still writing

Dear Readers:

Despite what you may have thought, I am not giving up on my blog. No way! Yes, it may be true that future blogs will feature a few less pilgrimages, wine festivals, bull fights, river rafting, and general hedonism. (Okay, maybe some hedonism – I did move to New York after all.)

First of all, I think there is still a lot of contemplative unpacking I have to do from the last year. There is so much about the Camino, and Kenya, and everything in between that I didn’t share last year, either because I just missed the opportunity to write about it in real-time or because it was too fresh, too raw, and sometimes too negative, to put into words or feel ready to share.

Then, there is still so much new that I am experiencing in this great city of New York. Through my Pacific Northwest viewpoint, New York is both overwhelming and jarring, but also fascinating and bizarre – all things that want to be written about. Those things, as well as all the crazy stuff you overhear in this city.

But also, beyond writing about my experiences and thoughts, I hope to branch out a little more into different genres.

I am starting to realize that I have a bit of a thing for poetry – reading it and writing it. A couple of months ago, when I unpacked my boxes of books after a year in storage, I was shocked to discover how many poetry books I apparently was loathe to part from when I did my big purge last year. So, more poetry is coming your way.

Given how much I have enjoyed writing, I have also started to dabble a little bit in fiction. No, I have no intention of writing a novel, but I kind of like the idea of a VERY short story, anywhere between a sentence and a page. Nano stories, if you will. But don’t worry, I will tag it as fiction so you don’t think these are things that actually happened. Usually.

Finally, I am starting a year-long project that I will probably be doing a little blogging about. Still working on the framework, though, so more on that later.

In summary, it is going to be pretty random, from here on out!

So that’s my hello-I’m-still-here post. I write because I enjoy it. I write because it connects me with others, with my community near and far. If you are surprised to still be getting posts from me, I will completely understand if you find you don’t have time to read it and choose to unsubscribe. But I am also honored by anyone that chooses to continue the journey with me.

Love,
Sarah

y’all had better come visit me

As many of you know, I have spent the last 6 months working in Kenya for a start-up company that brings sustainable sanitation to Nairobi’s urban slums. The experience was good, rich, challenging. It was an unexpected opportunity to explore two areas I’ve been curious about for quite a while: slums and sanitation. And I think I’ll be processing the experience for many years to come.

I have now moved on from Kenya to make my next steps. Many of you have inquired as to what those next steps are and I’ve avoided answering, in part because I have been in the process of figuring that out. The original plan when I began this journey 9 months ago was to return to Seattle, to the city, friends, and community that I love.

However, after much deliberation and soul searching, I’ve decided not to move back to Seattle, at least not in the near future. Instead, I am moving to New York, where I’ve accepted a position working for my same firm Arup in the New York office.

This decision has been a difficult one: it’s been an agonizing process of considering what things I must let go of in order to take up new things I’d like to pursue. There are so many things I will desperately miss in Seattle though: the water and mountains, my church families at Be.kon Collective and Church of the Apostles, and all my favorite people, places and haunts that make it home. But I’m slowly coming to peace with it.

While I plan to fully take advantage of what the city has to offer, what it lacks are my friends and family. So, I expect visitors, many and often, to come help me explore my new home!

I’ll be in an out of Seattle over the next few weeks to connect with people and begin the moving process, and then starting the new job in New York mid-May. Fortunately, New York is logistically close to everything, including Seattle, so I’m happy to say that I’ll be taking full advantage of cheap flights to the Pacific Northwest when I’m feeling homesick. That is to say, I hope to stay connected with all my dear friends in Seattle or wherever you may be.

With love,
Sarah

30 while 30

Today, a friend of mine blogged about the list she made of 30 things she wanted to do while she was 30 years old. I remember when she did this – I love the concept, but 30 was still a couple of years off for me and I forgot all about it. Well, those years have passed and all of a sudden today is my LAST day of being 30 and it occurred to me that I forgot to write my list. Then I realized that, without planning it, 30 turned out to be a pretty big year. So… I decided to write my list retro-actively and am quite happy with the results. In no particular order…

