Remembering

My father told me he took the Georgia Bar Exam with a fountain pen.  He said he did so because he thought it would be “cool,” and because he simply could not imagine using a pencil for such a momentous occasion.  He passed the bar in December 1964.  I was born the following March.  In a span of three months, a very young, and I imagine, an idealistic, twenty-three year old became both a lawyer and a father.

My father was a beloved man, and no less so than by his children.  Many knew him as a great champion of justice.  And, while he was indeed that, for four of us, he was just known as our dad. 

My father touched many lives and left great reminders of his time here on earth.   As his children, we were very proud of his accomplishments, and glad that he found a vocation for which he had such great passion.  But, truthfully, it didn’t really matter to us what he did for a living, who he was in the community, or how many wrongs he righted.  What matter to us was one simple thing – his presence – his presence in our lives. 

When I remember my father, I think of purple tricycles, tulips, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  I think of weekends and holidays, and awakening to a house filled with music and dancing.  I think of picnics and birthday dinners, playing the basketball game of HORSE, and its faster sister game of PIG.  I think of dining out, homemade omelets, and gourmet Chef Boyardee pizzas.  I think of Niagara Falls and Disneyland, cameras and photos of women’s butts.  I think of fall leaves, hammocks and swings, lofts and fire escape ladders, suitcases and pullout beds, Saturday night TV, and fireplaces and lazy chairs.

I see my father in each of his children – in the genuineness of Allison’s laugh, in the slow steady stride of Michael’s walk, in the affable attraction of Zachary’s personality, and in the ease at which I cry both in sadness and in joy. 

Grief over the loss of a parent is such an extraordinary process – it transports you to places in time you believed long forgotten.  It makes you sad and it makes you angry.  It makes you mourn for the person that’s no longer here, for the person that never was, and for the person that never will be.  Yet, time is a strong healer.  And with time comes the gift of gratitude and appreciation.

I am grateful to have called Fred Orr my father.  He was a kind and gentle man that loved us so deeply, that he sometimes found it difficult to be fully present in our lives.  Yet, when he was, it was, as my sister says, magic.

I miss his hug.  I miss his smile.  I miss his voice and the way he called me Sweetheart. 

Yet, two years after his passing from this physical experience, I feel his spirit remains with me.  While revered and adored by so many, I celebrate the man he was, not as a romanticized fictional character, but as a human being, in his totality of depth and complexity, strengths and weaknesses – in all his amazing spirit and glorious flaws.

Another “Fred” of my childhood, Mister Rogers, said, “It’s really easy to fall into the trap of believing that what we do is more important than what we are.  Of course, it’s the opposite that’s true.  What we are, ultimately determines what we do.”  At a very early age, my father naturally took on the role of protector and advocate.  He spent his life helping others in his own personal campaign to save the world.  In his last months, as he allowed others to help him, he found his own peace, healing from what he termed a lifetime of pressure and the illusion of conflict. 

My father was an optimist.  Daddy loved this thing called life, and believed that there were many opportunities to live it.  So, I end with a quote from one of my favorite authors, Marianne Williamson, who writes in her book, The Age of Miracles, of the passing of her profoundly charismatic father, and how in the “purity of spirit,” she felt that he truly could see her for the first time.  “My father’s dying didn’t end our relationship; we’ve simply entered the next phase of it.” 

Homesick

It is 4:00 in the morning and my thoughts are in East Africa.  It is only a little over a day since I arrived home, and five days, give or take time zones, since I and my fellow South Carolinians said goodbye to our new friends. 

It is noon in Nairobi. 

I think of the Box Girls. 

It’s been over seven hours since Iddah arose.  She is most likely sitting down for lunch.  I wonder if her mother had money to give her for a car ride this morning, or if she made the hour-long walk to school instead.  It’s been over 5 hours since Tabitha awoke, prepared breakfast, and made her 30-minute walk.  I wonder how she is settling into the two-room high rise apartment she and her parents moved into just a few days before our trip, and imagine that her personality is helping her make friends quickly at her new primary school. 

I wonder if Sarah has a boxing match this week, and if so, who she will be fighting.  I hope Jane is feeling better this morning, and that the comfrey salve I gave her is providing some relief to the pain in her knees, so that she may continue her training for this summer’s Olympics. 

I fiddle with the lovely soapstone bracelet on my left wrist, a gift from my dear African sister, Judy, and wonder if she is doing the same with my bracelet as she sits at her computer on the other side of the globe. 

