July 28: Back in Pommern.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

How can you give a gift when the balance of power is so badly weighted as to basically be a straight vertical line? For we Americans, we wealthy and confused (are we generous, guilty, or desiring of sharing the things we love and put so much meaning into?) little Americans, with our language taken from us - we want to give. But we want to give the things we treasure - to show gratitude for allowing us to come into the community and for being so patient with our cameras, our energy. But how CAN we give? We're so far from the first to bring boxes of school supplies - and yet, there are none in any of the classrooms. But if you got a pen, and were hungry, wouldn't you sell the pen for crackers? So how can our gifts make sense?

Edward asked me what I was sorting, when I was inventorying medical supplies before Zumba class the other day, and it was a pile of dental floss (many small packages, a few yards each). When I explained, he asked me to put it in the clinic pile because if given directly to the people, they'll use it as fishing line. The things I don't about about this kind of generational poverty - and the things I don't even know that I don't know! - make me useless. As a giver of any kind. People say, "Oh, I learned so much from 'them'" in reference to a poorer or less powerful society and I've always - and still do - take that to mean that any people with less than us will teach lessons about what is really important - love, family, laughter, connection to the community. And I've thought that was total crap. And to be honest - I still do. 

But my head is figuratively spinning tonight as I come to grips with low little - how nothing - I'll contribute here. I'm stunned and embarrassed to realize that what will be learned here will ONLY be learned by me. But not the sweet things in life, not at all a reminder of the simple profound pleasures. Instead I'm learning the profound depth of sameness the third world endures. The pain of meeting daily needs with nothing leftover at the very best, or a debt as the sun falls, at the very worst. But never two pennies to rub together - never enough to have one task done for a week or a month. Every day is exactly the same and you're lucky to just catch up every 24 hours. My human desire to communicate with the person in front of me, but the overwhelming reality of a boggingly large group of individuals in front of me.

By way of hard details, the flickering generator light tonight makes me laugh - it's terrible illumination that gives me a headache, and it is still more than all the people here have. 

Most of the women volunteers swapped clothing stories tonight - yup, most of us are heavier than we were a week ago. And in our Rose & Thorn sharing tonight, my rose was the baobab trees and their evocative emotions. My thorn was reaching wifi for the first time in almost eight days only to have it be down today. I really want to hear from John - about his backpacking trips and plans, that he is OK, that all is well at home. It's 9 PM here, 11 AM Sunday there - and he is so close to me right now. I can't feel if it's because of nerves or a problem, or if he just wants to hear from me, too.

Finally tonight, I am burdened with a good bit of despair. I feel so much like I'm letting you all down. I've put on music for the first time since arriving in Africa - Sigur Ros - in order to let these intense feelings of disappointing you flow through. 

Don't get me wrong - enough of you warned me. 

"I hope you don't think you're going to help/save/affect anyone." 

"You know you're not going to make a difference, right?" 

"What can you do in two weeks?" 

"It's arrogant to do this." 

"Just go to any town and you'll find someone who needs help. Why go with an organization, that costs money?" 

Oh, I came with much caution and pessimism - those are all direct quotes from professed friends. I haven't thought I would save anyone. But now I feel I owe you - you who sent me and Meggie off with contributions, and so much excitement and love. How can I come home with nothing tangible to show you? How can I come home broken? 

There's the septic tank, thanks be, and the joy of Zumba. And that very well might be it. So if it is - I have to let go as this second week starts. If that is all there is show for it, by way of successes, then that is the truth. Or all there is for others. The soul lessons have been great, as I can even understand them so far. And the affirmation of intuition as a guiding force has been deep. Within ten minutes of meeting all the volunteers, I was immediately drawn to Leslie - the world is full of soul connections and one here is a sweet surprise, a little reminder that life as it was ticks on and on, and I'll rejoin it - but the Tanzanians won't. 

I was asked by Emmanuel if all us Americans - can we all afford most of the things in most of the stores? How to explain a platinum ring, a vacation house, owning two cars for two adults? WalMart versus Saks? How do I talk about disposable diapers and throwing away food? Or closets of clothes so big we probably could not make an accurate list of every tee, every pair of panties, every coat, sock, shoe and baseball cap that we own? I actually didn't recognize Moses tonight, when he came to stoke the fire, for he was in a new jersey! After I got back John said, when I was explaining how I struggled to explain poverty in America to Emmanuel, "Oh, I get it! It's like, how do you explain the difference between flying ON a plane and flying on your OWN plane? How do you explain the difference a Bentley and a Ford Focus?"

If the choice had to be made right now, I wouldn't come back to Tanzania. It is so broken, and I am so small, that my little dollars to the deaf women who make crafts, or to Mamamorrie for doing my laundry, just seem to make it worse. Dangling the prize in front of Wile E Coyote but never, not once, letting him win. And we are the roadrunners - moving too fast. Someone said to us, during one of our evening lectures, "You need to slow down, America, or we really will never catch up." 

