Staying Classy

Life's a beach.

I mean, really – everything's pretty, it's usually sunny (here, anyway), sometimes you get burned, and white people think some things (like sunscreen) only apply to them.

Or maybe because it's kind of messy and uncomfortable, but there was a moment with the waves and the sun where you felt so small that your heart would burst with it... and when you go home at the end of the day, your skin is still warm from its brush with the universe.

This Little Piggy

...Went to market, went to church, swooned over a member of the band (who is at least 5 distinct levels of hot – only one of them being that he is a drummer), and then was followed home by someone I'd really like to keep.

I mean, uh...  This feels more awkward when I know I have a varied readership that probably wants to know about war and peace in Congo and not that my eyes and heart are gone with the wind.  Nevertheless.  You should know that repressed aid workers also have desires.  I usually outrun mine, but when said drummer sits next to me in church or said cute churchgoer ditches a moto to walk me home, my mantra changes from I want a man who sees more than a ticket out of here to I want a man.

My Brothers' Eyes

Butters goes out of his way to be considerate sometimes (although he still appears to care more for the Phoenix's delicate sensibilities than mine).  Suspiciously so.  I think he occasionally reads this blog for tips on how to be a better person.  Which is the only reason to read, really – if you don't feel like a better person in comparison to me, you should stay away from... very nearly everything and very definitely everyone. 

Cruisin'

Sometimes you're the truck; sometimes you're the tired cyclist.

Keeping Up with the Chaos – Part II

On Sunday, I was supposed to get a ride to a church with the bride and groom who were shortly going to get married in it.  I'd been to this Swahiliphone church before and was happy to be there again to forever bid farewell to N2O's  freedom   peace   empty uterus  singularity, but as the time of the ceremony came and went, I reflected that this may be late even for this culture.  So I made my way over to the church from memory, arriving only an hour late thanks to a bus whose back door kept flying open every few feet.

I was worried about looking like a muzungu in a poor area of town; I'm not sure if this was prejudice, or if unsavoury types were just just too shocked at this golden-egg-laying goose waddling into their midst, or if they were ashamed to attack it on a Sunday morning.  In any case, kind people helped me arrive at the door of the church safe and sound.

Keeping Up with the Chaos – Part I

I regret using the word depression in my last post.  I did say it was far too strong for what I was going through (which is what a psychologist might call 'a rough couple of weeks'), but I think it gave people images of sleeping pills, alcohol, and a bathtub.

I currently own none of those things.  And I'm not depressed.  And I'm heartily sorry for these my misdoings and for the Anglican liturgy rising up within me like a latent superpower.

For the Days I Can't Remember

There's a saying that says that friends sing the song of your soul back to you when you forget. 

That's stupid.

My friends give me essays when I'm too tired to read.  They push me to think, to question, to get back up and fight when I'd really rather just taste iron as the countdown ends.  If I'm argumentative, if I am stubborn, if I tend to growl in public – this is why.

I'm depressed.

That's far too strong a word, but it was the first that came to mind as I was washing dishes in a fugue state one day.  Not only was I carrying out tasks on autopilot, I wasn't completing them to my usual standards, I  was skipping out on church events because they seemed like too much work, I was oversleeping, and food seemed like an unnecessary luxury.  I was okay during the retreat with the rest of my team, but going back to work left me listless and eager to be home.  Home home.

Spiritual Connections

While I was in India, I think the disparate citizens of DRC found unity in the fact that I was literally too fat and too single to be left to my own devices.  Thus, dear friends have taken it upon themselves to tell me that the weight I've gained is directly proportional to the loneliness I should feel. 

For the Peacemakers

I suppose that, as our one-year anniversary has passed, it is fitting that the honeymoon period is officially over.

Never before have I fought tears over the faith of parents who, in the face of the murder of their son, have painfully asked for the prayers for the perpetrators and their families.

Never before have prayed desperately for the faith of a mother who has lost her talented, driven daughter in the work of peacebuilding.

Never before have I laughed so hard in the face of a bizarre reality that death is so close, you can tie it to a smell, a taste, a single night.

A Very Stupid Thing

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for a message from our psyche.

This is story about a stupid thing.  A really very stupid thing.  It will be difficult to spot in the cavalcade of stupid things, but try to find it if you can, for it is the crux upon which the story is built.