In Plain English (or as close as I can come to it anyway..)

This is the kind of day that has me repeating to myself, 'I really love my life.' The fact of the matter is I have never felt this way before. I am cognizant each and every minute of the pleasure my life brings. The gratefulness to which I approach everything is a drastic turn from the previous me who was, basically, a shouting, raving lunatic- completely stressed out and unaware of how to overcome it all.

Most days the sun, with its nurturing heat and vibrant rays is enough to reduce me to a humble state. Today was one of those perfect days full of experience and exuberance. One of the teachers at school volunteers at an orphange (I believe there was a previous post about a trip we made there.) He arranged to have the kids come to campus and several teachers had them in for a 'class.' We made books in my room and it was fun. The kids were well mannered and quiet....so quiet. Of course, I did see them on the playground and I know what happens with a bit of freedom. But they had lunch and I made some watermelon slushies (which I don't think were actually a great hit, but they did seem to like the sandwiches...) Mohamed had a great time playing with all of the sports equipment and showing them how to use everything.

But that was not even the beginning of the perfect day. (Well, technically, that was the beginning, but that is not yet the perfect part, although it was a nice time.)

I had arranged for Jacques to come to Stand Proud with me this Saturday to do some drumming with the kids. Last week, as we drew, music played and some of the kids were dancing and moving. It seemed evident they would love to have some live music to groove to.

Walking in to ACDF, I felt at home. Ahhhh, these are the kids I know. Because we were a bit late, it seemed they had given up on me. Most had moved off to the bedrooms in search of an afternoon nap.
"Are we going to draw today?" one child asked me and I couldn't tell if it was hopefully or with lazy interest. I sent them off to gather the others for a great surprise.The children were immediately drawn to the drums and with Jacques' incredible spirit he easily inspired them to dance, sing and express themselves. Their eyes were filled with pure joy and excitement and smiles lifted every face. I felt completely happy to see them so caught up in the moment.  And it really was about the moment. I did not feel any need to think about longevity, sustainability or continuity. I just wanted a day of pure pleasure for these kids. And they got it. So did I.

Socially serving

The minature pink buckets were perfectly designed for holding crayons. I cannot begin to guess what their real purpose might be but it seemed they were designed for us. There was a little black handle which made it convenient for passing (though I noticed today that no one actually did) and the lids made them perfect for travel.

The ride to the Center was cool and energizing. There is nothing better than the anticipation of making art. I had brought along a bunch of plastic and foam tracers in the form of geometric shapes. I thought we could start there. I still haven't decided if I should be teaching art, merely providing an environment in which it can happen or something betwen the two.

The little kids came quickly enough and found seats together. Over the hour and half I was there, the living area filled with older kids as well. Most of them traced the shapes and colored them in, as requested. A few were able to turn the shapes into something and some even went freestyle. I maneuvered around the room in my fashion, asking kids about their drawings and inviting them to dream. It is difficult for them, I see, this dreaming part. American kids would be so brash and bold, laying out all the plans for how BIG their lives would be. "And THIS will be my house, and here is my car, and I will have two dogs....."

One boy drew a guitar and when asked if it would be him playing it, he shook his head. Nope, not me. "Then you will be the singer, hey?" I asked. He acquiesced but it seemed more in an effort to please me than something he really believed. I figure they've got to be able to see it before they feel like going to acheive it.

I refused to allow myself to take pictures this day, though my hands were really aching to. I sat and watched the children drawing, behaving as children. Some fought over materials. There was a bit of hiding and hoarding. But mostly, they were concentrating on their drawings with effort and attention. I listened to Nabih's distinct laughter as two boys found some amusement in teasing him.

One thought kept washing over me as I looked out across a sea of big smiles and bright eyes and curled up legs and wasting limbs. These are the throwaways. I was sitting in this room filled with such energy and beauty and I knew that in their society they are not considered worthwhile. The worst part is that everything I saw struck my Western eyes as temporary and irrelevant. Their disabilities hardly seemed debilitating and in a western world, they would be hardly so. Or maybe my eyes cannot see the way they used to. Africa has certainly colored my ideas about what is and is no longer important.

Leaving there, I was ready once again to go anywhere but home. My hands were so hungry to hold a camera, a real camera and everywhere I turned my eyes saw the frame of a shot. This is a new obsession for me, or perhaps an old one gaining strength. The equipment I have does no longer allow for the things I really see.

And the image I brought home with me was of the family still camped out in the driveway. I've a feeling I will be marking my visits to the center by the progress of this woman and her children. She was sitting despondently with her head in her hands when I drove up. Laundry was scattered out upon the weeds, drying. Her children sat behind her in a row, equally depressed. No one moved. They looked much the same when I left. It is a desperate situation. Where should the homeless go? There are no social services to step in and provide a safety net. There is no government aid to make sure the children are fed. She is living in a driveway with her children and the entire neighborhood passes by her each day. Everyone sees them, but what is to be done? I seriously considered of giving her a hundred dollar bill I happened to have in my bag. It seemed a like a ridiculously absurd amount of money and somehow not enough all at the same time.

