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I think about this past year, the memories I've made, the friends I've lost, the moments I've shared, the tears I've shed, and all I can think to say is, don't take anything for granted. I deeply appreciate all the well wishes but today more than anything I ask that you love a little more, hug a little tighter, live a little deeper. Be here, now. Because that's all we have. Estamos Juntos. (at Lago, Niassa, Mozambique)
confessions
The tears that threatened your eyes, past tears, bitter tears, salty. I wish they would just fall, free from that unrelenting spirit. You never let me in, you never forgave, you never let go, you never. And I never.
Every single night
Every single night indeed
1 de Junho, 2016 Dia da Criança Moçambicana Children's Day in Mozambique with my adorable kids, I love them with all my heart.
I worry about you sometimes. It's never a consuming thought that grips me with sudden anxiety, but rather a slow ticking in the back of my mind, one that I forget is even there. But some days, silent days, I hear it, tick tick tick. Deafening my thoughts. When will you come apart? Your seams so tightly woven giving way after years of wear and tear. You know, there's only so much you can handle on your own. I worry it'll all be too much, like it once was only a few years ago. I remember you numbing yourself, breaking down, going mad, lashing out; stages of grief for your loss. I worry those days are coming once more, I feel it in my bones, burning in the scar tissue that holds fast to mended bones. I know that feeling so well, too well. I tried to keep you locked up, safe from harm. My frail little heart. I could never keep you from falling, from breaking, from healing.
We never made it you know? We thought we did, we thought we fell, deep, violent emotion. But we were never there. Only trained to think so; this is where we should be. But we couldnât hide the apathy, God knows I couldnât hide my boredom. Some days I wish I tried. Tried to feel more, tried to give more, but for what? You felt the same urge I did, the urge to detach, to pull away. We were born with self-eject buttons. And life taught us never to be the last ones to push it.
Days drag on, an endless cycle of bad news, anxiety, fear. We come into this with a sorta mindset, a hope one could even call it to make a difference, to change realities. Afraid. Afraid of not living up to expectations, afraid of certain threats, afraid of monsters, the real ones. More news this week, near fatal drops, detention in dark rooms, handcuffs to a bed, shots along the highway, more restricted land. Do you know how hard it is? How hard it is to hold ourselves to this standard of achievement, of life changes? We try to focus on our work but all we can think of is what's next. We hold tight to our phones, awaiting the worst. Anxious, panicky people. We have to believe it will get better, we have to hope, to press on, we survived this much. What's the use in giving up now?
It's interesting how loss and grief work, it really is. Such opposing realities that are always functioning together. The former a lot of times happens suddenly, tearing away what we hold dear so it can never again be within our grasping fingers and so, almost instantaneously it is gone; the conversations that would've been, the laughs, the smiles that would be shared, the heartaches, the strife; how do you measure the amount of life that could've lived? Of soul that could've loved? Loss, so terminal, so finite. I bet there are a lot of hearts out there that wish grief was just as terminal as their loss. That the pain could be felt in an instant rather than for the rest of their lives. Pain. Most often confused as the most difficult part of grief but, to be honest, I think it's acceptance, it's that moment when you have to decide to move on from what has happened, it's that moment where the grief has to stop, where you're supposed to be okay. We put ourselves in an impossible position because we are told that we are to be okay after the mourning is over. Truth is, grief doesn't work that way, grief, beautifully juxtaposes loss because it isn't finite, it doesn't have a time frame, and if you have ever lost someone then you know grief is impossibly infinite. I'm writing this now because I thought I was okay, I thought a month has gone by and I won't have panic attacks anymore, and I won't have the realization hit me like a ton of bricks anymore, and I won't have to cry myself to sleep anymore. I thought I had grieved, I thought I had accepted. Loss and grief. Worlds apart but torturing none the less. My friend Drew was a spirit to marvel at, with a contagious smile and an unshakable peace. I know now that I won't ever be the same because of him, and I'm okay with that. Because I loved him, as a friend and as a brother, and that's all I can give him right now, and that's also okay, because love liberates. Be liberated in love.
"I love you. I would like to be near you. Iâd like to have your arms around me. Iâd like to hear your voice in my ear. But thatâs not possible now, so I love you. Go." - The more I read this quote from Maya Angelou, the more it resonates with me. I have loved, I love and I will continue to love those who have come, those who have stayed and especially those who are gone. - Be liberated in love, my friend. (at Quissico, Inhambane, Mozambique)
Today, more than any other day, I am reminded of Christ's unwavering love. While others are celebrating the people they've chosen to love, I get to celebrate He who chose me, and that, I've found, is far more satisfying. You know, I feel like with each passing day I've fallen deeper in love with my Creator; He's become my everything. Do you have any idea what it's like to rely on Him in every area of your life? I thought I did, but in truth, I only learned total reliance and surrender once I arrived in Africa. You see, there's no way I could be doing this on my own; I am a 21 year old college graduate living by myself and teaching high school chemistry to teenagers in Portuguese in a Mozambican village. But somehow, by the grace of God, I am here. That's the funny thing about living at the center of His will, it doesn't really matter where you are or what you're doing, you are home and you are loved. Some days will be scary as hell, guaranteed; you'll become painfully aware of all your shortcomings and wonder what you're doing, but that's where surrender steps in and Christ steps up; His grace made perfect in your weakness. So I guess what I'm trying to say is that while you enjoy this holiday, don't forget that we love because of He who loved us first and no matter who you're with today or what happens, "Jesus is the love of your life, hands down." I was recently encouraged by a post from @windcollective that said that. Advance in faith, live in love âď¸
I don't believe I ever realized the true importance of community until I came to Mozambique. I had a community back home that challenged and encouraged, loved and supported me. But here, in our small dirt yard, shared by four families and myself I've found a deeper importance to community. Of actually doing life together, day in and day out. We wash clothes together, carry water together, cook together. There is never a need that cannot be fulfilled, from hot coals to light fire to an extra onion or two, there is always someone to help you. We take turns going to the market for each other, we take care of each other's children, feeding, clothing, bathing them. But most importantly, we sit together. We sit in silence. We sit in the shade. We laugh as children play. We complain of the heat and the market prices. We teach each other to dance and words in Nyanja and English. We live our lives, together. I never imagined that life could be so full with so little, I may seem to be living with less but I am living with infinitely more than I thought I would be living with in sub-Saharan Africa. Never underestimate the value of your community, they will carry you when you've fallen, comfort you when you've lost, laugh with you in your joy, care for you in your weakness, walk with you in your loneliness. I learn from my community each day, and as I begin to discover more about myself and life in Mozambique I find that my gratitude for their love is unending. Thank you Jesus for the life we share.
