Late

I should be asleep, but I can’t because it never fails: nighttime quietly whispers in my ear the names of the people and the places I love and miss the most, and I’d rather stay up and miss them than forget that I loved them at all.

The days are busy. America is busy. My days in America are busy in a way that they couldn’t be in South Africa. And it breaks my heart that this revelation only comes to me in the dead of night, when I’m reminded so much of my time in the purple house, thinking about life, and love, and all those things that really mattered.

Who have I become over the past year? Who and what have I fallen in and out of love with? Have I changed? Coming home was so much more confusing than I could ever have imagined in a way that I can never describe. They said it wouldn’t be easy. I knew that. But no one warned me that it would be hard in ways that I could never identify.

I’m happy. There is no question. I feel purpose. I feel loved. But I would be kidding myself (and everyone else) if I didn’t admit that a part of me feels missing sometimes. I don’t like to acknowledge it except in my rehearsed, script-ey kind of way, because then the reality of it all slips away for a bit. But every once in a while, in the dead quiet that brings with it images of tall grass with beautifully bright stars gleaming high above and waist-high hugs with magically untamed smiles, a calm panic grabs my heart and the tears well up but never come.

I sit down to get it all out, knowing full well that it’s impossible considering the fact that even I no longer understand the emotions and events and relationships that once seemed so simple. And yet, here I am, in the dead of night, typing nonsense to everyone who’s not me, because I’d rather stay up and miss them than forget that I loved them at all.

Germaphobes Beware.

I realize that I've returned, but there's still a lot of reflecting to be done - so my apologies, but bear with me. It helps!

This was originally written for my English Content class as part of a larger photo essay project reflecting on our lives as future teachers. This bit of writing went with a picture of one of our children whose hands are covered in yellow and orange paint:

She is my little princess and this is (arguably) my favorite picture from my entire time abroad. The pot belly, the confused expression, the multi-colored hands, the sheer innocence of it all - I mean, what's not to like?

But most of all, I love this picture because it reminds me of the beauty in messiness. Open Arms is chaotic; any piece of paper you put down is likely to have "I love you" scrawled across the top immediately, no matter how important or official it looks. Little hands get into everything. Weird, disgusting things get pulled out of tiny mouths. Organization is flighty and ringworm is rampant.

And yet, you fall in love. You fall in love with the untidiness of the bookshelves and the stains they put on (every one of) your shirts: the nail polish on my favorite sweatpants? A memory from girls night. The blue paint smears across my beloved Oregon sweatshirt? Remnants from the time one of our babies butted up to our freshly painted wall.

Bleached and sanitized memories swirl around only to be cycled out, but yellow and orange hands made imprints on my mind long ago.

I have come to learn that messy thoughts are the only ones that truly stick.

My most recent journal entry

Written on May 6th, 2011:

It's late and I should be getting to sleep, but instead here I am, staring at the thatched roof of the Purple House and wondering where the year went. It seems impossibly heartbreaking to imagine leaving this place -- my home. Because Open ARms truly has become my home, and these children, well, they're (partly) my children -- this is my family. THe past two days that odd "leaving" feeling has crept in, casting a glow on everything and everyone: the children, the mamas, the grounds...Oddly I don't think I believed that I would experience culture shock in going going home until this very moment; but truly the notion of being in my room at home and then back at Notre Dame makes me feel ill. Now obviously it goes without saying tha I absolutely adore both places (and the people that surround them even more so!), but imagining my life without the 100+ hugs a day, without the noises of children laughing and shouting, just leaves me feeling completely empty. The quiet, even in my imagination, is overwhelming.

What a year it's been. Yesterday I sat on the bed next to mine and so vividly remmebered unpacking my clothes into drawers and sobbing wildly. I remember frantically calling people back home and feeling so lost and alone at night out on the porch. Who was that person who couldn't yet appreciate the beauty in just about everything at Open Arms? This palce is unbelievably special; these children are unbelievably special; and I don't think the extent to which I have loved them has ever hit me so hard until this moment.

Yes, they drive me nuts sometimes. Yes, I get impatient and I miss my friends and family and American convenience (and hamburgers), but ultimately I love everything about Open Arms. I love that I know how to navigate the property in the dark, that I know their routine so well, that I've made irreplaceable friends. I love that love and God are so present in every crevace of this place. How will I ever leave? It truly makes my heart ache in a very physical way.