1. Had an awesome 30th birthday party with many beloved friends at my favorite coffee shop in my favorite neighborhood, Beacon Hill, of Seattle
2. Went to a Seattle Sounders soccer (football) game in which Seattle got joyfully squashed by Man United with my family
3. Swam at the beach with friends in Massachusetts
4. Walked the Camino de Santiago, a 500 mile pilgrimage
5. Rode the Eurostar across (under) the English Channel
6. Learned conversational Spanish
7. Saw Paris at night at the top of the Eiffel Tour
8. Slept in my first hostel, and then continued to do so for about 40 days
9. Learned beginners Swahili
10. Suntanned on the beach in Barcelona
11. Spent the day at the beach with old friends in the northeast
12. Explored small southern-ish towns of Montgomery, Alabama, Davidson, North Carolina, and Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, spending time with dear friends that live there
13. Viewed the largest ancient roman aqueduct in the world
14. Snorkeled in Zanzibar
15. Sunburned on the beach in Mombasa
16. Mountain biked in Uganda
17. Toured a gluten factory in South Africa
18. Toured vineyards in Provence
19. Took a figure drawing class – which I loved!
20. Lived in Nairobi, Kenya, for 5 months
21. Flew 30 hours to surprise my family at 12:30 am Christmas morning
22. Wept at the beauty of La Sagrada Familia
23. Walked the moors of Yorkshire with my aunt
24. Made new friends from India, Japan, Australia, Brazil, Chile, Kenya, Tanzania, the UK, Russia, Switzerland, Spain, Costa Rica, Canada and the USA
25. Conducted a field study on the hygiene habits of Nairobi’s slum dwellers
26. Hiked the rim of a volcanic crater
27. Scrambled through volcanic caves
28. Got the “underground” tour at our nation’s capitol in DC
29. Partied harder at New Years than ever before – lesson learned: red bull is powerful stuff
30. Watched my friend fly a helicopter, living her dream

getting lost at suswa

I just returned, filthy, from a day of hiking and caving in the Great Rift Valley.

It all started when a friend of mine, Jane, sent out an email earlier this week with the idea. After a lot of back and forth with my usual taxi guy, we agreed on a price to take out a 4×4 for the day. Our driver, John, and car showed up this morning, some kind of little Kia or Hyundai, which looked completely inadequate for the Africa-grade potholes we were about to take on. But we piled in and headed out on the 90+ minute drive toward an area called Naivasha in the Rift Valley.

The drive wasn’t nearly as green as when I was last out there. The rainy season was supposed to begin mid-March, but so far only a few teasing raindrops have come down in Nairobi. Just yesterday, I was thinking how relieved I was that it wasn’t raining and making the slum where I work a flowing river of mud (and trash and sewage), but then I realized that the land and people surrounding Nairobi relies on that rain. The lack of rain signifies impending drought, which has extensive and serious implications for the nation and people of Kenya.

Of course, there is no signage or clear demarcation on how to get there, so getting to these kind of areas involve heading out in a general direction and then pulling over on the side of the road to ask the various bystanders which way to our destination, in this case Suswa Crater and Caves. After a little bit of back and forth on a highway, at some point you veer off and head into the bush on a dirt track. It involves a lot off faith and/or having plenty of gas in the tank. After our hour and a half ride on the highway, little did we know we had at least another 2 hours driving, a bit lost, around Maasai grazing land.

A small background just in case: Maasai are the rock-star tribe of Kenya, well known around the world for their long distance runners and bright red outfits. While they don’t always wear their bright red blankets, I can attest to their running abilities and the fact that they are very dedicated herders with their characteristic herding and walking sticks. Their culture revolves around their herds, which represent all matter of wealth and well-being for them. So as you drive around the Africa savannah, you will come upon a Maasai and their herds every few minutes.

So while we’re driving around, lost amongst a landscape of dry grass, Acacia trees, and piles of rocks, we must stop and ask for directions. John, who is definitely NOT Maasai, would simply yell to them, “Maasai!” and then ask which way to go. It’s like getting lost in South Dakota and yelling to some guys in the middle of a field, “Lakota!” They didn’t seem to mind being accosted such, but I thought is was kind of hilarious.

view from the back seat - a dusty landscape

We finally made it to the trailhead of our hike. And when I say trailhead, I mean as far as we could drive till we reached the edge of a cliff. The “trail” followed a rim of a volcanic crater, so after wandering around, we found a herding trail with mostly cow or goat tracks in the fine powder dust. No boot tracks. Hey at least it was going to be quiet and un-spoilt, right? As a cab driver told me with a laugh on a previous hiking trip, if anything bad happens out there, you just die! Haha!

trail head parking spot

crew at the crater's edge

Between losing and re-finding the trail, scrambling up rocks, and stopping to look out over the crater, we made our way around the edge. The boys in the group felt compelled to launch a log over the cliff, as boys tend to do. We found a couple of un-supervised herds of cows and attempted to herd them with a stick. After lunch, we made our way back to the car, surprised at how easy it was to stick to the path on the way back down.

