Why, when God's world is so big,
Did you fall asleep in a prison
of all places?
-rumi
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Another adventure....
It has been six years since I last wrote. I began this blog as a space to record and share what I was learning as I traveled to different places in the world. Travel has been a great teacher. It taught me to risk, to observe, to be flexible and to be more honest about who I am and where I come from.
During the past six years my adventures have taken a different form. The worn out Kelty is in the garage- traded in for a diaper bag. My beloved Clarks travel sandals have been replaced by a closet full of "business casual" shoes befitting a university professor and "casual casual" shoes befitting a mother of two small children. As a thirty-something, I have landed squarely in suburban America. Working mother, carpool driver, laundry engineer extraordinaire. Some days it is blissful. Most days it is hard. Some days I am struck with a wanderlust so strong I stand in the driveway and stare down the street hoping that perhaps I might catch a glimpse of a longlost Ghanaian market or a Nicaraguan beach.
I am back to the blog because something is stirring. The tendrils of wisdom in my soul, along with some of the restless remnants of my wandering days, are telling me to pay attention. To notice. To listen. To ask what the details of my life are teaching. To make sure that I am open to this adventure. The one that is right here. Now.
I will try to get it all down.
During the past six years my adventures have taken a different form. The worn out Kelty is in the garage- traded in for a diaper bag. My beloved Clarks travel sandals have been replaced by a closet full of "business casual" shoes befitting a university professor and "casual casual" shoes befitting a mother of two small children. As a thirty-something, I have landed squarely in suburban America. Working mother, carpool driver, laundry engineer extraordinaire. Some days it is blissful. Most days it is hard. Some days I am struck with a wanderlust so strong I stand in the driveway and stare down the street hoping that perhaps I might catch a glimpse of a longlost Ghanaian market or a Nicaraguan beach.
I am back to the blog because something is stirring. The tendrils of wisdom in my soul, along with some of the restless remnants of my wandering days, are telling me to pay attention. To notice. To listen. To ask what the details of my life are teaching. To make sure that I am open to this adventure. The one that is right here. Now.
I will try to get it all down.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Reentry
I've been gardening like crazy. Pulling weeds, planting vines. When I went to the nursery, Steve the owner said, "You know it is August don't you" and raised his eyebrows when I told him I just felt like working in the dirt. I realize that it is likely that none of the plants will live, but for some reason I just have to be out working in the yard.
People who do research on cross cultural adjustment have found that reentry (coming home) can be even more difficult than the initial adjustment to a foreign country. This can be true even when the trip is relatively short. The first time I came home from Africa (after being there for a year), I was miserable. I felt disconnected from my friends and family. I felt like everything I was doing in my life was trite and unimportant in light of the tremendous injustice and suffering in the world. I did not know how to reconcile life in the US with life in Ghana. I moved into an apartment with a bunch of my college friends, but I couldn't handle it. Too much smoking and too many hair products. I moved out and went to live with Rob's parents. During the first few months I had trouble doing normal things like going to grocery stores or the shopping mall. Rob and I went to a mall in the Bay Area and I was so overwhelmed the loads and loads of clothes, shoes, accessories, CDs, trinkets, fake plants and scented candles that I practically had a panic attack and ran out in tears. It was a disorienting time.
Thankfully I had not had such strong reactions the last few times I've traveled. But, even so, I still feel surprised at how I feel when I get back. I am glad to be home and excited to see friends and family but there is part of me that is not ready to talk about my experience. People have called and asked me about it and I sort of stammer like I don't really know what to say. Even though I've been thinking about it and writing about it, it is still really hard to put into words.
To be honest, I feel a little sad. Not depressed, not discouraged, just mildly sad. I am not sure the exact source of it. It is not like I am sad to be home or sad about Ghana. I guess it is like how plants feel when they have been freshly transplanted- a little wilty.
