her drinking beer and me drinking wine. And, we would chat out there as her two crazy cats would climb in and out of the small window that sat directly (behind) in between the two of us. Many times, we discussed my dreams to go to Africa, dreams that were - at that time - under developed and not quite goals yet. I remember one conversation when she asked me why I wanted to go and I replied to her that I really, really wanted to hear African children singing. She joked and commented that it would be cheaper to purchase a CD. She found it odd that I would travel to Africa to hear children singing, even though she knew there were many more reasons than that. I told her that the African tribal music I'd been listening to made me feel calm and at peace. For some reason, it made me feel like I understood myself better. When I sat down and listened to this music, I could vividly picture myself there and that made me happy. She sat there, smoking her cigarettes, and listened to me babble on and on about it. She ended the conversation with a simple statement: you'll go...someday, you'll go.
I remember thinking to myself, I just might.
Here's to you my friend.....
If you care to hear a beautiful song of such singing, it can be foud on the Blood Diamond Soundtrack. This one is my favourite:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnvnHNEEINs
Drowning in Dreams
"There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other." ~ Douglas H. Everett (Author)
When everything went to shit, and it did go to shit, I fondly remembered those times that were so influenced by my dreams. Well, when I wasn't wishing myself or him dead. And I say that not because I am one of those loony ex-girlfriends who wishes all past partners dead - not at all. I say that because the circumstances that involved the end felt like the literal end in how traumatic they were. The transition between him being present in my dreams and being startlingly absent from them was difficult. Difficult being defined in this particular juncture as: spontaneously crying all the time, missing work, not eating, and isolating myself....for months upon months.
To explain what happened, I feel the need to describe an imaginary situation that you can apply to your own life, in hopes of you possibly "getting it" in your heart instead of your head. Intellectually, I know what I should have done.....emotionally, that was impossible. This is pretty personal...so, here we go.....
I want you to imagine the love of your life. The one and only person you have ever dreamed of spending a lifetime with. The one and only person you have ever considered joining with in a union that represents "forever." The one and only person you have ever considered having children with.
Go that? Ok.....
I want you to imagine that one day you wake up and, spontaneously, that person has disappeared with no explanation. He or she is gone. Their side of the bed is empty. You call their family and you call the hospitals and no one knows what happened to them. They are gone.
Following me?
For days and then weeks, you do not hear from him or her. You are frantic and sleep deprived. Eventually, you get in your car and drive the streets looking, searching. All you think is, "how could this be?" You drive and drive until your eyes hurt from looking so hard. And, one day, you see a person that resembles your love, that has all the features of the person you've been looking for, yet looks empty. Like a ghost. And when you run to them, when you embrace him or her, they are only the shell of the person you once knew. Regardless of the fact that you have found them, they are still gone.
Bringing it home now....
This continues for months. At times, you are able to bring him or her home and restore some of what you have lost, but only for short periods of time and it never feels quite the same again. Having your love around has become equally as difficult as having them absent, which they frequently are for weeks or months at a time. Eventually, your devastation, your heartbreak, your sorrow turns into a hardened bitterness of what should have been. You become just as hollow as they are. Your sleeplessness becomes chronic. You are drowning in dreams that haunt you.
Imagery complete. This is what it is like to be in a relationship with a recovering addict who suddenly becomes "not so recovered." A relapsing addict is not a pretty sight. What might make my story - this story - unique from other similar stories lies in the severity of the transition between sober and not sober. Going from having employment, living with me, and weighing in at 225lbs to living on the streets, smoking crack and injecting other choice drugs, and weighing in approximately 70lbs less took about four to five weeks in total, with very little in between. Living on the streets was immediate, as was the drug use; the weight loss took a little longer. Think back to an episode of COPS - one where it showed the mug shot of a crack addict coming in off the streets. That's basically what I was dealing with. And I did not deal with it well.
As an aside, I figure you might be wondering what in the hell all this blabbering has to do with Africa. It is significant in the sense that this experience contributed to changes that would come later on in life, which had a direct impact on turning Africa from a dream into a reality that's happening in less than a year. Prior to this relationship, I had done a lot of damage to myself as a individual; however, I can honestly say that I had never experienced that much damage from being with another person. I'm sure there are other women out there who would have handled it differently, better than I did. I am not those women and I dealt with it in the only way I knew how - survival.