Wow, I'm starting to get really worked up. Regardless, these children and the volunteers and this place will stay with me always, as they have indelibly changed me forever.

More to come soon I'm sure.

Room for improvement

Written on February 17, 2011:

In the past eight months I have thought a lot about a lot of things. I think it’s no secret to my friends and family that I deeply cherish the time I get to reflect. My time at Open Arms has afforded me a lot of things (to say the least), but I find that one of the greatest is the sheer amount and depth of my reflection time.

It’s funny really, what extremes exist at Open Arms; it seems as though there are only two modes: loud and crazy, or silent and calm. The second the children get home from school, your mind starts racing, your heart starts pounding. You are flooded with questions, comments, complaints, jokes, and everything in between. You are grabbed, poked, prodded, hit, hugged, kissed, and sometimes even licked. You discipline and encourage. The world runs at a million miles per hour and often Pat, Rita, and I find ourselves leaning against the counter asking each other “Where did the day go?”

Of course, at night it’s the exact opposite. As I quietly trudge back through the grass to the Purple House at night the sheer stillness of the world really hits me. Nighttime here is so quiet. Crickets the size of golf balls provide the soundtrack until I put on the Norwegian Recycling CD Emily sent me (which I’ve listened to on repeat nearly every night for the past month and a half) and the stars and moon constantly take my breath away.

Oddly, the loud and crazy time of day and the silent and calm part of the day share something very much in common – that is, sensory overload. Granted, they come in very different forms. During the day it is external. You hear the shouting and the laughing and the hundreds upon hundreds of questions. You feel the children bury their heads between your legs, tug on your sweatshirt, pull your cheek toward them for a kiss. You see the older kids pushing the babies around on their scooters and children playing with the tap (even though they know they’re not supposed to). Of course, you can smell that distinct baby smell too. But at night, it’s more of an internal overload. You think about where these children came from, what you could’ve done better, what you’re going to do tomorrow. You wonder if you’re living a meaningful life, if there’s something you’re missing, if you’re doing what God intended you to do. You start a million different projects – essays, blogs, sketches, journals, books. You write letters and make phone calls home. You think about the past, about the future, about the present. You ask yourself if you’re missed at home and you question everything. I think it must be a side effect of being asked to explain everything to the children, but you really do just start questioning.

In my time here, one of my greatest struggles has without a doubt been whether or not I’m making a difference or if I’m becoming the person that I want to be. I battle over this every day and I’m not really sure if I have an answer. I’m not really sure if I’ll ever have an answer, but I have come to a few conclusions over the past few months nonetheless.

For as long as I can remember I have felt a great sense of unworthiness; a sense that I could be better, that I could do more, that I was falling short of my potential. And I realize that sounds remarkably bad, but allow me to explain; this is a good thing.

This sense of unworthiness isn’t depression or shame or anything like that. This sense of unworthiness is rooted deep in my desire to be the best that I can be at all times. It’s an intense confidence in myself that I can and should do better. They saying goes that “with great privilege comes great responsibility.” Well, I certainly have lived a very privileged life. And while I may not be the smartest or the most creative or the strongest or the funniest person on earth, I certainly have the ability, as I believe we all do, to love at all times.

So what am I getting at exactly? I’m getting at the fact that each and every day here I am trying to make every decision out of love and only love. Of course I don’t always. I still often make decision rooted in greed, jealousy, frustration, laziness, and all sorts of contemptible reasons. But the good news is that there is always that voice in my head reminding me: you can do better. And so each day I will strive to do better. I will strive to not lose my cool when the children push my buttons or cross that line. I will strive not to be jealous of those who have more. I will try to give up those things I don’t need. Open Arms has truly taught me that it’s OK to expect more of yourself and so here I go, listening to that unworthiness that I no longer see as a hindrance but as a simple reminder that every decision that we make ultimately builds into our character and that the first step towards being the best that I can be is realizing that I am currently falling short.

But as Mother Teresa once said (echoing a concept my dad often brings up):

Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.

So while I will always use yesterday as a measure of how much potential for growth there is in my life and will always dream of what tomorrow will bring, I am now more consciously aware than ever that it is time to live in the present, to love these kids now, and work on becoming a better me today.

What a whirlwind

December 30th, 2010 (morning):

It’s 6am and currently I’m sitting in Rita’s office, dog curled up on my lap, rain pitter-pattering nicely on the roof, Matchbox Twenty playing softly, and I’m looking back at the past six and a half months and all I can say is: Wow.

