I stumble out into the warmth of the African sun. I’ve been surrounded by a fog, thick and deep and all consuming. I am still not sure if I can trust the day, with its bright, potentially misleading, sunshine (a line from my daughter that I love.)
It is a civil war raging within and I am shell shocked from its ravages, suddenly faced with images of a future and possibilities I couldn’t imagine days before. And image is everything. To create and realize something, you must be able to envision it. Within the cloud, all I can see is my past reflecting back to me- the mistakes and regrets, the pangs of growth and time that leave me yearning for a chance to walk a different path. As in any war, I am caught up in the tasks of survival. There is no energy to dream with, to plan and prepare with. There is no energy to hope with. It is only the disaster of my life surrounding me.
From this new perspective in the bright and beautiful day, I can see the direction of things. I appreciate the time I’ve had to watch my children grow and see their minds open in ways that would never have been possible. There is the sense of loss that follows me everywhere, inescapable but no longer all consuming.
As school draws to yet another close, people start the countdown to modern life- a day when they can rejoin the world in solid knowledge of having running water and stable electricity. They look forward to traveling the streets with safety and ease. Everyone is talking about how they cannot wait for the comforts of home. I get caught up in this, ready for a break from the things that stress me here- shoes that fall apart after only one day, the high cost of food and extra burden of being white in Africa. But I know I am not flying off to home- though I have found myself wishing at times to be there. Home has become an abstract notion, something I miss even while realizing it doesn’t really exist. It is a phantom limb, still causing pain even in its absence. I am as much home here as anywhere. And I know after just a week or so in the states, I will be ready to find comfort in my own house, among my things, resting when I want, cooking when I want and cleaning only if I want. In a few short days, I am certain to find myself missing the cadence and rhythm of life here, sweet songs as people go about their daily chores, the whisking of stick brooms back and forth over cement porches and the music of the market place. There is still nothing as soothing to me as walking down an African street with vendors calling out their wares – “l’eau pure” which sounds like “lo’pi” - wood clacking or the clinking of tin announcing sandwiches for sale. Each sound has a meaning, serves as a signal or way to get attention and draw customers. It awakens every sense and brings me completely to the moment. This most important moment. The one I am in right now.
I dream of days when I will not need to make the sojourn across the ocean and wonder then how I will manage without stocking up on supplies. It’s the cycle we seem to undertake. Fly off to Europe or the US and buy as much as you need to make it through another year. When I contemplate this, I think only of the people living here that can never make the trip to another land to fill up on reasonably priced, quality goods. Of course, the children have the most needs. America has taken on mythical proportions for them. They begin sentences with, “In America can we buy…?” It is the exact reason why I felt the need to leave. But I know they will wear out 4 shoes each and probably grow a size or two before we find ourselves heading back to modern life again. It will be nice to eat fresh vegetables and buy bagels from a store. I look forward to sitting in a park outside with no one looking twice at me or even noticing the color of my skin.
At this time last year, I felt I was heading into the lion’s den. It turned out amazingly ok but I took little risk. This year will find us traveling a bit more and experiencing things we may not be completely prepared for. This year we are walking into the sun, dazzling with a brilliant warmth likely to be hiding a bit of deception. I will try once again to hold my breath and react with patience when the glitz and glamour of America threatens to overtake the common sense of my children. I know they will not be ready for explanation. I am only hoping we return to Africa, travel weary but intact.
