I don't mind this at all. It is comforting and energizing. I know there are plenty of people wilting, but I absorb the heat and try to hold on to it. Soon enough, the cool winds of the rainy season will be upon us. I wonder if living through the dryness will have changed me. If surviving the extreme temperatures will acclimate me and render the cooler season tolerable, welcome even.
As I made my way up the steep mountain, now an ingrained part of my weekly painting ritual, I noticed the yellow and green plastic jugs placed at intervals throughout the climb. It is the journey of water. No matter how hot I am, how tired my body or how fatigued my mind, there is always someone working harder than me. I can hardly imagine the effort involved in transporting the water up the hillside. Every week, I am in awe.
This week, even more so. News of death has a way of emphasizing the mundane. We expend so much effort in the fight to survive, and in the end none of us will conquer it. Death awaits us all. I am disconcerted by the strength of our will. And I can't help but think that those who've passed on have finally uncovered the mystery, the great mystery of what comes after. They know if we are foolishly passing our time trying to avoid the inevitable. Perhaps we should just be embracing it.
Upon arriving to the studio, there is often a cool breeze to welcome me. And today, as I gazed across the valley to the neighboring hilltops , I noticed a swirl of dust on the horizon. I watched it grow higher and tighter, lifting into the sky before eventually dispersing. A tornado of dust rising on the heat.
I pointed it out to Drissa and we watched it speed towards the heavens. I wondered what it looked like up close and expected to see it start swerving across the earth in a path of destruction. Drissa told me people say it is a devil and wondered aloud if that's true. "No," I half-heartedly said, "there's a scientific explanation. Something about hot and cool and air convections." But even as the words left my mouth, I realized that a scientific explanation didn't negate a spiritual one. On this exceptional day, I really didn't know what to believe.
It is just now, writing this, when I looked up the word for dust tornado that I am reminded of dust devil. Our conversation comes back to me and I wonder again at the complexity and interconnectedness of language and ideas and cultures. And spirits.
Our painting session was difficult for me. I haven't felt particularly skilled with this image. Drissa has contributed far more than I and it has been a challenge for me to keep up. Mid-afternoon I found out that I missed an important conference call with Mohamed (college preparation has already begun.)
It was all going wrong but I had no choice but to continue. Art has that effect. Painting can be a painful birthing process. I took some time to watch Drissa, trying to learn from him, remembering that was one of the main reasons for undertaking this project. Once situated comfortably in the role of student, I opened my eyes. I really observed. He works like magic and it is captivating to witness.
Eventually, I decided to tackle one area that has been challenging me forever- hands. I'd spent some time trying to get the drums right, something I am familiar with. But I decided to take a chance on really improving. And in the end, I definitely felt some progress. I really love this painting, even if I don't feel it has been an equal split of effort- or perhaps technique is the better word. Drissa and I often trade off in discussions about composition and perspective. I do have something to offer in that respect at least.
But after today, I was definitely feeling like I'd been able to invest a bit more of myself. I'd meant to do it. Painting and drumming- creating in tribute to someone who'd been there for me, if not consistently or dependably, at least occasionally and once or twice, right on time.
While I'd begun the day with a million confusing thoughts and emotions swirling in my head, as I made my way back down the mountain I felt a bit more positive and clear minded. I took in the African landscape, contemplating the mysteries between life and death. The meaning of it all.
In that vision of descent, I felt a sense of peace. Ancestors, I thought. Now I have ancestors. Maybe they are looking out for me sometimes.
It was the thought I needed to take me back home. I'd been wrestling for the past few days with news of an impending end. Confirmation came this morning that I'd lost another link to the person I used to be, the childhood me. And, while I'd had ancestors before today, I can sadly share that no one ever talked about them. I never heard their names and they never knew mine.
But now, there are at least two spirits who know me and maybe we can find a connection in death that we were never really able to achieve in life.
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| In Africa, the drum is a signal for everything from birth to death and all the momentous occasions in between. I think my dad would like it, even in progress. |
