Richbourne

Home for a while.
When my job was making bread and starting a vegan burger business with two brothers. I'd been here once before, sitting at the table eating avocado on toast, standing on the deck watching the sun set over the western motorway. I remember a whatsapp chat with Em "I don't want to live with 4 christian girls but it feels like I should" and so I drove my shitty audi a3 over the bridge with all of my things inside and moved in on a cloudy autumn day in 2016, the year that would break me (or make me???), just because my gut said to and like it always is, it was right.
Here I have grown.
whittakers creamy milk chocolate blocks consumed x10,000
first dates discussed: too many to count
break up hand drawn posters hanging from doors, made from the roll of brown paper that has never run out
I can't count the number of people who have stayed on our couches, in our rooms, shared our lives for a little while
my brothers, abbey's friends from christchurch, laura, jannah, the irish boys, naomi, kendra and nicole, claire, hannah every time she photographs a wedding
smoking cigarettes and drinking bourbon on the deck with katie and abbey hahaha
our cocktail parties
the most outrageous dinner parties with the best food, all of the furniture in lydia's room and tables and chairs to fit 30 people in.
the deck and the sunsets.
the first time tim kissed me
the mistletoe hanging above the front door for 2 years straight.
tandoori chicken burgers
walking on the cycleway to work;ponsonby;crumb. walking home at 5pm and how all the cyclists furiously ding their bells.
going to work at kokako, last year when we were all freelancing and the power would go off.
the tears we have cried on that couch. the movies we have watched. the cups of peppermint tea had. the coffee brewed. the times we have held each other.
going to the christmas carol service at katie's church and singing on the road to santa tell me by ariana grande
the bikes beside the stairs. all of the things I've put on my walls. the sound of the motorway at night. the helicoptors circling at midnight. 6am footsteps on the floor above me.
sharing a room: spilling all our secrets late at night, my messy half and abbey's tidy half. all of the books. only a couple of fights. the bookshelf in the middle: still hasn't tipped over despite precariousness.
when I was sick and everyone came to see me in hospital every day, and how sam and annie tidied my room while I was gone, and all the times katie emptied my bucket of vomit and checked my fever, and how abbey drove me to the emergency department that first time when I couldn't walk.
all of the airport runs.
all of the picnics
all of the walks up mt eden
all of the early mornings at habitat
all of the pizza nights, dessert nights. pooling our food to come up with some kind of meal. feeding each other when we're too broke/sad/busy to eat.
here's my home, a family I found by accident. here's to us.
X

Links

This is good. Reach out as well as up, please widen my perspective.

It's the middle of winter but this song is summer inside me.

We memorised this when we were kids, now I've forgotten most of it but the words still make lil tears spring to my eyes, because this is what it is to learn to be alive, and it's bloody hard, but it's worth it.

I want to see this.

All you have to do is keep giving a shit.

If you can't find a purpose, just find a reason.

This album is changing my life.

Anecdotes

Living somewhere is something very different from traveling. Traveling is finding somewhere you can eat and if it’s bad then you only have to do it once and if it’s good then rad! You nailed food choices this time! Living somewhere is buying salt and pepper and clothes pegs. Traveling is visiting the spectacular. Living is getting your feet dirty amongst the ordinary. 

It’s still sinking in for me that I moved to Africa.

This won’t be over in a week or two. 

Learn to boil every drop of water before it goes in your mouth. Learn to look poverty in the eye 365 days in a row, and figure out what you have to do about it. Learn to be lonely and learn to do well with that. Learn to say no. Learn when to let your guard down and learn when you keep it fiercely up. Learn to keep everything charged because of power cuts. Learn to shower any time of day you hear water in the pipes because chances are it won’t be there for long. Learn to keep your cupboards fairly full so you don't have to walk to get groceries when it's pouring with rain. Learn to be ok with bugs crawling on you. 

Today on my way to the markets I saw a guy standing in front of a tree saying “amen” over and over and over. When I walked back the other way he was on the other side of the road, standing in front of another tree doing the same thing.

I saw a guy walking down the street with a red hair clip proudly clipped in his beard. 

I saw a centipede as long as my foot and as fat as my big toe.

I walked past a man holding his son’s hand, I smiled at the little boy and the dad pushed him towards me and said “Take him!” and I was about to run away before I got landed with a small Malawian child. But turns out he was joking so I stayed and laughed.