So I guess I want to apologize for how little - or negatively - I might effect Pommern, when you sent me with such enthusiastic support. I want to apologize for possibly bringing back more pain, a deeper understanding of grinding poverty, dirt, smell, anger from those who watch us zip by in a private vehicle. 

I'm groundless again tonight and so I took in a little Pema Chodron reading... she's right about one thing... how can I be both so big and so small? How can I stay right where I am without resolution; how I need resolution! Ah, but how Pema wags her finger at me lovingly - no, no, no; you don't. Resolution is bad for you; better always to sit in it. And get softened because of it. 

Home.

We're home! We're safe! I was the only person in our volunteer group to get sick - and boy, did I have 8 hours of hell followed by 1.5 days of recovery - but beyond that and a few minor physical complaints, we survived and got what we came for... a dose of reality, an experience of a lifetime, and a thread in the bond of our friendship that I think we'll be in awe of as the years roll on.

The travel blog will begin here this weekend; thanks for your patience so I can tell the tale well, and right - and thanks for tuning in.

Too Busy

Not to join the chorus of "I'm so important that's why I am so busy" jerkwads that we all know... but look, pals, I'm busy. I'm overwhelmed these days in a way I never have been. But too busy to write? What is too busy to write - really?

My friend Kelly said to me last month, "Ten minutes is still ten minutes. And ten minutes usually turns into more than that." I'll admit that it does sometimes - and sometimes that ten minutes is an absolute grind. The plank workout move of creative output. Every second a burn.

But. She's right. Ten minutes is indeed ten minutes. And that's over an hour a week even when it's ground out one painful second at a time, which is more than I can say for the last three months. So here's to a week back in the saddle again; the saddle I'll fall out of again of course, (I'm no optimistic fool) - but a saddle happy to find a little, teeny, tiny groove in once more.

Sometimes I get emotional.

Like over there, on the fundraising website for my trip to Tanzania. It's an emotional topic!

So, one month from today, I will have traveled 27.5 hours by air (Portland - Chicago - Zurich - Nairobi - Dar es Salaam) and then 6 to 8 hours by car (Dar es Salaam - Pommern) to arrive in the Iringa District of Tanzania, ready (?!) to volunteer.

But in case you don't want to (understandably) sully your soul by visiting a fundraising website, I'll share the sentimentality here, too:

ONE MONTH! We arrive in Dar Es Salaam in one month. What are we doing to prepare? Well, we've both shopped for quick-dry underwear and hiking boots, we've stocked up on Bonine and Imodium and bug spray. But right this minute? Well, Meggie is in France with 30 parentless fifth graders, as part of her last week teaching her regular students. And Emily is reading Paul Theroux's DARK STAR SAFARI, as if it will prepare her properly for German East Africa, later called Tangyanika, later still known as Tanzania.

But to the real point... having reached the goal of $3100, we're stunned. It's hard to express at times to people who ask why fundraising is humbling, but perhaps this might explain it... 

By going away from work, and family, to do this trip, by attacking our bucket list with a BIG entry marked off, we could have financially set ourselves back a year, or more, of all disposable income. But insetad, we have your help. And your help lets us continue to have a life in Portland - it lets us buy baby shower gifts and buy a round of drinks for birthday girls; it lets us put a tiny $20 bill into the ROTH IRA this month, and lets us get takeout on an exhausted Friday night. It allows us to still remain a part of this daily world, the social and professional and personal, while ALSO scratching off the bucket list item, and THAT is humbling. It is not us alone in the world taking this trip; it is only with your help that we're able to go (literally) half way around the world to volunteer and immerse ourselves in a wholly new experience. YOU are letting us be in both this world, and that world, and you are helping us take it all in with our huge, patient, loving, very scared hearts. 

So - thank you. Thank you for sponsoring and thank you for considering it. It means, quite literally, the world to us.

It's Bleak Out There

So I was out this past weekend and I was the wingman. Being happily married means you can't give one speck of advice about how to approach a cute guy at the bar - heck, you can't even give advice about how to tell if he is cute enough to approach, but not so cute he's going to be a douche. This wingman business, clearly, is not my area of expertise. In fact, I prefer the "be dead honest" approach, be it with a lot of charm and humor and snappy, broad jokes... but I now am seeing that's not exactly how this flirt-at-a-bar thing goes, at least not typically. Being married means you get to be fearless... and I don't think that's the hallmark of a successful interaction at 12:30 AM for the wingee (or whatever you call the woman on the prowl who has a wingman in tow).

And after talking to exactly three guys - only three! - I came home exhausted. This is a lot of work.

So three things kept running through my head as I made my way home.