Lately, I've found myself becoming a part of a family; they have cared for me, fed me, accepted me with open hearts, I am beyond grateful for days spent with them. This is Nilza, she is three years old and deathly afraid of dogs, she loves bonbons and the color pink. Today we ate chocolate, painted each other's nails and learned to say I love you in Nyanja. Ine dmakonda Nilza.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't have some rough days, loneliness was the usual cause. It's funny how we're taught to value independence, freedom and "making it on your own" but we never learn of the solitude that can accompany it. We were never meant to live life on our own, how many times have we heard that? But still we like to believe we can do it, that we are somehow growing and becoming someone in this world if we do. I met a few lone travelers when I revisited Ilha de Moçambique last week, and I found it fascinating how every conversation seemed to be tainted with a hint of loneliness, masked by crazy stories of being in Africa on your own; they boasted in their solo bravery all the while clinging to any fellow soul within reach. I wonder if my stories carry the same underlying tones of fake independence. I hope my life in Africa isn't about me making it on my own, but rather the lives of those who made it with me.
The life we shared and will continue to share is greater than life in itself, it is love, complete and true.
Well, 2015 came and went, and it was truly a momentous year, I turned 21, earned a Bachelors degree, and joined the Peace Corps. And yet, itâs the little moments that I remember the most, that Iâll cherish throughout the years. Like walking around random shopping mall art galleries in BrasĂlia with Ana Julia, dancing to Will Smithâs Welcome to Miami as we drove down South Beach with my Swedish friend Hanna that was visiting America, or laying at the UCFâs reflection pond one last time with Robin, or nearly getting blown away atop New York Cityâs High Line while Al, Rae and I were visiting Joel, or that one time Morgan and I pulled over in the middle of nowhere in Tennessee got stared down by a herd of cows and laughed so hard we started to cry, or when we visited Robert in Miami and had sushi at midnight because it was happy hour at Ra! or that time Justin and I just sat and drank awful Moroccan frozen drinks on a park bench at the France Pavillion at EPCOT, or when Julia and I drove through the Blue Ridge Parkway and listened to Sylvan Esso on repeat because we had no service, or when my niece came to visit and we got soaked playing tag at the Winter Garden splash pad, and even that time my brother and I sat in the middle of Dolores Park and did nothing but talk about life. Iâve realized I had a lot more of these moments when I moved to Africa, it might be because time seems to fly by here while life seems to progress so slowly. Who knows; the time I had with most people here seems to have been short lived but Iâll still cherish those moments all the same, like doing laundry and listening to Drake with Michelle, comforting a distraught Ellie after sheâd killed her first chicken, refusing to go to sleep and staring at the spectacular night sky with Mason, hiding from other volunteers and greedily eating a whole Tingaâs chicken with Dan, bumming a smoke off of Cole and talking about life back home, attempting to catch the sunrise in Lichinga but failing miserably with Evan, dancing around a hotel room to Show Me Love with Sidney and Maura, and third wheeling hard while taking naps in a twin bed with Janis and Morgan. I feel like I had a lot of great moments in 2015, but it wouldnât be the same without those people I had them with, so thank you. To everyone who made my 2015 to be what it was, be it good or bad, I am grateful you were a part of this momentous year.
And now hereâs to 2016, may it be a year of great joy and much growth, of lessons learned and of loves found, of strength and of vulnerability, of maturing and of more skinny dipping opportunities in Lake Malawi with friends. âď¸
My first two weeks at site were a lot harder than expected. Emotionally, I mean. You donât realize how much you dread being alone until you are in your own house, in a different country, surrounded by people who single you out. Walking around and being called an âazunguâ (white person) all day was also frustrating, I honestly didnât know whether to cry or just to yell at people. But still, everyday, I would âpassearâ in town and as the days went by, I slowly began to loose my novelty; most people had seen me, met me or heard of me by the end of the week. Granted, life in Metangula is still no walk in the park, but I think my community is starting to feel comfortable with my presence in town. Even yesterday, a woman stopped me while I was headed to the market to buy oil and asked me to teach her to sew. She explained to me that she had seen me sewing on my âvarandaâ last week and was wondering if Iâd be willing to come over and teach her. It might not seem like much, but in that moment I felt so happy and satisfied with my life here. I know Iâll still have days of frustration and tears but I think through it all Iâll be learning and growing, becoming the person I am meant to be here.