I carried a 5 litre container of water home from the shop and wished like anything that I knew how to carry things on my head like every Malawian woman can.

When I cut through the park a man starts walking alongside me:

First he laughs..

“Why did you buy water?”

“Because I get sick! I’m not used to Malawian water.”

“Oh! Where are you coming from?”

“From New Zealand”

“How long are you in Malawi?”

“I’ve been here for three months”

“And you like?”

“Yes, yes! Malawi is very beautiful!”

“What are you doing?”

“I work at the hospital”

“Ah!” 

Then he told me about his business and how his office is nearby, how he is going to the sports centre to play basketball. He used to play basketball but now he’s old, but he’s going to anyway. 

He says “I will come and visit you at the hospital! What’s your name again?”

Ok, Patrick! Lovely to meet you!

- Malawi, January 2015

Find yrslf

The wild saturdays are back.

8.56am

I could fill a book with all the things I didn't say.

A conversation in the early morning light left me thinking about all this year has been.
Full of learning and growing, successes and failures experiences, doubts, joy, wonder, feeling loved more fully than I ever have before, getting to know myself in way deeper ways and confronting all the pieces I don't like.
It's been misunderstanding and reframing.
It's been love, time and time again.
It's been anxiety and fear, guilt and shame.
It's been honesty.
It's been asking questions of everything, scratching away at all the noise and finding out what's at the very core of this. What is important when everything you thought you knew implodes?
It's been letting go of everything I thought people wanted me to be.
Just be.

I'm getting more sure that every person is a great person.
I'm getting more sure that it's worth being kind to yourself as much as it is worth being kind to others. I'm getting more sure that you should say the things you're scared to say.
I'm getting more sure that we all pretty much want/need the same things, but we all talk about that and pursue that in different ways, and that's ok.
I'm getting more sure that stopping everything, lying under the stars and just looking at them is always a good idea.

What a wonder it is to live in this world. What a wonder to experience all of this. To fuck it up magnificently and then try again. How many times will I do this in my life? How many times will we all?
It's a great embrace, isn't it. We're big, we're small. We're everything, we're nothing. We're anything at all.

I feel it all.

Here

Where my favourite pictures were taped to the wall with masking tape. 

Where the bed I slept on would sometimes fall apart in the middle of the night. 

Where toast reigned. 

Where we scraped the ceilings and listened to Emily King.

Where I'd run to Mairangi Bay and watch the reflection of the sunset.

Where anxiety kicked me in the face.

Where I found out what it was like to have someone you could speak in stream-of-consciousness to.

Where double-decker buses took me to the city.

Where I could sleep with the curtains open.

Where I wouldn't stay long.

Where I wanted to be when I was lying in a hammock on the other side of the world.

Where I slept in the back of a truck once.

Where we went surfing.

Where I found common ground.

Where I lost my sleeping bag.

Where a lady with a dog called Theo took my photo.

Where I felt a beginning that looked like an ending.

Where we raced the tide.

Where the sun is setting behind the hills I can see from the overpass.

Where the stars are.

Read this if you want

To anyone who thought I lost my faith,

I wanna shout about how I’m sososo human. How I’ve effed up in so many ways and caused myself and others pain that I wish we didn’t have to experience, but we do. I I see the world from a way more humble place than I used to, knowing that I’m a stumble away from crumpled on the ground. I feel like that's all of us. I know about how life is fragile. I know about how it’s also beautiful, ugly, ridiculous, wonderful, so full of meaning and so meaningless all at once. I guess we’re big and I guess we’re small.

I’ve sat lonely and quiet with my questions and my fears because I’m scared of disappointing anyone who invested into me. Because I’m scared that you’ll look at my decisions and write me off as off the rails. Because I don’t know how to tell you that saying you’ll pray for me feels like a cop out. Because I don’t wanna disregard what’s personal and true for you. But man, I do wanna be honest, and I feel like my silence on where my head and my heart have been hanging out lately isn’t that constructive.

I know I went away and came back different, and I know that was bound to happen. I didn’t ever imagine it would be this much. I’ve been afraid that Malawi will get the blame for my ‘loss of faith’, that’s the last thing I want you to believe. Malawi didn’t do this to me. Malawi provided the context in which everything I ever thought I knew about anything could be deconstructed. All the illusions, gone.

Now I rebuild. 

All this means is that I wanna learn to live in the trust that truth wins, whatever that may be, and that if grace is real then it’s big enough for all of our humanity. 