Next was the caves. Now, I’ll admit I was a bit anxious about this. I don’t mind scrambling up rocks and looking over the sides of cliffs, but I’m not a big fan of the idea of being underground in small spaces. But, the word of the day was adventure, so I screwed up my courage and went along. Fortunately, the caves were huge and cavernous and there was only one place where we had to duck to get through. Unfortunately, we didn’t really plan ahead and think of bringing flashlights. So between the flashlight our guide had and a couple of cell phone flashlights, the 6 of us picked our way slowly down into the caverns.

i see light!

The caves, like the crater, were created by volcanic rock, and therefore a bit hazardous when trying to navigate in the almost-dark of piles of volcanic boulders. Apparently this particular formation has something like 76 caves, many chain-linked and stacked on top of each other. Sometimes I am amazed at the opportunities I’m afforded in Kenya – to see wonders like this with no one else around. At one point we came to a place where silence gave way to a tinkling chorus of squeaking – bats! At first I thought they would really freak me out, but in the end, the sound was kind of pleasant. Trying to climb rocks slippery with guano was less pleasant, but you couldn’t see the grime in the dark so I just tried not to think about it.

At one point we just stopped and turned off all the lights, listening to the dark silence. There was something both simultaneously comforting and terrifying about that moment. I was happy I had made it that far, but my breath and my beating heart betrayed my fear.

After going as far as we could with our few lights, we slowly picked our way back to the entrance of the cave, each of us taking turns scraping gashes into our shins or bumping our heads on low overhangs. The sunlight slowly start to creep back into our surroundings until blinding us with direct rays. As we climbed the last few rocks out and onto the grassy surface above, great big raindrops began to fall, kicking up little clouds of dust with each splash to the ground.

Coming out of the darkness to be greeted by cool raindrops, I felt as though I was receiving some kind of magical baptism I didn’t deserve. It was an amazing gift of water, not only to the dry and barren land surrounding me, but also to my soul, which at times can feel dry and barren in its own way. In Swahili, there is a saying, “Maji ni Maisha” – Water is Life.

In the end, it only rained for a short while, again teasing the thirsty land. Please pray that more rain may come to East Africa.

sacred raindrops.

cross border crossings

*Warning, this is more of a rant than a blog post, but if you’re considering any kind of extended travel in the near future, you might gain some insights from my mistakes. Or just skip to the end for lessons learned.*

Today I returned from South Africa after a long weekend visit with my South African family (that’s another story). Yet again, I faced a difficult border crossing… turns out travel is a lot more complicated than I thought. And/or I’m attempting to cross a lot more borders than I used to. It all started many months ago…

August 2011, USA → UK: I arrived at Logan International Airport in Boston in a good mood, ready to set out on my adventure with my first international flight of my BIG trip. I had booked a one-way ticket to London with the intention of traveling to the rest of the European Union by train or bus. As far as I knew, I was allowed up to 3 months in the EU and had not made definite plans for what happened after that.

I had already checked in online and all I needed to do was check my bag at the counter. “How long will you be in the UK?” asked the attendant. “I don’t know – I booked a one way flight!” I smiled, excited to step out into the unknown. “OH…” she said, “I can’t let you on this flight – you have to have a return trip.” “What!?!” But it was no good, she insisted that I buy a return ticket right there on the spot. She said that the rule was being newly enforced in the last couple weeks and I would be deported without it. Trying to keep calm and not freak out, I used my phone to quickly book the cheapest ticket I could find sometime in the distant future.

Of course, when I arrived in the UK, they asked me how long I was staying. “A couple weeks,” I responded in a vague, uninterested tone. “Okay, enjoy your stay,” said the border officer, handing me back my passport. Argh – they didn’t even ASK about that return ticket!

September 2011, UK → Spain → France → Spain: After flying to Spain and undergoing a much less intense border crossing into the rest of the EU, I took a bus with my friend Sarah from Pamplona up to St. Jean Pied-du-Port, where the start of our Camino was. St. Jean is in France. The next day, Sarah and I walked across the last range of mountains at the south edge of the Pyrenees… back into Spain. It was that easy. Actually, the border crossing sign said “Navarra”, not “Espana”, signifying the fierce Basque possessiveness of the region. But that’s neither here nor there.

October 2011, Spain → France: Flew from Santiago de Compostela to Paris – again, all within the EU. No problema!

November 2011, France → UK: Train from Paris to London. All in the EU, so no problem, right? WRONG! Not only is there border control between the two, when you’re taking the Eurostar train, it all happens on the Paris side so that the UK doesn’t have to send people back. The 45 minutes ahead I was told to arrive at the station was not even close to enough time to go through security, exit immigration from France, and entrance immigration into Britain.