First, the guy who said he works in financial services and only when pressed with numerous questions finally told me he manages an emerging markets mutual fund, requiring odd hours to do business in different time zones... hey plaid shirt dude, why say financial services? Why make me dig? Why not just say what you do instead of talking down to a dumb girl? And what's with the resume keywords?

Second, when your name is typical, easy to pronounce and probably familiar to people, as mine is, you never, ever, ever, not one time, think about awkward it can be to start an interaction (not to mention all three) like this:

"Hi, I'm Josh, what's your name?"

"Jenae."

"Renee?"

"No, Jenae."

"Like Renee?"

"Sure. With a J though."

"OH! JUH-nay?"

Sigh. The name is accented on the second syllable, so actually, it is more like Juh-NAY... but the point is that it shone a light on how when it is loud, and dark, and late, if your name isn't Megan or Jennifer or Elizabeth, it can be tough to start the witty, funny, flirty fun part of the night, full of the banter you're seeking, when instead it skids and stutters over name pronunciation at the start.

And finally - third - perhaps answering Point #1, is when Mr. Financial Services, with too-close a shave and too-popped a collar, walked away and said, "I'm a registered Republican," I laughed and said, "I know, I could tell." But I SHOULD have said, "I'll forgive you."

If I'm gonna be a wingman, I have sharpen my claws wit.

1? 1mil?

I've either written this post a million times, or I've never managed to get it published... but it's a simple, powerful observation and if I haven't written it yet, shame on me.

Time spent with positive influences (ahem, people) in your life is time that flies, time that energizes, time that is well spent and makes you feel like you can come home and tackle that to-do list (clean all the things, even!) and have energy to spare - to share - to make a NEW list and start on THAT!

So the next time you come home from lunch, dinner, happy hour, coffee, or conversation and find yourself drained, needing a nap, wanting to turn your phone off... think about it. Think about how you could be coming home from the kind of conversation that is truly no better time spent, no relationship more worth nurturing. And invite one of those people to hang out - it'll do ya good.

So is this an Easter post? Sure, why not! There's a metaphor for rebirth in there somewhere, you can find it.

Happy Easter!

2 Things to Love

About Being an Adult.

One: I can stay out late on a school night, ahem, work night, and sure, I might be tired the next day, but no one yells at me for staying out, no one tells me I can't go to bed at 8 the next night, and the bartender will happily serve you till whenever! (Take a cab, friends. Last night was not truly late enough to need one but you know those nights. Last night was just a reminder that I get to do what I want!)

Two: I love being able to say, "You know what, BFF, we should go to New York City someday! We should go out to eat, see the sights, spend too much money, try to learn the Subway lines and watch the leaves fall in Central Park."

And then your bestie, who is also an adult, says, "Yeah! We should! How about this fall?"

And then you get on a plane and take the trip. It's the kind of thing I dreamed about doing when I was a teenager and said to myself, "I"ll be the kind of adult who does this." And now I am. Hello, Big Apple!

Belly laughs.

In late March, a co-worker of mine was buying the all-access pass ($65 including fees) to the third annual Bridgetown Comedy Festival here in Portland. The day he was doing this was the same day I had closed my Chase bank accounts, in favor of a local credit union. Since I had $63 burning a hole in my pocket, and before I could change my mind, I said, "I'll go with you! Four days of stand up comedy? Sure!"

I have seen a fair amount of stand-up on TV, but that's like saying you've been on a BluRay tour of Paris; it's not the same as walking the rues of the City of Lights. I've only been to 2 or 3 stand-up shows and I though, why not? In for a penny, in for a pound and I might as well go whole hog.

Well the festival is here! And in the interest of full disclosure, I can say that it has won, and I have lost. That is: I am skipping the fourth day out of sheer exhaustion, but after three nights/days of comedy, I have a handful of observations to mete out.

After the first night of two shows - the first featuring one comedian at length with a small panel of four comedians as the peanut gallery, and the second featuring six comics and one band - I observed two main themes:

• People who are gay, or might be gay, or are called gay, and/or how dumb people are who gay-bash.
• What it is like to be Jewish in America.

Stay tuned for other themes as they develop(ed).

What kind are you?

My parents tell me that by the time I was old enough to walk over to the neighbor's house and play (they had 4 daughters!!), I was walking away. This pattern has not abated in the past couple decades; I am a highly social creature, who is lucky to have a lot of friends, and lucky to spend a lot of time with those friends.

And the kinds of friends I have! I have friends great for coming over and chatting by the first for hours. I have friends great for calling up at the last-minute and going out on the town. I have friends great for falling apart in front of (they're good at helping putting me back together). I have friends to gossip with, and ones to debate politics with, and ones to mull over life plans with. I have movie friends, happy hour friends, camping friends, travel friends, phone-only friends, blog friends, work friends, former-work friends, and friends who used to be enemies.