It means that I’m not signing up to anything out of fear. I’m not searching for any kind of high. I’m not trying to be anyone else’s saviour. 

It means that I’m wide open.

It’s had me terrified. I’ve felt an urgency, that I have to figure this out before it’s too late. But maybe all ‘figuring it out’ really is, is realising that I never can. Anyone who says they can is lying. There are people much wiser and more intelligent than me but none of us are gods.

We’re all just figuring it out, doing our best with what we know.

Let’s have grace for each other. Let’s talk about stuff. Let’s figure out why we’re uncomfortable talking about some things. Let’s dance outrageously outside the cages of our beliefs. Let’s search for radical truth. Let’s not look at religion in any of it’s facets and make a god out of it.

I was driving back to Blantyre after a trip to the lake, the sun was setting. Bright pink and serene, a perfectly defined sphere balanced above the horizon. You could cut around the edges. But I’ve seen representations of the sun’s surface and there is nothing calm or serene about that. It’s raging hot fire, always changing, always the same. There’s no cutting around the edges.

What we can see from here isn’t the same thing. And I’m sure if we visited the sun it’d be another story all together.

Maybe God is like that.

24

SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG.

Man, some months you just don't know what to say. I've felt a whole lot of things but none of it is new - you know? I keep telling myself that these are all things that people have felt before. Lately I've been more drawn to the real conversations and the actual exchanges, rather than the words I may/may not put out there for anyone on the internet to see. Writing for an audience feels strange and wrong. What does this little voice have to say that hasn't been said a million times before? I only want to say it if I can say it better, and then we're right back at how I don't even know what to say.

Anyway. Let's not try to figure out everything at once.

I finished my year in Malawi 3 weeks ago! Absolutely mad feelings - all sorts of relief and joy at being able to shower every day again, go out in the dark, use the internet etc. But the last few months there were filled with so much goodness. Here's a little something I wrote twenty-four days before my departure (yes the countdown was well and truly on)

"Here I am, burnt and tanned from the African sun. We're driving beside the lake which feels like driving beside the sea. Listening to Lorde 400 Lux. Dry river beds. AirTel red shops. Bottles of CoolDrop water. Mud brick houses, thatched roofs. Mango trees. Little kids carrying live chickens around by the feet. Will I remember this? What it's like to be this girl in this moment, because I'll be different again soon. Soon I won't be in Malawi, won't be wearing this t-shirt, won't feel like I do right now. Elated, relieved, content. Anticipating and fist-pumping because I did THIS. One day at a time, I did this. One day at a time, maybe I'll make sense of it."

Then, some words written from Doha airport in Qatar...

"Leaving Malawi is strange because I'm wild with happiness in a "HELL YES I did this, catch ya on the flip side boiiiiii" kind of a way, but I look out the little square window from the aisle seat and it's the last time I'll see those familiar mountains and dusty roads, that dry brown landscape beside the tarmac, and I'll crave it one day soon.
That's all of life: the things you have to leave behind always existing, in some form. But you can't have all of them, even if you know they're there.
I look at fat diamond rings in duty free, glinting under bright lights. I just think of little brown faces, eyes glinting in the Malawi sun. Who needs diamond rings."

It's weird to think about now. It was a different life out there and I know I'm different from the living it. But it goes so quickly. Three weeks since I was there and it feels like a lifetime ago. It doesn't even feel like me who did that. I was so, so ready to leave, but on the train the other day I was so homesick for my little house across the carpark from the hospital. My little oven bedroom with it's creaky bed and walls covered in footprints from smashing cockroaches with shoes. The kitchen with the cupboard under the sink that would never stay closed, and the cast iron frying pan that I cooked everything in, and the walk to Chipiku and the tomato lady down the road. Dirty feet from the dust, eating every meal outside on the little concrete porch. Suffering through wearing jeans when it was so bloody hot, and putting shorts on the second I was home, all year round. Waking up at 5am and going to sleep at 9pm. All those little kids who knew my name and loved to giggle with me. Running up and down hills as the sun was going down, I'll never forget that light and how it made me feel.

These are some of the objects that featured in my life in Malawi

(descriptions read from top left - bottom right)

1/ tnm sim card, brought it from one of the tnm guys who set up camp on the side of the road with a plastic table and beach umbrella. they sit there all day long selling little scratchie cards which have codes that you punch into your phone to add credit. sim card cost 500 kwacha but then I had to go to a little shop that sells clothing to have it punched smaller to fit inside my phone. for no apparent reason none of the phone companies have the punch themselves, just this random clothing store.