At the counter, the immigration officer demanded my departure plans and the address of where I would be staying in the UK. Yes, I did in fact have departure plans this time, but all that information was on my phone. Tragically, my phone was now dead because my very British aunt borrowed my power adapter to make tea and subsequently fried it. On top of that, my friend in London who I was visiting just told me to meet him at the tube stop near his house. That’s all the info I had. The border control officer looked at me with incredulity and said, “Don’t you know the UK denies access to more Americans than people from any other country.” In my stressed out state, I fought to keep myself from sniping back at him, “Well NO, how would I know THAT!?!” Instead, I respectfully pleaded with him, saying my phone was dead and I didn’t know about all those rules…

In the end, he made a very detailed note on my entry card and told me if I tried these shenanigans again, I would be deported back to where I came from. YIKES! Duly noted.

November 2011, UK → Kenya: This time I did everything in my power to get it right. My contact in Nairobi, Ani, told me not to worry about it and just say I was visiting friends and get a $50 single-entry visa on arrival. Is that all? I wrote down all my contacts names, phone numbers, the address I was staying at, and printed out any other pertinent information I could think of. Sure enough, as long as you have the $$$, they would let you in. At least the first time…

December 2011, Kenya → USA: Headed home for a Christmas holiday with family and friends. After traveling for about 24 hours, it was Christmas eve when I entered the States in Chicago, before connecting home to Seattle. At the counter I wearily handed my navy blue passport over once again. The officer took a quick look and handed it back to me, “Welcome home Ms. Moore.” WOW, that was a great feeling. No questions, no hassle. This was my country and it was good to belong for once.

January 2011, USA → Kenya: After another marathon flight back to Nairobi, I arrived in the early hours of the morning exhausted and ready to shower and collapse into bed. I lined up to cough up another $50 for a single-entry visa. This time, the officer explained to me that I needed to get some kind of form, some kind of special pass. Half asleep, I nodded unknowingly, and happily moved on when he handed back my passport with another shiny new visa.

Only weeks later did I find out that he stamped in there that I was required to get a Special Pass, with capitol letters, which was basically a mini work permit and would cost about $300. WTF! Okay, so I guess it is Kenya’s prerogative to require these things, but sometimes it feels like they just make this stuff up to squeeze as much money out of people as possible. The tourists just have to pay the single-entry visa once, but the people living and working in Kenya include social entrepreneurs, NGO staff, diplomats have to pay through the nose to stay and come and go – all with varying degrees of wealth, but mostly arguably working toward the betterment of Kenya. It just grates a little bit sometimes.

February 2011, Tanzania, Uganda, etc: Fortunately, as least East African countries have an agreement that says I can return to Kenya without a new visa. Whew! Always careful to take my vaccination information with me everywhere, just in case!

March 2011, Kenya → South Africa: Finally got the Special Pass sorted out the day before I was to depart to South Africa. I took my passport and threw it directly into purse, ready for action. The next morning, I confidently caught my cab to the airport, checked in, and wandered around the airport. The power at the airport was down, so I wandered around in the darkness waiting for my flight. Thirty minutes before the flight, the gate opened and I once again stood in line only to wait some more. The attendant at the gate took my boarding card, tore it, and then asked for my yellow fever card (required to enter South Africa). OH crap… Seriously? I usually kept it with my passport, but had separated them to get the Special Pass. Can I get nothing right? He then nonchalantly told me there was no way I was going to make this flight. Thanks for nothing.

Fortunately, I remembered something a friend of mine said about paying to get a vaccine at the airport – and actually, all you get is the card, not the actual vaccine. I managed to find the clinic and ask for the vaccine. After a lot of hemming and hawing about how the power was out and they had no more vaccines, I threatened to give up and go home and was only then informed that the card could be filling out for 1500 shillings ($18). Okay, whatever it takes. They casually filled out a new yellow fever card, took record of the vaccine batch number (not) administered, and wrote me a receipt… while I sweated bullets over my flight scheduled to depart in less than 15 minutes. Fake yellow fever card finally in hand, myself and another man in a similar position hauled back into the terminal to the gate, 10 minutes prior to departure.

The same attendant was there and told us it was too late to make it on the plan. Again… Seriously? He seemed really committed to us not making this flight. We respectfully begged with him, mixing in the word “Bwana” which is Sir in Swahili. We went back and forth and back and forth for more than 5 minutes. I begged him to make an exception (how many times have I sat on a plane waiting for other passengers?) and just try to do the right thing in the name of customer service. I don’t know what finally convinced him, but a couple of other staff walked up, there was some discussion in Swahili, and they decided to let us through. Once on the plane, we were the two awkward people getting on last when everyone else has been sitting there for 15 minutes wondering what the hold up was. I didn’t care – I was just glad to be on the plane.