Perhaps I should be journaling and processing the details of everything. It would be wonderful if I could get through the sadness and on to the stage where I am able to summarize my experience into a set of bullet points.
For now I am just going to sit in the garden and let the transplants soak for awhile.
People who do research on cross cultural adjustment have found that reentry (coming home) can be even more difficult than the initial adjustment to a foreign country. This can be true even when the trip is relatively short. The first time I came home from Africa (after being there for a year), I was miserable. I felt disconnected from my friends and family. I felt like everything I was doing in my life was trite and unimportant in light of the tremendous injustice and suffering in the world. I did not know how to reconcile life in the US with life in Ghana. I moved into an apartment with a bunch of my college friends, but I couldn't handle it. Too much smoking and too many hair products. I moved out and went to live with Rob's parents. During the first few months I had trouble doing normal things like going to grocery stores or the shopping mall. Rob and I went to a mall in the Bay Area and I was so overwhelmed the loads and loads of clothes, shoes, accessories, CDs, trinkets, fake plants and scented candles that I practically had a panic attack and ran out in tears. It was a disorienting time.
Thankfully I had not had such strong reactions the last few times I've traveled. But, even so, I still feel surprised at how I feel when I get back. I am glad to be home and excited to see friends and family but there is part of me that is not ready to talk about my experience. People have called and asked me about it and I sort of stammer like I don't really know what to say. Even though I've been thinking about it and writing about it, it is still really hard to put into words.
To be honest, I feel a little sad. Not depressed, not discouraged, just mildly sad. I am not sure the exact source of it. It is not like I am sad to be home or sad about Ghana. I guess it is like how plants feel when they have been freshly transplanted- a little wilty.
Perhaps I should be journaling and processing the details of everything. It would be wonderful if I could get through the sadness and on to the stage where I am able to summarize my experience into a set of bullet points.
For now I am just going to sit in the garden and let the transplants soak for awhile.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Return
Rob and I are back in Cali. We had a wonderful time in London. It was sunny and cool- perfect weather for riding around in open-top tour buses. We saw most of the major city sites, ate fish and chips and even popped into Madam Tusad's Wax museum for a brief tour.
We returned to sunny and hot LA and are both in the throws of jet lag. People have different strategies for jet lag. None of them seem to work perfectly. Yesterday we went hiking at 6:30 in the morning after being awake for almost two hours. We did so much physical activity (hiking, surfing, tennis, swimming) that we were both walking dead by 10 last night. Now it 5:30 and I'm up and ready to start another day. Not too bad at all!
Rob is going back to work this morning. That's the saddest part of coming home. When we are away together we spend so much time together. I really like hanging out with my husband! He'll be back at work and I'll be based at home the next few weeks- working on my dissertation, doing house projects, and preparing for my clerkship and classes that begin the second week in Sept. I am also planning to spend a lot of time with friends and family and keep processing (and blogging about) my experience in Africa.
We returned to sunny and hot LA and are both in the throws of jet lag. People have different strategies for jet lag. None of them seem to work perfectly. Yesterday we went hiking at 6:30 in the morning after being awake for almost two hours. We did so much physical activity (hiking, surfing, tennis, swimming) that we were both walking dead by 10 last night. Now it 5:30 and I'm up and ready to start another day. Not too bad at all!
Rob is going back to work this morning. That's the saddest part of coming home. When we are away together we spend so much time together. I really like hanging out with my husband! He'll be back at work and I'll be based at home the next few weeks- working on my dissertation, doing house projects, and preparing for my clerkship and classes that begin the second week in Sept. I am also planning to spend a lot of time with friends and family and keep processing (and blogging about) my experience in Africa.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Two women
I’ve spent all day the last two days at the refugee camp. Today I spent time with an elderly woman who has been at the camp for 15 years. We sat together for a couple hours each holding sleeping babies (so that the teen mothers had their hands free to take notes about a presentation on HIV prevention). She was wonderful company, warm, insightful and articulate. While we sat in the breeze, she told me some of her story.