2 / bedroom key. the lock on my room was real dodgy, so I'd lock my door but you could still open it if you pushed hard enough. so most mornings were spent locking my door ten times and body slamming it to see if it opened. tenth time lucky, usually.

3 / doxycycline pills. apparently stop malaria, but also make your skin as smooth as a child's. I'll take that. although I forgot to take them 80% of the time.

4 / the daily hunk calendar. a gift from a friend which was a real treat to look forward to each day :P

5 / disinfectant wipes. crucial. one time my friend's car broke down and we had to push it off the road. of course I fell down a ditch (mountain goat). scraped my knee up bad and was worried I'd get osteomylitis, so I scrubbed that wound up with many a disinfectant wipe. suddenly appreciated all that the kids in that hospital go through and how brave they are. I was such a rookie with the pain levels of that scraped up knee and scrubbing it with a disinfectant wipe.

6 / classic filthy 50 kwacha note, usually given to me as change from my tomato lady down the road.

7 / well used gym membership card (aka piece of paper with my name written on it)

8 / DOOM. full of toxins but does a great job of killing cockroaches that scuttle across your floor in the middle of the night. but then you can't sleep afterwards because it smells like poison and I'm scared I'll die in my sleep.

9 / jungle insect repellant, kindly left behind by one of the many housemates and prevented many an unsightly insect bite, as well as protecting me from malaria for the 80% of the time I forgot to take my doxycycline and didn't sleep under my mosquito net.

10 / 10 kwacha coin = 0.03NZD

The end, for a minute.

Home

6 months silence, sorry about that! I'm sitting out on the concrete step that bridges the hospital carpark and my little brick house, the burning sun setting is hidden by a tree. But that cool thing is happening where although you can't see the sun, you can see all the effects of it.

I can hardly believe I've lived in Malawi for almost a year! All the cliches are about to come out. I've got itunes on shuffle and Buble (Home) just came on. Of course.
It's almost too hard to begin to think about it retrospectively. It just feels like life right now. It feels like I'm backing away slowly. Won't realise it's gone until I'm gone.

I wanted to go home a thousand times, but I remember at the 6 month mark, realising that if I’d gone home all the times that I’d wanted to go home I wouldn’t be experiencing these moments. I guess that’s what it’s been. A true lesson in being here now. Which admittedly I’ve been pretty terrible at sometimes. But you learn, you learn.

It's incredible how flexible we are. How transient our idea of "normal" is. Every time I felt outrageously out of my depth I reminded myself that this country was millions of people's home. Millions of people's idea of normal. Funny, because now the giant ants and cockroaches seem normal to me. Being this hot all the time feels normal (take that sentence how you will suckazzz :P). These people and this language and the way the mini buses honk all the time, the way the mosquitoes come out at night, the way little children run the streets in little gangs, chase me when I'm running, the way vegetables are stacked for sale in little pyramids on the ground, the way you have to get your receipt stamped on your way out of the grocery store, and soldiers with guns sit on crates outside. All feels like a little bit of home to me.

I knew I'd made it when a few weeks ago we had some visitors stay in my house who weren't so complimentary about the decor or the state of the fridge, and I found myself getting defensive about this little place that's come to be home. They didn't know how lucky they were that the hot water worked the entire time they were here, that they got the most comfortable bed in the house, that they didn't have to dodge thunderstorms during the rainy season.

Home is wherever you can find it, however you can make it. I'm glad I got to figure that one out.

Ambiguity

How do you make words bend to fill the empty spaces? 

It’s a Friday night, I’m lying on my double bed with the mattress that is too big for the bed frame. Listening to Numinous which is the closest thing to some kind of “ritual” that I have for these creative endeavours. Thinking about how I’ve been on the other side of the world for 6 months now. Thinking about how I wanted to tell you so much more than I have.

I lived by myself for two months, almost went insane from all that quiet. I’d go to bed at 7pm because when you finish work at 4.30pm there’s only so long you can stretch out making and eating dinner, and I’d read all the books that I brought with me twice over already. On New Years Eve I tried to make it a happy occasion by making sangria and dressing up fancy and dancing my little heart out in my little apartment. But my sangria was undrinkable because I didn’t use any of the right ingredients, and I fell asleep at 9pm because everyone who meant a lot to me had already texted to say “happy new year!” at lunchtime. 