Coming back to Kenya tonight, I could hardly expect a smooth return at this point – and was not disappointed. After paying all that money to get the Special Pass, apparently you need another stamp you get at the same time that allows free re-entry without the $50 fee. Sigh. Again, I attempted to talk my way out of the extra $50. This strategy is at least worth a shot, as it seems to work once in a while. But this time, no dice. Another $50 to the government of Kenya. Cha-ching!

Thus concludes my rather unsuccessful border crossings over the last year. Then again, depending on how you look at it, maybe they were successful: I was never deported. I have some good stories to tell. It has always been an adventure. And I’ve learned to stick up for myself. All in all, I guess I have a lot to be thankful for.

Lessons Learned:
1. Print all your paperwork out and have it handy. Never rely on electronics when it comes to border crossings.
2. Always, always, give yourself plenty of time, even if it is a very small airport and delays seem highly unlikely (and/or the power is out, you have to change money last minute, you run out of credit on your phone, you run out of battery on your phone, you get lost, you forgot your paperwork, and who knows what else).
3. Never answer more than the questions asked. The more information you give them, the more fodder they have to question your motives to enter their country.
4. Always check the entry and exit requirements for each country you plan on traveling to, and then double check them within the 1-2 weeks before you go.
5. If nothing else works, you can always try talking your way through it. Respectfully. Calmly.

ugandan adventure

A view from our camp

After another long week of managing toilet production, developing process, herding cats, and coordinating product design, last Friday I found myself sitting at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport (Nairobi) about to depart on a weekend adventure. I’ll admit I hadn’t really put a lot into the planning of the trip. I was recruited to go and did my part by buying my ticket and packing my bag, but other than that I hadn’t really had time to give it much thoughts. I sat out in the exterior bar of the airport with a beer as the dusty Nairobi heat of the day wore off into the night. I was absolutely exhausted. Also, I had just given up coffee for Lent, so I was probably a bit cranky.

After a number of security checks, immigration (the same pointless forms every time you exit the country), more security checks and a X-ray machine nazi woman who was bound and determined to ban us all from carrying our sunscreen on the flight with us (which is btw not available for sale in small sizes and costs a min of $12 per bottle), we got to sit in an un-air conditioned lounge while we waited for the plane to show up. Finally, I got up, back out of security to get a bottle of water and chocolate – which to my great annoyance cost more in Kenyan shillings than USD. All I wanted to do is fall asleep on my flight. However, I ended up sitting next to a very nice, but very chatty cardiac surgeon and attempted to patiently learn all about the biomechanics of the circulatory system (which everyone knows really freaks me out). It was interesting, but I probably was not the best listener in that moment.

Did I mention I was tired? And cranky?

Anyways, it’s always an adventure, right? After our flight, an hour long matatu ride into Kampala where I got the only seat without a head rest making sleeping again impossible, we arrived at a well known but but slightly inhospitable-looking-place-at-night back packers hostel. It was midnight. While some of my companions were planning a night out partying, I made my way to my room, crawled under the dirty mosquito netting without changing my clothes and passed out.

Fortunately, the next day was a… new day! I emerged, took a surprisingly refreshing shower with, get this, HOT water, and had the most amazing crepes for breakfast at the hostel’s bar. We made our way to Jinja, a small town where the Nile begins, flowing out from Lake Victoria, to make its way all the way to the Mediterranean (I’m 80% sure about that, at least). We continued up the river to another back packer place, where we rented mountain bikes.

Over the course of the day, my mind drifted, as it often does these days, to thoughts of home, wondering about the future and what’s next. Then I realized – whoa, I’m mountain biking along dusty highways, through jungle trails, past tiny villages and coffee farms, and around the shore of Lake Victoria in Uganda! Who cares what’s next!?! Let go of all that, Sarah!

As the ride went on, the sun got hotter and after over 4 hours of intense biking in the mid-day African sun I was ready to be done. We finally found our way back to Jinja and caught the bus back to our base camp. We were filthy: covered from head to toe in red dust, like a bad, BAD spray tan. We were assured once we made it back to base camp, there would be time to shower prior to our very important booze cruise scheduled.

Then, back at the camp, we were informed that the pump serving the showers were broken and no showers were available. Argh! Actually, after further investigation, there were showers mid-way down the hill with a full on view of the Nile. That’s right, a VIEW of the Nile while taking a shower. After running down the hill to take a very picturesque, cold shower, we were ready to jump on the booze cruise just in the nick of time. Actually, the cruise attempted to leave without me, but I managed to convince them to throw it in reverse and pick me up.

So, here we were, exhausted, excited, invigorated, floating down the Nile on a double decker party barge with backpackers from all of the world. With a bottomless bar. Damn. As we floated along and attempted to get our money’s worth at the bar, we listened to a fascinating collection of party music and watched the sky turn orange.