It’s been a whirlwind last six and a half months. (And my apologies for not documenting more of it in recent months – I’ll try to get back into it.) But just to catch you up –

In the past six months I have been more blissful and more frustrated than at any other point in my life. I’ve experienced the highest of highs, the lowest of lows, and a happy medium of the two. I’ve been to the clinic, on safari, to Cape Town and back. I’ve seen monkeys, giraffes, emus, lions, baboons, rhinos, and lots and lots of goats. I’ve become surrogate mother to a homeless puppy. I’ve watched 28 volunteers come and go – changed forever by the 39 children living here. I’ve taken ridiculous things out of tiny mouths: beads, thorns, toy car wheels, erasers, and packing peanuts to name a few. I’ve had to pretend I know what I’m doing. I’ve learned a few key phrases in Xhosa and Afrikaans to whip out when necessary (or if nothing else, for a good laugh at my abominable pronunciation). I’ve given approximately a bajillion hugs and kisses and received far more. I’ve met people I’ll never forget. I’ve been angry at the school system. I’ve waited by the phone willing for it to ring when I miss my friends and family just a little too much. I’ve read Anansi’s Magic Stick no less than 20 times to the young boys house. I’ve read books purely for enjoyment. I’ve started my ACE essays around 100 times (and still have yet to finish). I’ve relished late night trips to the BP (the only thing in town that stays open until 9pm). I’ve eaten sour milk and fat cakes. I’ve gotten to see my family. I’ve spent my first Christmas away from home. I’ve cursed the post office. I’ve started reading parenting books. I’ve gotten closer to God. Then I’ve gotten further away, only to come closer again. I’ve kicked myself over things I said. Then things I didn’t say. I’ve lost my cool. I’ve surprised myself. I’ve gone to bed at 8pm (something I haven’t done in years) and volunteered to get up at 5:45am. I’ve listened to the most angelic singing you can imagine. I’ve explained where meat comes from. I’ve come to love the way a child’s face lights up when you tell them you’re proud of them. I’ve teased and been teased like mad. I’ve been asked why I smell or why my legs are hairy. I’ve chased goats from our property and killed spiders the size of a tablespoon. I’ve lied outside to watch the stars. I’ve written countless e-mails and letters just to say hello (some I’ve sent and many I’ve failed to send). I’ve felt like I’m saving the world and felt like I’m not the right person for this job (at all). I’ve made children smile and I’ve made them cry. I’ve wiped snot from noses with my bare hands and watched a kid throw up in the hallway. I’ve watched seasons 2-4 of How I Met Your Mother at least three times. I’ve helped children start learning to read, to knit, to box, to set goals, to write in journals. I’ve wondered how parents do it. I’ve thanked the Lord for my parents. I’ve cried from the sheer beauty of a moment. I’ve sat on Bob’s porch to watch the sun rise. I’ve wanted to build a rondavel at home. I’ve been licked on the mouth…by a child (to which I could only laugh and say “please don’t do that again”). I’ve listened to a song on repeat for five hours straight. I’ve had a child refuse hugs and kisses for five months straight, only to nearly bring me to tears when he demanded one several nights in a row. I’ve consumed more chocolate in a day than I thought possible. I’ve taken three steps forward, two steps back. I’ve learned to enjoy beets, and cabbage, and even butternut. I’ve lived next to a poverty I’d never known before. I’ve written “I love you” and “I miss you” for children to copy more times than I can count. I’ve played soccer without shoes. I still have yet to change a dirty diaper (though I’ve changed many clean ones after bath time). I’ve relied on music and my journal for survival. I’ve given up very little and gained very much.

So while I’ve been awful at keeping up with this blog, know that you have just read the bulk of my time here in the short paragraph above. Life here at Open Arms is about the little things. It’s about a nine year-old knowing his sight words three days in a row and feeling all warm inside because of it. It’s about watching children open their presents on Christmas day and not caring that there’s nothing for me to open. It’s about wiping tears and laughing as much as possible. (Or trying not to laugh when a kid does something naughty but that’s just too funny!) Life here is about enjoying a car ride, the countryside, the children’s movies and music. Life here is about sometimes going to bed frustrated and exhausted but getting up in the morning ready for a new day full of new challenges. Every day is an adventure and I could fill twenty pages each day with all the little things that make me want to laugh, cry, smile, or punch my pillow.

I’ve given up very little and gained very much. Love thee Open Arms.