I surprised myself with how well I did in those two months though. There have been dark days by myself before, but I refused to let myself slip back to that.

In January I moved to a shared house and since then I’ve lived with 25 different people. German, Belgian, Danish, English, American, Irish, Italian, Nigerian, Malawian, and a few who flitted in and out without me even learning their names. Sometimes that’s exhausting and sometimes it’s invigorating. Sometimes it makes me feel less alone and sometimes it makes me feel more alone. 

I’m growing used to meeting someone and then going places with them. Almost strangers, navigating these experiences together. I went up to the lake a month or so ago, on the way home we caught a ride on the back of a ute along with 23 other people and a bicycle, I spent the entire three hours thinking about how I’d protect my hands if we crashed. But also loving the wind in my face and the sun on my back and how it didn’t smell of sweat. What a way to see the world. When the ute stopped we were supposed to get onto another minibus but we were accosted by these two bus drivers who both wanted us on their bus. They pulled us in either direction and if we made a move to either bus they would scream and pull us to their own. I screamed back and pushed them away, they were drunk anyway. We jumped back on the back of the ute and it sped off, with this mob of drunk mini bus drivers chasing us down the road and yelling. We found another mini bus that wasn’t driven by a mad man and got on that instead.

The almost strangers are my friends now.

Sometimes, in the evening golden light, I walk down the middle of the road in absolute awe of all this. That I’m here, living this life. There are beautiful faces all around me and no one is afraid to say hello. Delightful chatter that I don’t understand. Women sitting behind mountains of fruit and vegetables, all delicately stacked into mini pyramids. Children running down the road in little gangs. So much I don’t understand. But I can see how beautiful it is, I don’t have to understand everything. I smile at everyone and feel it all. Really feel it all.

I didn’t want to come and ‘save’ Africa, because I don’t believe that’s how it works. But sometimes I feel like that’s all anyone expects of me when they see my white skin. I feel like a bitch when I look into the street kid’s eyes and say “no, I’m sorry” as he begs me for money. As he follows me almost all the way home, begging me for money. 

Sometimes, I just go home with my head down and then lock myself in my bedroom and watch Mad Men. Escapism. I’m well aware that I’m fooling around with coping mechanisms. I’m not sure how to face all of this head on though, all of the time, all by myself.

When I signed up for this, I expected to learn about compassion and poverty, different beliefs and cultural customs. I wasn’t prepared for all I’d have to learn about myself as well. In a weird little way (and it feels a bit narcissistic to say it, but..) some of the most profound lessons have been almost outside of the “Africa” experience. But it all connects, doesn’t it. 

Something I’ve had a hard time with is my relationships with the people that mean the most to me back home. I have a tendency to fill all the silences (which of course are bound to happen) with meaning and hidden messages. Usually lies. At home, all of the interactions with people are enough to keep those monsters at bay, but on the other side of the world it’s much easier to let the lies win. I’ve been aware of this pattern in the past, but it’s something that still jumps out at me any chance it gets. Last week it really dug it’s teeth in and I spent the week in a constant state of anxiety. I was always going to be alone. No one would stay. And maybe, on a certain level, those thoughts have some truth in them. 

But there is One who stays. In the chaos of my mind, sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough, but when I let those thoughts settle into my heart, the other loneliness I feel fades to the background. And then I’m free to love people without needing them to love me back.

A few months ago I decided that since I was uncomfortable anyway I might as well go all out and try to get good at running while I’m here. The logistics of this can be challenging (i.e. I don’t feel very safe running the streets, 3 of the five treadmills at the gym are broken, people love to spend 30 minutes walking on them at a snails pace (srsly why????), and there is an hour window of time between when I finish work and when I have to be home because it’s dark, and it’s like 100 degrees celsius) but I haven’t stopped running and it feels damn good now. Uncomfortable, and damn good. On the hard days, every pound of my feet and beat of my heart and drop of my sweat reminds me that hard things don’t last forever, that I can do more than I think I can, that the sacrificing of my comfort now will make me stronger.