In turn, we were observed by the local people coming down the steep slopes to the river to wash clothes and collect water. As I sat there drinking my beer and listening to hip hop music, I won’t deny that it all felt rather… obscene. We were on a pleasure cruise drinking while others were cleaning clothes within a stone’s throw. All I will say is this: this is just a more extreme version of what I experience every day here. I live in a safe, comfortable home in a quiet neighborhood of Nairobi. In order to stay sane, I go out to nice restaurants, have a drink once in a while, go to a show, take yoga classes. Then, in the morning, I climb into the company car or a matatu and take the 1.5-2 hour commute down to the slum we work, where it isn’t safe to even stray 5 meters from your home at night and $5 a day is considered good pay. It is all an uncomfortable reality, but the truth. But I digress…

The following day was spent white water rafting the Nile – an incredible experience that I never expected! I had so much fun my cheeks were tired from grinning all day. At the end of the day, we took another lethargic bus ride back to Kampala and disperse our separate ways to return to Nairobi. After another harrowing night at the sketch hostel, I visited a plastic manufacturer the next morning for work and then got back in cab to begin my own trip back to Kenya.

Thus ends the Ugandan Adventure. Whew!

Hitting a wave!

walla walla

The other day I was walking home after a run or something. It was late afternoon, the sun was low and golden, but the air was still quite warm, tempered only by a cool breeze. I walked past the green grocer and the small corner store where they sell airtime, candy, soda, and various staples like milk, eggs, bread, etc. As I turned the corner, walking between long shadows and bright sun, the breeze wisping my hair around my head, I was suddenly reminded of Walla Walla. Maybe it was the dry, warm air, or the rustling leaves across the pavement, or the children stopping at the little shop to buy candy. Whatever it was, I was momentarily transported to my childhood summers spent in Walla Walla, Washington, to a time and place very distant and dissimilar from my present circumstances. (Nairobi, Kenya, in case you’re just tuning in…)

I would spend weeks in Walla Walla every summer staying with my grandpa. My days were spent hanging out with Grandpa Charlie and frolicking with cousin Derek, including riding bikes, going to the local pool, watching movies, climbing things – you know, kid stuff.

We would spend hot afternoons tinkering in grandpa’s machine shop in the cool basement, making various contraptions, sculptures and such, out of what ever scrap was laying around. Once we were trained, we were allowed to use certain power tools, like grandpa’s drill press, and then even more gadgets could be invented!

Also down in the basement was grandpa’s train set, which provided endless hours of fascination, only to be interrupted when we managed to dislodge a train or rail. The grandpa would be called to come down and fix it, exclaiming with mock exasperation, “You kids!”

We were given a couple bucks every day to ride down to the 7-Eleven and buy whatever treats our hearts desired. I remember doing careful calculations in the candy aisle in order to maximize my buying power and purchase as much sugar as possible. Loaded down with a bag of candy hanging off one handle bar and balancing a Slurpee on the other, we’d carefully steer our bikes the 5 or so blocks home to consume our spoils.

When we weren’t eating candy, we generally subsisted off of watermelon and chocolate milk. Apart from breaking the occasional window or harming ourselves or each other, we could do no wrong in grandpa’s eyes. We were his “bugs” and he was always proud and supportive.

I have a small envelope of old photos I’ve carried with me as I travel. Two of them are of my two grandfathers, taken together on the same day at my other grandparents’ house in Spokane. The film has a yellowish tint and is over-exposed, giving Grandpa Charlie and Grandpa Bob a ghostly appearance, their silhouettes feathery and disappearing against an equally ephemeral background. The seem to be fading before my eyes, which makes me cry at the pain of losing them so long ago and missing their influence in my life, in all our lives.

I don’t think I’ve been back to Walla Walla for at least 10 years. It has probably changed a lot, sprouting wineries and golf courses, overrun with retirees.

Things change, places change, I change.

And yet, those memories and experiences, my family and friends, have indelibly marked me and shaped me into the person I am in ways that will never change.

What I’m wondering is how do these two truths coexist? How do these two truths live in me in tandem? As I evaluate my next steps in my journey, I have to wonder what will happen if I attempt to go back and live an old life? And yet, and I know that there are so many ways that I belong to the “old life”, that I have been formed by it, and that it is precious to me.