She lost her husband and three sons during the war. They were killed while she watched, hidden nearby with the smallest son. Her remaining son will soon turn 19. Refugee life is the only one he has known.
She makes her living by selling small things- cans of tomato paste, small packets of salt, pieces of ginger root. Every morning she prays that people will come to buy something. If many customers come, she and her son will eat that day. If only a few customers come, she will insist that her son eat, but she will not buy food for herself. If no one comes, neither of them eat. She told me this very matter of fact. She was not complaining. She didn’t ask me for help. She told me about her life because I was curious and I was kind.
We talked about the future. She is not hopeful for Liberia. She said, “There are too many people who want to rule- too many selfish people who don’t care about their fellow countrymen.” She is concerned that the coming elections will cause more violence. Regardless of the outcome, she told me that she is simply too scared to go back. There are too many terrible memories for her there. She fled in fresh grief, with her four-year-old in her arms and walking through the ruins of her country as she went. While she talked, she exuded a deep sense of grief. Not depression, not apathy, not hopelessness, but profound grief.
Our conversation made me wish I had more time to spend with her, perhaps the chance for therapy… some way to extend more care, some way to share the tremendous burden that she has carried alone. When I left for the day, my last full day in Ghana, I gave her all the money I had. With tears in her eyes she said “May God bless you, my daughter.”
I spoke with another woman who was waiting in the camp office. She is leaving tomorrow for resettlement in the US. I asked her which city she was going to and she responded, “I am a refugee. I do not know where I will go or how I will live.” It made me sad to hear such a statement: I am a refugee. Because my nation is ruined, I am at the mercy of other nations. I will go wherever they will take me.. I touched her shoulder and said, “May God guard your journey and may my people greet you warmly when you arrive.” and in my heart I desperately prayed that we will.
She lost her husband and three sons during the war. They were killed while she watched, hidden nearby with the smallest son. Her remaining son will soon turn 19. Refugee life is the only one he has known.
She makes her living by selling small things- cans of tomato paste, small packets of salt, pieces of ginger root. Every morning she prays that people will come to buy something. If many customers come, she and her son will eat that day. If only a few customers come, she will insist that her son eat, but she will not buy food for herself. If no one comes, neither of them eat. She told me this very matter of fact. She was not complaining. She didn’t ask me for help. She told me about her life because I was curious and I was kind.
We talked about the future. She is not hopeful for Liberia. She said, “There are too many people who want to rule- too many selfish people who don’t care about their fellow countrymen.” She is concerned that the coming elections will cause more violence. Regardless of the outcome, she told me that she is simply too scared to go back. There are too many terrible memories for her there. She fled in fresh grief, with her four-year-old in her arms and walking through the ruins of her country as she went. While she talked, she exuded a deep sense of grief. Not depression, not apathy, not hopelessness, but profound grief.
Our conversation made me wish I had more time to spend with her, perhaps the chance for therapy… some way to extend more care, some way to share the tremendous burden that she has carried alone. When I left for the day, my last full day in Ghana, I gave her all the money I had. With tears in her eyes she said “May God bless you, my daughter.”
I spoke with another woman who was waiting in the camp office. She is leaving tomorrow for resettlement in the US. I asked her which city she was going to and she responded, “I am a refugee. I do not know where I will go or how I will live.” It made me sad to hear such a statement: I am a refugee. Because my nation is ruined, I am at the mercy of other nations. I will go wherever they will take me.. I touched her shoulder and said, “May God guard your journey and may my people greet you warmly when you arrive.” and in my heart I desperately prayed that we will.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Ramblings on time, technology and global problems
We have a little less than a week left in Ghana. I am not ready to leave. I even e-mailed the travel agent to see if it would be possible to change my flight. The flights are all full. I do not feel finished at all. I feel like I am getting started. I wonder if Africa can become an addiction. I can’t get enough….
