This is one of the first mysteries I encountered here, in my very backyard. I found three of these in the small 'play-house' outside our back porch. When I first found it, I'd hoped to collect more. Bamboo sheaves had turned out to be great for making small paintings on. I was full of imagining how I could turn these into sculpture or collage.
In the photo it is compact and curly. It is hard and strong. I cannot bend it or break it. I even had a bit of difficulty trying to put in the thumbtacks so that I could hang it in the window. I assumed it to be dead and long discarded from whatever tree it fell. However, it possesses life. I have witnessed it's ability to open, dependent upon the weather it seems, to a long and nearly flat state. I've asked everyone who has come within sight of my back porch if they can identify it or have ever seen such a thing before. I even ventured beyond, carrying the pod like an unknown treasure or hidden curse to the neighbor for evaluation. The neighbor who has lived here for 18 years. Nope. Never saw anything like it.
Mama Vero, equally amazed as I (you must imagine the first few events, when we were sure it was our minds deceiving us and not the actual movement of this forgotten relic) has never seen anything like this either. She was quick to point out that it must be spirited. Of course, anything foreign or not easily understood can be chalked up to spirited. But I too was wondering.
Finally, I asked Papa Josef, one of the main gardeners and safety officers for the school. He seems to be a knowledgeable man of many talents and I figured if there was an answer, he would have it. He said yes, it comes from a tree on campus and he went so far as to point one out to me. I admit to being skeptical. He does have a reputation to protect I suppose, or at least some pride. Maybe I just wanted it to be mystical. He provided detail, such as the fact that it is indeed a pod (clearly) and made up of layers. Deep inside is the life. Even now, I could open it and plant it and the seeds would grow. I am not tempted, as I much enjoy the changing design, and, while it may come from a campus tree, I have not found another. Odd, considering how the mangoes and flowery apples thump continuously to the earth below.
I'm contemplating other things as well. There is plenty of time to think in the Congo. Most recently a painting I've finished, mediocre at best. I can see where I’ve gone wrong, where it could be improved. But now that the canvas is full, I am faced with the dilemma of starting again in hopes of perfecting it or simply starting anew. I suppose it is what masters do, rework, rework, and rework (revise, we call it in the writing world. Something I am forever insisting and modeling for my students.) But here in the land of scarce resources it seems a sin. Of course, what good is a mediocre painting? If the subject is compelling enough, certainly it deserves to be reworked. Am I still compelled? Sometimes I think, once the work is done, what good is a painting at all?
I'm contemplating other things as well. There is plenty of time to think in the Congo. Most recently a painting I've finished, mediocre at best. I can see where I’ve gone wrong, where it could be improved. But now that the canvas is full, I am faced with the dilemma of starting again in hopes of perfecting it or simply starting anew. I suppose it is what masters do, rework, rework, and rework (revise, we call it in the writing world. Something I am forever insisting and modeling for my students.) But here in the land of scarce resources it seems a sin. Of course, what good is a mediocre painting? If the subject is compelling enough, certainly it deserves to be reworked. Am I still compelled? Sometimes I think, once the work is done, what good is a painting at all?
While not the only reflection I’ve been struggling with, by far the most benign. At least I’ve found the answer to my earlier question. (No, the C.C. is not always right, or wrong.) It came by way of a power outage that led to one woman working in her doorway. Nabih and I passed on our way from the sandboxes. I stopped to say hello, as she looked so inviting, sitting at a student desk placed directly in the door to allow for maximum light. She is not one of the teachers who live on campus, and I’d made several assumptions. However, life beyond the walls remains an endless fascination so I stopped with my many questions. Turns out, this time I was the one who was all wrong.
The conversation was quite interesting, though told with her characteristic confusion. It is as if she does not want to burden the listener with too many details but finds it difficult to edit. As she speaks, she closes her eyes and makes such pauses one might think she has lost her way altogether. My experience tells me simply to wait, silently inviting and encouraging more. Slowly her story unfolds.
She spent the last 10 years in China. There came a time when many people kept repeating that they felt she should be moving on, she was needed in another place. Though these were fellow Christians, they did not know her well. Through a series of events and meetings she found herself in Congo. It seems they were not ordinary meetings but with people well placed in the government to facilitate the process of gaining a visa during a time when tensions were rising. She came with an interest in pygmies. She had met just the people who also shared this interest and steered her in the right direction. Upon arriving, she felt a need to find some work to fund her passion. The timing was such that as she approached the superintendent here, someone had broken contract, leaving a void which he was only too pleased to fill. The story goes on as she lives and works in Congo, helping the pygmies develop some kind of sustainable living. She talks about reaching a block, when she just wasn’t sure how to continue. After much prayer, the answer comes to her, “Honey.” Only the way she tells it is like this- " I kept asking, what do I do now? and he said, 'Honey.' " So clear, just like that.
It turns out, gathering honey had been an indigenous part of pygmy life, with gatherers climbing some 300 feet to capture a hive. Another chance meeting with just right person puts her in contact with a beekeeper who is willing to send a trainer to work with her and the pygmies teaching them how to bee farm.
This is not a made up story but one example of a life working exactly as it should with purpose and direction. I am entertained and inspired. How fortunate that I passed to say hello with a question poised on my lips. But part of me wonders why I continue to waiver. I speak with confidence about having patience and knowing the right thing is coming. But inside I wonder about my doubts and insecurities. I wonder about my lack of direction and whether my prayers are simply not absolute enough.
I'm hoping for some kind of answer.
I have been spending my days on this oasis, doing very little to reach out.
But I want to know- what exactly am I doing here? Or, better put, what can I do best here? Where can I find service?
Just before leaving the U.S. I felt more and more strongly that I could really only find some kind of peace and happiness through service. For a long time, I skimmed by pretending my job, with its intense emotional demands, was service enough. There is no pretense now, no excuses. I'm just stalling, waiting for a crisp clear answer. Clear like honey. My doubter's soul says, she heard it, why can't I?
It has caused me to reread some of my earlier posts. In doing so I realize I can comment with positive affirmation. The move here has been enough to quiet my soul. It seems able now to listen. Despite the stereotypical cliché that was my dream, it’s turned out to be exactly what suits me.
Now that I've relished in the dream for several months, its time to get up and start the business of living, whether or not its clear like her honey or full of little bee body parts, all viscous and cloudy like mine. They both sweeten the tea, I suppose.