I think of the Safari Simbaz – Jessy, Chege, Vincent, George and Boss.  I imagine that earlier this morning, David – their coach, mentor and role model – led them through some energy-pumped callisthenic warm-up and a training ride, before beginning their work for the day, and that he would laugh at my slow and lethargic morning routine.  I look at the seat and pedals lying in a pile on the floor beside me, and wish one of the Simbaz were here to help me put my bike back together.  I have difficulty imagining making it up the hill on my next ride without their assistance.

It is half past noon in Arusha. 

I think of the Arusha Cyclers.

As I write, I hear the washing machine in the room next door complete the final cycle of the filthy laundry from my trip.  I hope that the second wash took the Tanzania dirt stains out of my khaki pants.  I imagine Christina is in school, and know if she were here, she would show me how successfully to get them out by hand.  I wonder if she is sharing a few of her new English phrases with her girlfriends.

I miss Sophia’s dry sense of humor, delivered with a straight face in Swahili and broken English, and her brother Rajaba’s pleasant smile and attempts to teach me how to say “cow” in Swahili – “ng’ombe.”  (I dare you to try it.)  I hope that the wound on John’s foot is healing well and that someone redressed it for him.     

I think of our hosts with Summits Africa, and my daily conversations with Emanuel, Daniel, and Hussein.  I hear Ema’s Jamaican music in my head.  I think of my successful bike day with Boni and the exhilaration of speeding side-by-side down the long hill.  I imagine riding through the rural areas along side Dani, with him feeding me the appropriate Swahili responses to the crowds of lovely people that cheer us on.  I try to remember the names of the plants and animals that Hussein taught me as I relay specifics of my trip to my husband.  I yearn for the meal tent and Matthew’s breakfast, and think of his and the other Matthew’s morning greetings.  I hope they all slept well and are enjoying a few days off before the next group of tourists. 

It is 1:00 pm in Marangu. 

I think of the Kilimanjaro Initiative and the large contingency of the UN Women’s Group hiking up the great mountain.  I wonder if Bernard is still at the Marangu Hotel, or if he has made it back home to his wife and children.  And most of all, I think of Kennedy.  Did he make the Kili summit today with the globalbike flag?  Did he feel the spirit of all of us with him as he climbed?  How changed will he descend from the mountain, this gentle nineteen-year old man, who up until a few weeks ago had never been out of his neighborhood?  And where will this experience take him in his quest to better his community?

I do not know what the future holds for my new friends and me.  Through the magic of the Internet, I am able to keep in touch with some, while others have no such access or even mailing addresses.  Some speak very little English.  I speak even less Swahili.  I expect written communication will be more challenging without the benefit of facial cues. 

I am certain of one thing, this experience has changed me.  Their friendship has changed me. 

As the sun rises on my side of the world, I miss all of their smiling faces.  I miss sharing meals.  I miss my impromptu Swahili lessons.  I pray that they are all safe. 

www.boxgirlskenya.org

http://safarisimbaz.com

www.arushacyclingclub.org

www.kilimanjaroinitiative.or.ke

The Traveling Pin

I am touched by the impromptu generosity of strangers.

My trip to Tanzania begins this morning at 4:15 am — a time of day that I do not see often or usually care to. Yet, with the help of a strong hot shower (maybe my last for a week) and my early rising and punctual husband, I and my two Greenville carpool commuters manage to arrive 20 minutes early, just in time to watch the sun come up over the south side of Union Street as we wait for the rest of our group. I suspect both events — the sunrise and the waiting — are rare experiences for three out of four of us. So begins the first of our new experiences.

The bus arrives, we pack the multiple gear bags, suitcases and backpacks, and, after a quick stop at the Little River Roasting Company for a group caffeine fix (thank you Gervais!), make our way to the Charlotte airport.

Standing in the security check line, I meet Bob and Dale, a couple from Spartanburg who recognize our group from this morning’s Herald-Journal. They are heading to Canada to celebrate Bob’s father’s 90th birthday bash. “Wow,” I say, “I want to have a big party on my 90th.” Dale tells me that her father-in-law also plans to take his girlfriend to Paris next month to celebrate. “Wow, now that’s what I REALLY want to be doing on my 90th!” I say. Dale asks about our trip. I fill in some of the details. She asks “Do you have to be in shape to do this?” I say, “We’ll soon find out.”

For the 10 or 15 minutes in line, we chat. We pass through the checkpoint and are unloading our buckets. As I stuff the quart size baggie of liquids back into my carry-on, Dale removes a lapel pin from her coat and hands it to me. “Here, this will be a good luck charm for your trip.” I can’t help but hug her. We depart — without last names, but no longer strangers.