When we were kids Mum used to pin up all these motivational quotes on the back of our toilet door. Probably to discourage us from taking our books in there to read, which looking back on it is gross but it was basically the only place in our house where there was an element of peace and quiet so fair enough I say. Anyway, I basically memorised every single thing that was ever on the back of the toilet door. I kid you not. Even the address of some couple who owned a business is Levin, whose calendar was also a staple on the back of the toilet door. I still know it. Not very useful to my life, but here’s one from Elton Trueblood that is: “We have not advanced very far in our spiritual lives if we have not encountered the basic paradox of freedom, to the effect that we are most free when we are bound. But not just any way of being bound will suffice; what matters is the character of our binding. The one who would like to be an athlete, but who is unwilling to discipline his body by regular exercise and by abstinence, is not free to excel on the field or the track. His failure to train rigorously and to live abstemiously denies him the freedom to go over the bar at the desired height, or to run with the desired speed and endurance. With one concerted voice the giants of the devotional life apply the same principle to the whole of life with the dictum: Discipline is the price of freedom.”

There is no real conclusion to this, but maybe that is a metaphor for something else I’ve been figuring out, which can be summed up in these excellent words from Gilda Radner: “I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity.”

LOVING X 5

This one is good for the heart. This is what I feel every time I sit at the ocean, in audio form. How perfect. I've been missing the ocean so much.

I'm reading like no tomorrow, and this book is hitting home in a few places.

The first 'daily' meditation thing that I've actually done daily for more than 2 days in a row. Solid.

On repeat.

I read this the other day, and now I'm appreciating hip-hop in a big way, and the way hard work and passion make history. There's so much potential in all of us.

AN ECLECTIC GROUP OF STORIES

Last week at work I met a little girl, her name was Jinny, she was three. I smiled at her and she smiled back. The next day sees me down the hall of the hospital, and comes running at me full force. Arms outstretched, massive grin. She leaped into my arms and my heart exploded. 

On New Years Eve I had these grand plans of making my solitude a rad time instead of a lame one. I would make sangria and stay up pondering the year that has been and the one that is to come. And then at midnight I would count down by myself and then party like it’s 1999 because how lucky are we to be alive?! But all my plans were put to ruin when my makeshift sangria (cider, “pineapple juice” which was actually only 30% pineapple and 70% sugar, mint leaves, apple and grapefruit slices) was undrinkable. Still quite tired from hardly sleeping for two weeks in New Zealand and the birds waking me up at 3am daily, I fell asleep at 9pm.

I got a taxi home from the airport when I arrived back, it was pouring with rain and Eliot my taxi driver insisted I stay in the car until it stopped. Twenty minutes. No extra charge. Golden.

The other day I saw a centipede that was as long as my foot and as fat as my big toe and I was devastated I didn’t have my iPhone on me for a photo. Promise it’s real though.

It’s the rainy season now and there are huge thunder storms. My bed shakes like the earth is going to fall apart, and fork lightning is better than fireworks. Although apparently my toaster was struck by lightning a few weeks ago so thank goodness I was in bed and not making toast.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we could really do with Kim dot com and his Internet Party over here. Fast, reliable, and affordable internet for all! Malawi needs it more than you guys ok. Send him over if you see him.

The other day I was walking back from the grocery store in the pouring rain. Dirt road is now mud/river road. I am soaking wet and covered in mud and at home the power is off and there is no water and I had to eat potato chips for dinner, and it struck me how terribly out of my comfort zone this is. I lay on my bed in the dark pondering this and all I can figure out is how to laugh at how ridiculous it is that I ended up here. And how rad it is to learn that you can be stoked about life even when it’s uncomfortable.

I’ve moved in with some germans (they drove here all the way from Germany!), a belgian, and an american and it beats being by myself by a long shot. Even if there is no water and the power cuts out a lot. If I ever commit a really horrendous crime I think I would rather the electric chair than solitary confinement. FYI.

Today I was carrying a 5L bottle of water home, wishing that I was Malawian and could carry it on my head. A guy laughed at me and asked me why I bought water. I explained that I get sick from tap water and he seemed to think that was a good enough reason, then he told me he was going to the sports club to play basketball. He used to play basketball when he was young, and now he’s old and slow but he still likes it. We’re passing the sports club now, we part ways and he says “I will come and visit you! What is your name again?”

At the markets there are all sorts of crazy fruit and vegetables. Today I saw this giant spiky thing and I tried to ask what it was. Various sign language and attempts to use words we both might understand resulted in me finding out that this was in fact, “food”. Good!

I’ve made friends with this family from the UK and their 3 year old boy has really taken a liking to me, and he’s so cute and sweet that I even dig mud in the garden with him and pretend to be Bob the Builder. He is Wendy, obviously. Lucky I used to be really into Bob the Builder so I know all the names of the other characters. 