Rob is spending part of this week training people how to build websites. I sat in on the morning session yesterday. I was very proud of my husband! Proud of his patience, his flexibility and his determination to be concretely helpful to these people who are desperately trying to be effective members of the world information community and the international marketplace. To be an African trying to engage the international technology world is to struggle.
I have had a taste of this struggle as I’ve been working on a web-based research project for MMCT. They have broadband internet but it goes down constantly. Other times it is so slow that it takes an hour to send an attachment. Then the mouse breaks. Then the electricity goes out. Then the server is down. Then the program freezes and must be reinstalled. Then an error message about a problem with the hard drive. Try to send things over dial up but the phone service goes out. I have “wasted” countless hours struggling to manage technical problem after technical problem. It has really stretched my frustration tolerance as drastically changed my expectations for what I can feasibly accomplish in a workday.
The “digital divide” is another type of evidence for poverty. Rob and I talk around and around about how technology and the information that technology can provide can be an anti-poverty resource. How is it possible that computers can be a source of incredible sums of money for many people in our country yet virtually worthless to others around the world? It is no surprise that much of Africa has been left out of the technological revolution. Even where there is ingenuity, brilliant business plan, and even investment money to get started - there is simply not enough infrastructure to support e-commerce. I wish I had some brilliant ideas.
The news comes to life when one is away from home. Rob and I have a few days layover in London on the way home. We have been carefully watching the events unfold. Sad. Nervous. We are in the cauldron of international affairs: in the midst of poverty, in the midst of terrorism. I am sure of one thing: terrorism and poverty are related. We, the wealthy of the world (Americans), must begin to take international poverty more seriously if we are serious about ending terrorism. 30,000 children die every day from preventable causes- hunger, unsafe water, etc. Poverty breeds desperation which causes anger which leads to unrest which becomes violence which in its extreme form takes shape as terrorist acts that costs the lives of countless innocents. I am not a political scientist or an expert, but I have spent some time in a few of the world’s most impoverished places and I am convinced that until the world begins to address the drastic inequalities between the two-thirds world and the wealthy industrialized nations, terrorists will have recruiting potential. “There is no security apart from common security… America will never be secure until the injustice and despair that fuel the murderous agendas of terrorists have finally been addressed” (Jim Wallis, God’s Politics, p. 191). My intention is not to make simplistic causational statements between the London bombings and Africa’s poverty. I guess I just want to say that injustice feeds injustice. Fighting one injustice while ignoring another is like picking the leaves off without pulling up the roots.
Rob is spending part of this week training people how to build websites. I sat in on the morning session yesterday. I was very proud of my husband! Proud of his patience, his flexibility and his determination to be concretely helpful to these people who are desperately trying to be effective members of the world information community and the international marketplace. To be an African trying to engage the international technology world is to struggle.
I have had a taste of this struggle as I’ve been working on a web-based research project for MMCT. They have broadband internet but it goes down constantly. Other times it is so slow that it takes an hour to send an attachment. Then the mouse breaks. Then the electricity goes out. Then the server is down. Then the program freezes and must be reinstalled. Then an error message about a problem with the hard drive. Try to send things over dial up but the phone service goes out. I have “wasted” countless hours struggling to manage technical problem after technical problem. It has really stretched my frustration tolerance as drastically changed my expectations for what I can feasibly accomplish in a workday.
The “digital divide” is another type of evidence for poverty. Rob and I talk around and around about how technology and the information that technology can provide can be an anti-poverty resource. How is it possible that computers can be a source of incredible sums of money for many people in our country yet virtually worthless to others around the world? It is no surprise that much of Africa has been left out of the technological revolution. Even where there is ingenuity, brilliant business plan, and even investment money to get started - there is simply not enough infrastructure to support e-commerce. I wish I had some brilliant ideas.