The glittery pin, with its blue jeweled flower center, is a great addition to my utilitarian khaki fleece jacket. The gift brings to mind two books — seemingly unrelated. The Blue Sweater – the memoirs of a woman who, while traveling in Africa, sees a boy wearing her childhood lucky sweater given away years ago on the other side of the world, and of her inspiration to found the Acumen Fund. The Traveling Pants – the story of a group of friends who share a summer apart through a traveling pair of lucky jeans.

As they call for our boarding, I wonder what’s in store for me. Where will this journey take me? What will I do with it? Who all will share this experience with me? How will it all connect?

For now, at least, I know my new lucky pin goes with me. And with that, I share my experience with one more spirit. Thank you Dale!

(This post was originally posted on February 24, 2012 on http://tanzania.blogs.goupstate.com/10046/the-traveling-pin/.)

New Year's Resolutions

I use to spend the week between December 25^th and the first of January consuming holiday leftovers, finishing off half-full bottles of wine, and contemplating that one critically flawed component of my life that I would resolve to tackle in the coming year. Almost invariably there were a few extra pounds on my bones that I determined to eliminate - join a gym, run a half-marathon, learn to rollerblade, eat better, give up alcohol, etcetera, etcetera. Then there would be some particular goal intended to improve the more creative and/or intellectual side of me – travel (somewhere), take classes (of some sort), write, learn to speak another language, etcetera, etcetera. And, of course, I felt compelled to work on those pesky little personality flaws that kept me from becoming a truly good person – mostly boiled down to – be less opinionated, speak less, listen more.

Come January 1^st, I resolved towards self-improvement and jumped into the mission with full gusto, inspired by the renewing opportunity of a new year. Over the years, I managed to meet many of my goals. I joined the gym, ran the half-marathon, purchased those skates, and said good-bye to all white “non-food” products. I walked the cobblestone streets of Florence in the rain, dived with the sea turtles off the coast of Roatan, and enjoyed safari in the Okavango Delta. I earned a post-graduate degree, started a blog (you’re reading it), and published an essay in a literary journal. And, I learned to say “Hello, how are you?” and “I am fine, thank you” in Setswana (“Dumela mma/rra, o kae? Ke teng, ke a leboga.”)

The rest of the story, as one would say, is an all too well known one. That gym membership lasted two years longer than I did. The half-marathon was my first, and my last. After two falls, the rollerblades were safely put away in their specially design backpack in a little used closet. I became over educated and underemployed and yearned for unvisited places. I remained ever committed to chocolate and wine, always had an opinion, and no matter how much I tried to listen I still talked more. Most interestingly, I remained forever self-critical – and instead of celebrating my wonderful experiences, berated myself for not fulfilling my expectations of perfection in achievement and timeliness. So, some years back, I decided to embrace the old adage of “no expectations, no disappointments,” and resolved never again to make New Year’s resolutions.

That is until a few weeks ago. As I sat with a group around a campfire, someone handed me a small piece of paper and a pen and instructed, “Write what you’re leaving behind in 2011 and burn it.” Caught by the element of surprise, seduced by the concept of burning something, and faced with no expectations to share with anyone but the universe, I momentarily forgot my skeptic approach to resolutions, quickly scribbled two words, and tossed the paper into the flames. Proud of my truthful declaration, no matter how quiet, I felt ready to face the new year.

Then a funny thing happened last week (not on the way to the Forum, but hanging around a kitchen island drinking wine and munching on snacks with friends). Someone asked, “Does anyone have a New Year’s resolution?” Without skipping a beat, I yelled “Twenty pounds!” I immediately felt I had betrayed myself. These were not the two words the flames had engulfed only a couple of weeks ago. Why had I resorted back to the old standby – back to the place of self-criticism and lack? Why, at a time when so many people attack themselves and others, did I find it so difficult to speak of my desire to be part of a healing world?

It took me about twenty minutes, while the rest of the group discussed exercise and travel goals, to summon the courage. Then in a quiet moment, I sheepishly, and ironically, declared, “I want to live without fear and doubt.” I’m not sure if anyone got it; but it felt good to say it out loud. Now, I am ready for 2012.

The power of one mind can shine into another, because all of the lamps of God were lit by the same spark. It is everywhere and it is eternal.

Look gently on your brother… Follow in gladness the way to certainty. Be not held back by fear's insane insistence that sureness lies in doubt. This has no meaning. What matters it to you how loudly it is proclaimed? The senseless is not made meaningful by repetition and by clamor. The quiet way is open. Follow it happily.

When you have felt the strength in you, which makes all miracles within your easy reach, you will not doubt. The miracles your sense of weakness hides will leap into awareness as you feel the strength in you.

And if you choose to see a world without an enemy, in which you are not helpless, the means to see it will be given you.

- A Course in Miracles