Since I've been here I go from loving this place to hating it in two seconds, and back again just as quick. 50% love (the people, the way of life, the fruit and vegetables, the light, the beauty, the kids, the love) 50% hate (the lack of internet/water/power, the constant stares and calls and questions, everything I don't understand, how long it takes to do basic life things, the loneliness). 

But I think I'm starting to love it a bit more than I hate it. Time is a beautiful thing, as is the mind.

Next summer

I wrote this summer last year, and at the time it was such a wild dream. To do anything other than my office job seemed impossibly out of reach. But eventually curiosity won out over fear. Reaching, and seeing what would happen. And it happened.
All of these dreams, and more and more and more. More incredible and life changing and humbling than I ever dreamed.

Here is your reminder, that even when the things your soul demands you to do are more challenging and terrifying than you thought they could be, to never give up reaching. Let your curiosity be bigger than your fear.

Feel it all.

SCEPTICAL / HOPEFUL

I dreamt about Mum and Dad last night, we were on a beach holiday or something and the air was cool. Not summer. They were both softer, quietly confident. Dad died in his sleep and Mum was heartbroken because she loved him. I was rocked because he'd been the best Dad in the world.
I woke up and realised I'm not just sad for all that isn't, I'm sad for all that won't be. And try as you might to stitch some semblance of 'family' back together, we'll never share grief like that. Those dark beautiful moments will never be. I've thought about how our weddings will be different. Graduations and babies and celebrations. It never crossed my mind that we lose out on the sad moments too.

What happens when love isn't love anymore? Are you supposed to go on? Pretending? What happens when one person wants out and one person wants in, and you both made a promise that you were all in. For all of time.

What happens though, if you're not the person you were when you promised that? What if they're a different person from the one you promised to? We are physically different. Emotionally. Spiritually. There are loop holes.
But a promise doesn't make you love someone. The decision to love comes long before the promise.

I am so wary of all the potential for two people to hurt each other. And yet so convinced that it's in the relationships that our souls blossom. Giving your life to someone as they give you theirs, that's beautiful. Even at the start it's beautiful. And in my quest to live the heck out of life I want this thing too. I want to figure out how to be with someone and really be. All I am and all they are together. Like my dream job in Africa, find out that my dream boy is real effing reality. Bloody hard and soul stretching. Sacrifice and not all you thought it would be, but so much more and still not enough. But here you are and you are here so live the crap out of it.

The point was never to fill yourself up so you add up to enough. It's to pour it out, pour it out, pour it out. And you'll never do enough of that either. Give and take, give and take. Find the balance in the imbalance. Rest in that beautiful horrible surety that nothing will ever be enough. And that is enough.

Beautiful

This is what it's like: the sweet clean smell of the operating theatre, where I'm dressed in pants 5 sizes too big for me and this wild hair is tucked under a colourful hat and I'm not sweating for the first time all day because this is the only place with air conditioning. I forgot to put my mask on and a nurse tells me off.
This is where you look pain in the face.
I'm confronted by the fact that we are cut apart so easily. I didn't want to know we weren't invincible but we are. Skin and bones. With souls. Someone tell me how that works?
Emmanuel got burnt because boiling water fell on him. Now he can't bend his elbow and the skin on his arm looks marbled. He is old enough to know what's going on and he looks around with big wild eyes, and struggles with the anaesthetist who is wearing a hat that says 'relax!' but I think about how it's in English and he won't know what that means.
Seeing the inside of someone's arm is surreal. I don't know what half of it means but I can see bones and tissue and muscle and fat. Not much fat on Emmanuel's little arms.
I take a photo and the scrub nurse laughs and says "I don't think his Mum will want to be seeing that!"
When did this become beautiful to me? This pain and ugliness - for something good. Skilled hands that know better than Emmanuel's every instinct that this is good. That the discomfort of the present comes right before restoration.
And it's beautiful.

Wild Friday

It's always good to revert to a bit of scribbling, on a copy of a copy of an old photo that was already scribbled on. This used to be my favourite photo, it still is. The oldest and the youngest, standing between the kitchen and the family room. I was fifteen and she was a baby. I was about to grow up; so was she. Mum's new house doesn't have a family room, the kitchen cupboards aren't ugly green. There's her highchair, I'm wearing that hoodie I loved. The way we were won't change (love) the way we were won't stay the same (here).