But there is a highly specific type of friend that not everyone is lucky to have, but I do... and that's the friend you can ask to take you to the airport. I'm blessed with at least two of these! And so a hearty thanks on this day to B... and sorry to add that the blog will most likely be on hiatus for a week or so... for B has taken me and John to the airport, and we're off to the 50th state!

Do you like bird hunting?

No? Whether you do, or you don't, I invite you to read this article, in the New York Times, by my friend, the excellent writer and photographer Dave Sherwood. Even if you have never hunted birds, even if you've never watched a dog work the fields, and even if you have never been to Maine... I bet dollars to doughnuts that he's a good enough writer for you to finish the article and enjoy it. He's that talented. And his dog Bailey is awesome!

Remember This?

Two months ago today, I posted this poll question.

And we have an update! One check was a donation to a cause that had restrictions on when they could cash it; they cashed it as soon as they could, and all was well.

However. I am now resorting to public shaming, in the hopes that the second check will get cashed. It was a wedding gift for a couple who are now in their second trimester with the first baby! Shaming? Or blackmail, perhaps! No baby gift till the wedding check is cashed!

Now we wait. Will it work...

It feels like this.

When I was a nanny... four separate times, for four separate infants... I was awed by every tiny developmental step. I could tell the difference between starting to roll over and moments from rolling over. I could tell the difference between a first pincer-grasp and a second pincer-grasp on a Cheerio. And of all the wonderful things nannying brought to my life, the glimpse into how fascinating a baby can be each day, each moment, was one of the most wonderful.

So I've made a second blog friend and she lives in Costa Rica at the moment, working as an au pair, where she made a video of "her" baby, the very one that I knew when *I* lived and worked in Costa Rica (when said baby was in utero and then a blinky, sleepy little newborn). Her blog is a light, bright and friendly exploration of food (no better blog topic!) and you can check the whole thing out here... but it was a recent post with a video of the not-really-a-baby-but-now-a-toddler that got me remembering...

The video (in this post here) captures exactly how it feels to take care of someone's child many hours a week. It's not that you feel the love of a parent, because that love is unique and encompassing, and was/is out of my league to comprehend. But it is a powerful, powerful love that combines pride in your work with pride in a growing little person, bursting with personality, with pride in knowing you are making an impact, no matter how unconscious. The video captures just what it feels like to do this noble work, and reminds me how people used to ask, "Oh, are you babysitting again today?" and I would - mood depending - laugh, snicker, snort, scoff or tsk in great offense, and say, "Babysitting? No. I'm going to work, as a nanny, today. Yes, I'm doing that." This was usually followed by an attempt to explain that no, I was not raising someone's child for them, and yes, it was a job that required real skills and experience. So thanks, L, for reminding me what that -- ALL of that -- feels like. It's important.

From the Annals of (New) Homeownership:

Things built or put together this weekend:
- 3 curtain rods (2 for curtains, 1 for displaying an antique quilt)
- industrial strength garage shelves; 3 shelves, roughly 6 feet high by 6 feet wide and the most glorious example of organization I have ever assisted in constructing
- 1 dimmer switch
- 1 bookshelf-from-a-box

Things gotten rid of this weekend:
- all the weird mish-mash of plants in the front yard (remaining? a great lavendar, a great rosemary and a mysterious but adorable shrub)
- all the boxes from moving
- spider webs from all around the eaves and front door

Things given to us for free by neighbors this weekend:
- 2 very large bottles of beer
- the salad greens for dinner, rinsed and sitting in the colander right now

And now the real accounting... things bought this weekend:
- 1 large living room rug
- 1 large rug pad
- 1 chocolate brown cozy living room chair
- 1 delicate pink throw that the guest room NEEDED
- all the parts needed for constructing the aforementioned garage shelves
- 2 throw pillows that will be returned (probably)
- 1 bookshelf-in-a-box
- 18 other necessary items, ahem, from Home Depot

Meals bought at a restaurant (take out) this weekend:
1 lunch, 1 dinner

Meals cooked at home this weekend:
1 dinner, 2 breakfasts

Meals eaten at someone else's house this weekend:
1 dinner

The best part of the weekend is that we put the boxes on Craiglist for free, and shoved 'em to the end of the driveway. Two minutes later, one of our very nice and friendly neighbors asked if he could have them... and took about 90%. Then he brought us two large beers as thanks! Quoth John, "He took away the boxes AND gave us beer? Now that's a win win."

The muse.

If you're looking to support a truly hard-working artist, someone who has fought to continue pursuing her passion of writing - despite financial setbacks that would send most of us running for Mommy, despite treatment by employers that would send most of running for a lawyer - then I recommend you come to this. I'll be there, and it should be fun! It'll be your good deed for the day, and you can say you gave to a local artist, a working writer.