I remember my wonderful women colleagues (and friends) asking me how it was possible that I was at work with all of this stuff going on. If I wasn't at work, I was in my apartment, lying in my bed, sobbing; therefore, work seemed like the more productive option. One thing I hugely regret from this time was how absent I became in my job - not just physically, but mentally. I can recall a certain female youth I was working with telling me something about me had changed and that I wasn't the same person anymore. This was confusing and frightening for her, as the therapist should be human, but more importantly reliable and attentive. I was neither. And that feeling, or lack thereof, stayed with me (on and off, but mostly on) for a very long time.
I tried going to see my own therapist during those couple of years. It was pointless. He was wonderful, a social worker like me, but I was unable to engage in the process due to being too lost within myself. I didn't know myself any more and I wasn't in a place where he could help me find that missing person. I cancelled a lot of sessions before finally giving up and letting myself try (in futility) to forget. In trying to forget, something I know from my line of work isn't effective, I forgot who I was. And, in doing that, Africa got forgotten as well. In fact, it was grieved and then forgotten, as were most things that once held endless possibilities. Ultimately, at some point I had to move on and face the reality that we (him and I) would not be working together, him building things and me working with children, youth and adults living in poverty with HIV/AIDS. That dream was ooooooover with a capital O.
What followed was "radio silence," a virtual lapse in dreaming of anything, especially Africa.
When everything went to shit, and it did go to shit, I fondly remembered those times that were so influenced by my dreams. Well, when I wasn't wishing myself or him dead. And I say that not because I am one of those loony ex-girlfriends who wishes all past partners dead - not at all. I say that because the circumstances that involved the end felt like the literal end in how traumatic they were. The transition between him being present in my dreams and being startlingly absent from them was difficult. Difficult being defined in this particular juncture as: spontaneously crying all the time, missing work, not eating, and isolating myself....for months upon months.
To explain what happened, I feel the need to describe an imaginary situation that you can apply to your own life, in hopes of you possibly "getting it" in your heart instead of your head. Intellectually, I know what I should have done.....emotionally, that was impossible. This is pretty personal...so, here we go.....
I want you to imagine the love of your life. The one and only person you have ever dreamed of spending a lifetime with. The one and only person you have ever considered joining with in a union that represents "forever." The one and only person you have ever considered having children with.
Go that? Ok.....
I want you to imagine that one day you wake up and, spontaneously, that person has disappeared with no explanation. He or she is gone. Their side of the bed is empty. You call their family and you call the hospitals and no one knows what happened to them. They are gone.
Following me?
For days and then weeks, you do not hear from him or her. You are frantic and sleep deprived. Eventually, you get in your car and drive the streets looking, searching. All you think is, "how could this be?" You drive and drive until your eyes hurt from looking so hard. And, one day, you see a person that resembles your love, that has all the features of the person you've been looking for, yet looks empty. Like a ghost. And when you run to them, when you embrace him or her, they are only the shell of the person you once knew. Regardless of the fact that you have found them, they are still gone.
Bringing it home now....
This continues for months. At times, you are able to bring him or her home and restore some of what you have lost, but only for short periods of time and it never feels quite the same again. Having your love around has become equally as difficult as having them absent, which they frequently are for weeks or months at a time. Eventually, your devastation, your heartbreak, your sorrow turns into a hardened bitterness of what should have been. You become just as hollow as they are. Your sleeplessness becomes chronic. You are drowning in dreams that haunt you.
Imagery complete. This is what it is like to be in a relationship with a recovering addict who suddenly becomes "not so recovered." A relapsing addict is not a pretty sight. What might make my story - this story - unique from other similar stories lies in the severity of the transition between sober and not sober. Going from having employment, living with me, and weighing in at 225lbs to living on the streets, smoking crack and injecting other choice drugs, and weighing in approximately 70lbs less took about four to five weeks in total, with very little in between. Living on the streets was immediate, as was the drug use; the weight loss took a little longer. Think back to an episode of COPS - one where it showed the mug shot of a crack addict coming in off the streets. That's basically what I was dealing with. And I did not deal with it well.