My propensity is the struggle, like Jacob, seeking an answer, putting my faith in my ability to understand intellectually. But, I’ve learned and continue to learn, that these are questions I cannot answer with my head and in the end, the only way to live is to relax into the mystery, put my trust in the present and follow my heart.

sister winter

Every year when winter rolls around, and sometimes even at other times of the year, I start to loop one of my favorite Sufjan Stevens songs into my playlist, Sister Winter.  What is great about most of Sufjan’s songs is that they are at once mysteriously vague and deliciously descriptive, allowing a listener to project their own powerful meaning based upon their own journey.

And there is something about this song that reaches into me and pulls out a truth, a meaning that only Sufjan could adequately express (whether he meant to or not).

It starts with a solemn piano lead in, followed by a heartfelt confession.

Oh my friends I’ve
Begun to worry right
Where I should be grateful
I should be satisfied

But the confession quickly leads to thanksgiving.

Oh my heart I
Would clap and dance in place
With my friends I have so
Much pleasure to embrace

He seems to me to be giving thanks for his friends, family, community, while at the same time acknowledging that he hasn’t been present or loving to them as he’d like to be.

But my heart is
Returned to sister winter
But my heart is
As cold as ice

Oh my thoughts I
Return to summertime
When I kissed your ankle
I kissed you through the night

All my gifts I gave everything you
Your strange imagination
You threw it all away

He admits to giving away so much of himself, in the summer, when his heart was warm and his love flowed freely.  He feels there is nothing left to give, his heart is cold and hard.  And even though he wants to be a warm and loving heart, he’s sad that he can’t be that for his friends, can’t be present, can’t be generous and open with his heart.

Now my heart is
Returned to sister winter
Now my heart is
As cold as ice

And so, he’s returned to Sister Winter; it is only her company he knows how to keep, and only with her can his aching heart harden into ice so that he doesn’t have to feel any more.

All my friends, I’ve
Returned to sister winter
All my friends, I
Apologize, apologize

All my friends, I’ve
Returned to sister winter
All my friends, I
Apologize, apologize

All my friends, I’ve
Returned to sister winter
All my friends, I
Apologize, apologize

And so he’s sorry he can’t be there for others.  Sorry he can’t be the person he wants to be.  Sorry he has to protect himself and therefore withhold himself from his loved ones.

But in the meantime, he wants everyone to know that his heart is still there and he still cares and wishes the very best for everyone, even if he doesn’t always feel like it or show it.

La la la la la . . .

And my friends, I’ve
Returned to wish you all the best
And my friends, I’ve
Returned to wish you all the best
And my friends, I’ve
Returned to wish you all the best
And my friends, I’ve
Returned to wish you a happy Christmas

And in the end, his tone changes and with a kind of determination that seems to shrug off the cold he feels inside, a kind of “eff it,” and he chooses to wish everyone a Merry Christmas despite it all.

To wish you a happy Christmas
To wish you a happy Christmas
To wish you a happy Christmas

…

This song has always resonated.  I’ve listened to it on loop on cold dark bus rides home from work and determined brisk jogs around the neighborhood.  It allows me to descend into and feel through my own feelings of inadequacy, my own isolation, alienation from others, from my friends and loved ones.

But then, on the way out, the song pulls me up.  The glockenspiel (an instrument that sounds like tinker bell) and French horns lift my spirits into a new kind of hope, a sort of reinforcing of the love I feel deep in my cold, hard heart.  Sometimes you just have to say, “eff it, I’m going to love the best I can,” and leave the rest to higher powers.

And so, a message, the same message I pray every time I listen to this song:

Dear Beloveds,

There are times I’ve been distant, distracted, alienated.  There are times I’ve allowed worry and insecurity to shut down my love for you.  There are times I’ve used up my love and instead of sharing it with all, as God calls me to do.  There are times I’ve allowed my heart to go cold and icy out of protection or fear.

But I’m so thankful for your presence in my life.  So aware of the beauty and warmth you bring to me.  So glad to know you and be loved by you.

And I’m sorry.  Sorry I can’t always bridge the gap between my own inadequate love and the way I’d like to love you.

So in the meantime, setting aside all hang ups and inadequacies, all conflicts and depressions, I want to offer you what I have, hope for you the very best of everything the world can offer, and wish you a very Happy Christmas.

With love,

Sarah

down to the river

Last Sunday morning, I was running in the Arboretum near our house.  We’re lucky that it is one of the few places in Nairobi that makes sense to go running with nice wide trails and no traffic.  Another benefit is the music that comes from a capella voices of churches gathered in small bunches scattered across the park, standing in circles singing hymns.  Most of the hymns are melodies I know, but in languages I don’t understand – sometimes Swahili, but often other tribal languages.