I kept thinking about the more, the real, the substantial change she needed. I am no longer wondering why her and what good is helping just one? I am now thinking, we crossed paths for a reason and how can I best socially serve? I have to do something. Because while I am now sheltered and warm, bathed in artifical lights in my pocket of western world, she still sits outside. Hungry and cold, wrapping her children in thin blankets and huddling around a small fire. The mother in me knows how the mother in her is slowly dying.

The beautiful ugly

A few boys have come out into the street to show off their moves. They are rapping and dancing to music pulsating from behind two steel doors. The doors are painted a deep blue with orange diamonds in the middle. It is a small but busy street. A family has taken up residence in a nearby driveway overgrown with weeds. A fire burns down the road and at the end, across the street, I have a vision of two tents made from tarpulin, one blue the other brown. Various people emerge including two small children who've also come to the road to dance.

We're waiting outside ACDF or Stand Proud, as its known. It is a center that houses children and youth with leg disabilities. They are waiting for operations that will restore their mobility. The average stay is six months to a year. The children attend school, when possible, and also spend some time recuperating and learning how to navigate with their new braces or repaired limbs. Older recipients work in a nearby workshop making the braces.

The center itself is small but somehow spacious. There is a large courtyard with a tree placed in the center which provides a shady place and an air of comfort. The living room is large with several sofas and a television. Sleeping cots fill two corners and reach as high as the ceiling. The brown, plastic coverings invoke everything but images of sweet dreams and goodnight kisses.

African walls are difficult to keep clean and here is no exception. With a hundred children at least, the walls are marked with grime, handprints, smudges and layers of dirt. There is a slight perfume of urine in the air and many of the cushions exude a stronger scent. But the children have managed to assemble in the spacious openness of the salon, ever ready participants.

I've come with the boys to begin some kind of art groups and as I listen to the music of a hundred voices, I realize I have some serious organizing to do. We planned to work on the floor, as tables are a scarcity and many of the children have leg braces that prevent traditional chair and table work. The floor is a maze of children, casts, and crutches. I am praying every moment that I do not step on a tender limb as I pick my through trying to hand out materials. Mohamed is a great assistant and together we get the job done.

For this introduction I had asked the children to label the paper with their name and age and then to draw a picture of themselves with their friends or people they like. Djomas was my translator. It is difficult to tell his age but I felt in good hands. He is young, for sure, but also a former recipient who is now in daily charge.

Once the materials and task were presented, I made my way around trying to connect with the children, looking at their drawings and getting a sense of who they were. I was most struck by the subject matter. I didn't see a lot of people. I saw cars and flags and a few schools and houses.
"Where are you?" I asked again and again. Many pointed to their written names and said, "Here. I am here." I pressed them, asking if they were inside the car or behind the flag. In a desperate attempt to express myself, and uncertain if I was being understood, I drew a quick figure of myself with glasses and skirt, pointing out each as I added it. Although the older ones have a better understanding of French, I wanted to be sure I was making my point. He nodded his head. I promised to return to view his self-portrait. When I did, I found it looked amazingly like me, having done a much better and more detailed version of my quick sketch.

There were a few people, singers, muscled men, and soldiers. I didn't see any pictures of children playing or even just standing. I've thought a lot about this, their refusal to depict themselves. There was one boy who drew a detailed image of a brace, with straps and belts attached. The rest drew what they knew, I suppose, or what their neighbor was drawing.

It made me think of the way so many artists strive to acheive a child like freedom in their artwork. Here I was surrounded by children who were not accustomed to having the materials to express themselves with freedom. It will make me happy to see this barrier come down after months of working at the center.

I also decided that I will need to break them up into groups. We are going to work on images of ourselves. A brief talk with the director opened my mind to situation that many of these children are coming from. As handicapped children, they are thought of as less, undervalued and uninvested in. Lisa told me many of the children arrive too shy to speak. The time at the center proves to not only be a catalyst for physical movement and growth but emotional opening. They are suddenly surrounded by others going through their very experience. The older children serve as a model of hope and potential for the future, for a future.

It was a fast hour. The children drew, turned in their pictures and all the materials. Some even helped to resort the crayons by color and talk to Mohamed and Nabih as they finished up their drawings. I felt full of energy and light as I started the car. OK, now where? is what I was thinking.

Because coming back home, to this quiet, tranquil place means coming back to my state of reflection and meditation. It is necessary but lonely. The truth remains: in these last ten months there has been not one wish to be someone else, living another life, not one thought that darkness could be better than any light awaiting, not one sustained moment when I believed there was something I couldn't do. Instead, I have been full of challenging myself, pushing forward in spite of ignorance, unknowns and uncomfortable situations.

It is easy to do this here because everywhere I turn there is inspiration. I have only to look outside these walls and find people seemingly smaller, more incapable, more full of fright and insecurity than I. And they are all making it, every day, with a subtle joy. With this easy comparison, I suddenly feel full of possibility and purpose. It is within my ability to do something. And suddenly my life no longer seems like an ugly burden that I cannot manage. There is something beautiful here and I have begun to see it even inside of me.


It is difficult to post photos here, though I do have some. Posting them for now on FB and will return to try again....