As an aside, I figure you might be wondering what in the hell all this blabbering has to do with Africa. It is significant in the sense that this experience contributed to changes that would come later on in life, which had a direct impact on turning Africa from a dream into a reality that's happening in less than a year. Prior to this relationship, I had done a lot of damage to myself as a individual; however, I can honestly say that I had never experienced that much damage from being with another person. I'm sure there are other women out there who would have handled it differently, better than I did. I am not those women and I dealt with it in the only way I knew how - survival.
I remember my wonderful women colleagues (and friends) asking me how it was possible that I was at work with all of this stuff going on. If I wasn't at work, I was in my apartment, lying in my bed, sobbing; therefore, work seemed like the more productive option. One thing I hugely regret from this time was how absent I became in my job - not just physically, but mentally. I can recall a certain female youth I was working with telling me something about me had changed and that I wasn't the same person anymore. This was confusing and frightening for her, as the therapist should be human, but more importantly reliable and attentive. I was neither. And that feeling, or lack thereof, stayed with me (on and off, but mostly on) for a very long time.
I tried going to see my own therapist during those couple of years. It was pointless. He was wonderful, a social worker like me, but I was unable to engage in the process due to being too lost within myself. I didn't know myself any more and I wasn't in a place where he could help me find that missing person. I cancelled a lot of sessions before finally giving up and letting myself try (in futility) to forget. In trying to forget, something I know from my line of work isn't effective, I forgot who I was. And, in doing that, Africa got forgotten as well. In fact, it was grieved and then forgotten, as were most things that once held endless possibilities. Ultimately, at some point I had to move on and face the reality that we (him and I) would not be working together, him building things and me working with children, youth and adults living in poverty with HIV/AIDS. That dream was ooooooover with a capital O.
What followed was "radio silence," a virtual lapse in dreaming of anything, especially Africa.
All For Not
“Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.” ~ Anais Nin (French Born American Author)
It didn't end with the dreams I had those nights in Montreal, the flashes of images and the strange understanding of somewhere I had never been. Frankly, that would be a devastatingly boring story. What makes for interesting stories? Love. Fantastic or fucked up; love.
I received a lot more than an academic education that year in Montreal and, for quite some time, what I received was fantastically wonderful (followed by fantastically awful). I allowed myself to fall deeply in love with a man and, having said that, I feel that I should qualify what I mean by "allowed myself." In this particular circumstance, a choice surrounding whether to pursue - or not to pursue - was available to me, accompanied by big bright flashing lights that pointed towards the latter. Before the love bug had bitten me, when I was a rational human being, I made the choice to embark on a relationship I knew would be difficult. And, although I may not have known it was going to be that difficult, if I'm being honest with myself, I knew it was likely not going to work out in the end. I made a choice knowing (or at least sensing) these things, so you won't find a lot of "poor me" happening here.
I fell in love quickly, may be before it even started. In reflection, I think it was a massive combination of love, passion, obsession and co-dependency - but, that's my rational side talking. I didn't allow him to call me his "girlfriend" for months, thinking this would keep my already slightly damaged heart somewhat protected, but it was all for not. 'All for not' was super awesome for awhile. During 'all for not,' when we finally let ourselves go deeply into the crazy abyss of love, our dreams soared higher than reality would allow. I allowed myself to dream bigger than I ever had before. Prior to this, I had never "allowed myself" to think that far into the future with another human being. It was....all encompassing. And, in the end, after the final conversation was had, it remained all encompassing in an entirely different way.
He was intelligent in ways you would have never guessed upon first meeting him. Tough guy appearance, yet intelligent and sensitive. His appearance matched his life, his history, his story. If you simply judged him by how he looked, you would have likely misunderstood who he really was. He was the person I shared my dreams with while in the abyss and, in doing so, they grew and expanded.
As a social worker, the plan was for me to work with children, youth and adults who were living in poverty and affected by HIV/AIDS. So, basically everyone. Initially, his job description wasn't quite as clear; however, it was clear that it would involve building things. I imagined schools and resource centres - where I would work! It all made sense. We would do what we loved to do and what we were good at, or at least what we thought we were good at. During my masters degree, I specifically did not take any course work associated to working with children - in poverty or otherwise. I did this because I had no interest in working with children or youth; I knew my calling and it was in adult mental health (which is pretty ironic considering I've been working in children's mental health for just under four years now and won't even consider going back to adult mental health). And, after seeing him hang some curtain rods and doing other small jobs around my place, I am fairly confident that he couldn't have built....well, much of anything significant. But, while in the abyss, you do not think of practicality; rather, you virtually ignore it while continuing to swoon in dreamland.