This past Sunday it was still a little early for the larger gatherings and still fairly quiet under the trees.  As I made my was along the rocky paths, shoes caked in red African clay, I heard the voices of two men sitting together on a bench, singing loud and clear across the garden.  Again, I didn’t recognize the words, but they melody was clear; they were singing the old spiritual “Down to the River to Pray”.  Their voices were rich and harmonizing together, and it was beautiful.

The hymn conjurs images of people gathering at the edges of a clear, clean river, gathering together in community to share in holy baptism, to celebrate cleansing and new life.

The imagery struck me.  The rivers in Nairobi that I’ve seen flow with red mud, trash, and sewage: in short, they are the last places I would want to go to pray.  Instead of being places to be cleansed and renewed, many of our planet’s rivers are clogged with human effluent, trash, chemicals, disease, bearing the runoff of a multitude of sins.  It is a tragedy.

All the more reason, I suppose, to go down to the river to pray: for the understanding and imagination to hope for a better way of life for all people and for restoration of our relationship with the lands and waters we draw life from.

tedx kibera

I think today counts as an adventure.  It started out like any other slow Saturday: quiet morning with coffee, reading a book, the power going out.  But I was determined to find something to do besides sitting at home wishing the power would come back on.

First stop was the Christmas Craft market at the German Embassy.  While it seems the rest of Nairobi has a security company wanding you and leafing through you bag whenever more than 5 people gather together, the German embassy appeared perfectly happy to permit entry to anyone willing to pay the $1 craft fair entry fee.  Okay…  Anyways, I didn’t have much money, but what I did have I was delighted to spend on an authentic bratwurst and german baked goods.

Then I heard from a new friend who said she was planning on venturing down to Kibera (one of the most famous and largest slums in the world) to go to a Tedx (one of the most famous types of conferences in the world).  Interesting!  Without knowing much of the details, I jumped at the possibility of going.  Why not?  So four of us hopped in a cab and headed off.

We had a print out of the event with the venue’s name on it and not much else.  Since addresses appear to be optional in most of Nairobi, they are non-existent in a place like Kibera.  While the exact size of Kibera is unknown, I think most people would agree that it is massive: finding our destination would be like finding a needle in a haystack.  Luckily, we had a very patient cab driver and a couple of Swahili speakers in the car and managed to drive around for about an hour till we managed to spiral in on the meeting hall in question.  At this point we found ourselves deep in the heart of Kibera.

After driving in circles, we were about an hour late for a 2 hour event, but thanks for Kenyan time, nothing had started.  The venue happened to be located on the second story of a community building that served as a public toilet and biodigester, among other small businesses – all located at the crossroads of a couple of mudding dirt lanes.  We were warmly greeted by the event organizers, who were still busily setting up chairs and the sound system, as well as struggling with a little gas-powered generator belching fumes into meeting hall (their power was out too).  Since there were no other attendees in sight, we decided to just go for a walk for a while and see what we found when we came back.  Since I work in a slum now almost every day, walking around Kibera in broad daylight felt fairly comfortable.

After a nice stroll through the mud, between goats, chickens, children, we got back just in time for the event to start (now an hour and a half after scheduled).  Of the maybe 20 participants in the small hall, we were the only outsiders (i.e. white people).  One of the two speakers had to cancel due to illness, so the organizers opted to try and show an official Ted talk on a projector to make up for it.  However, the generator did not seem to be cooperating and would drop the video or the audio or both periodically till the organizers gave up on the idea. Finally, it was time to hear the real live speaker share what he had to say.

I will pause to say that at this point my expectations were not very high… as they say, this is Africa (yes, they really do say TIA) and I really had no idea what to expect.  I was just there for the experience, whatever that may bring.

The theme was Youth and Entrepreneurship.  Our speaker told us the story of his first small business in primary school reselling chapatis he got at the corner store to all his friends at school, marking them up slightly so he could turn the profit into what any eight year old desires: endless candy.  Later, to fund his way through university, he managed to start a copy business on campus without any capital by simply negotiating a series of trades – but then got kicked out of school because his business was competing with the school’s official copy business.  He’s now 25 and has grown a huge business providing financial training and advice to individuals and companies all over Kenya.  His main points were that (a) anyone could do what he had done without capital as long as they (b) use their strengths and resources wisely.  Even if you have no capital, if you live in Kibera, if you do not have all the qualifications they say your need, you CAN succeed as long as you work hard and are really motivated.  The audience then proceeded to ask really thought-provoking questions about the definition of success and discuss how slum dwellers can often get into a rut considering themselves powerless to create change.  I was completely blown away on the quality of the talk and the wisdom of the message, as well as the discussion with the (albeit small) audience.

In this one-room, open-air meeting hall without power, with motorbikes honking and roosters crowing outside, deep in the heart of one of the largest slums in the world, I got to experience my first Tedx event.