I remember lying on my bed in the spot where a sunbeam was streaming through the window, with closed eyes, thinking of Africa. At that time, what did I know about Africa outside of what I was taught in that class during my undergrad? Essentially nothing, which clearly didn't seem to matter. The Beatles, one of my favourite bands, once sang "all you need is love," and this actually seemed plausible at the time. Love and good intentions. Apparently, they wrote this song before Yoko came along and broke up the band because Paul, George, John, and Ringo obviously needed more than love to keep them together.
And, that's all I really want to mention about 'all for not.' It is a piece of the story; however, over time it has become a piece that has shrunken in size and significance. But, I thought I should mention it.
It didn't end with the dreams I had those nights in Montreal, the flashes of images and the strange understanding of somewhere I had never been. Frankly, that would be a devastatingly boring story. What makes for interesting stories? Love. Fantastic or fucked up; love.
I received a lot more than an academic education that year in Montreal and, for quite some time, what I received was fantastically wonderful (followed by fantastically awful). I allowed myself to fall deeply in love with a man and, having said that, I feel that I should qualify what I mean by "allowed myself." In this particular circumstance, a choice surrounding whether to pursue - or not to pursue - was available to me, accompanied by big bright flashing lights that pointed towards the latter. Before the love bug had bitten me, when I was a rational human being, I made the choice to embark on a relationship I knew would be difficult. And, although I may not have known it was going to be that difficult, if I'm being honest with myself, I knew it was likely not going to work out in the end. I made a choice knowing (or at least sensing) these things, so you won't find a lot of "poor me" happening here.
I fell in love quickly, may be before it even started. In reflection, I think it was a massive combination of love, passion, obsession and co-dependency - but, that's my rational side talking. I didn't allow him to call me his "girlfriend" for months, thinking this would keep my already slightly damaged heart somewhat protected, but it was all for not. 'All for not' was super awesome for awhile. During 'all for not,' when we finally let ourselves go deeply into the crazy abyss of love, our dreams soared higher than reality would allow. I allowed myself to dream bigger than I ever had before. Prior to this, I had never "allowed myself" to think that far into the future with another human being. It was....all encompassing. And, in the end, after the final conversation was had, it remained all encompassing in an entirely different way.
He was intelligent in ways you would have never guessed upon first meeting him. Tough guy appearance, yet intelligent and sensitive. His appearance matched his life, his history, his story. If you simply judged him by how he looked, you would have likely misunderstood who he really was. He was the person I shared my dreams with while in the abyss and, in doing so, they grew and expanded.
As a social worker, the plan was for me to work with children, youth and adults who were living in poverty and affected by HIV/AIDS. So, basically everyone. Initially, his job description wasn't quite as clear; however, it was clear that it would involve building things. I imagined schools and resource centres - where I would work! It all made sense. We would do what we loved to do and what we were good at, or at least what we thought we were good at. During my masters degree, I specifically did not take any course work associated to working with children - in poverty or otherwise. I did this because I had no interest in working with children or youth; I knew my calling and it was in adult mental health (which is pretty ironic considering I've been working in children's mental health for just under four years now and won't even consider going back to adult mental health). And, after seeing him hang some curtain rods and doing other small jobs around my place, I am fairly confident that he couldn't have built....well, much of anything significant. But, while in the abyss, you do not think of practicality; rather, you virtually ignore it while continuing to swoon in dreamland.
I remember lying on my bed in the spot where a sunbeam was streaming through the window, with closed eyes, thinking of Africa. At that time, what did I know about Africa outside of what I was taught in that class during my undergrad? Essentially nothing, which clearly didn't seem to matter. The Beatles, one of my favourite bands, once sang "all you need is love," and this actually seemed plausible at the time. Love and good intentions. Apparently, they wrote this song before Yoko came along and broke up the band because Paul, George, John, and Ringo obviously needed more than love to keep them together.
And, that's all I really want to mention about 'all for not.' It is a piece of the story; however, over time it has become a piece that has shrunken in size and significance. But, I thought I should mention it.
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