The news comes to life when one is away from home. Rob and I have a few days layover in London on the way home. We have been carefully watching the events unfold. Sad. Nervous. We are in the cauldron of international affairs: in the midst of poverty, in the midst of terrorism. I am sure of one thing: terrorism and poverty are related. We, the wealthy of the world (Americans), must begin to take international poverty more seriously if we are serious about ending terrorism. 30,000 children die every day from preventable causes- hunger, unsafe water, etc. Poverty breeds desperation which causes anger which leads to unrest which becomes violence which in its extreme form takes shape as terrorist acts that costs the lives of countless innocents. I am not a political scientist or an expert, but I have spent some time in a few of the world’s most impoverished places and I am convinced that until the world begins to address the drastic inequalities between the two-thirds world and the wealthy industrialized nations, terrorists will have recruiting potential. “There is no security apart from common security… America will never be secure until the injustice and despair that fuel the murderous agendas of terrorists have finally been addressed” (Jim Wallis, God’s Politics, p. 191). My intention is not to make simplistic causational statements between the London bombings and Africa’s poverty. I guess I just want to say that injustice feeds injustice. Fighting one injustice while ignoring another is like picking the leaves off without pulling up the roots.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
words
I called this blog "full of life" because much of what I write about is trying to distinguish the qualitative difference between merely existing and living a life that is intentional, passionate, brave- a life that I would describe as full. I have been reading a book called The Sacred Journey in which another person Fredrick Buechner tells the story of his own quest for a full life (at least that is how I understand the plot). Some of his words have really touched me:
To journey for the sake of saving our own lives is little by little to cease to live in any sense that really matters, even to ourselves, because it is only by journeying for the world's sake-even when the world bores and sickens and scares you half to death-that little by little we start to come alive. -page 107
Listen. Listen. Your life is happening. You are happening.
A journey, years long, has brought each of you through thick and thin to this moment in time as mine has also brought me. Think back on this journey. Listen back to the sounds and sweet airs of your journey that give delight and hurt not, and to those too that give no delight and hurt like hell. Be not affeard. The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other-- not a song with words but a song without words, a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart or turn the heart to stone, to haunt you perhaps with echoes of a vaster, farther music of which it is a part
The question is not whether the things that happen to you are chance things or God’s things because, of course, they are both at once. There is no chance thing through which God cannot speak- even the walk from the house to the garage that you have walked ten thousand times before, even the moments when you cannot believe there is a God who speaks at all anywhere. He speaks, I believe, and the words he speaks are incarnate in the flesh and blood of our selves and of our own footsore and sacred journey. We cannot live our lives constantly looking back, listening back, lest we be turned to pillars of longing and regret, but to live without listening at all is to live deaf to the fullness of the music. Sometimes we avoid listening for fear of what we may hear, sometimes for fear that we may hear nothing at all but the empty rattle of our own feet on the pavement. But, be not affeard. He says he is with us on our journeys. He says he has been with us since each of our journeys began. Listen for him. Listen to the sweet and bitter airs of your present and your past for the sound of him.
- page 77-78
To journey for the sake of saving our own lives is little by little to cease to live in any sense that really matters, even to ourselves, because it is only by journeying for the world's sake-even when the world bores and sickens and scares you half to death-that little by little we start to come alive. -page 107
Listen. Listen. Your life is happening. You are happening.
A journey, years long, has brought each of you through thick and thin to this moment in time as mine has also brought me. Think back on this journey. Listen back to the sounds and sweet airs of your journey that give delight and hurt not, and to those too that give no delight and hurt like hell. Be not affeard. The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other-- not a song with words but a song without words, a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart or turn the heart to stone, to haunt you perhaps with echoes of a vaster, farther music of which it is a part
The question is not whether the things that happen to you are chance things or God’s things because, of course, they are both at once. There is no chance thing through which God cannot speak- even the walk from the house to the garage that you have walked ten thousand times before, even the moments when you cannot believe there is a God who speaks at all anywhere. He speaks, I believe, and the words he speaks are incarnate in the flesh and blood of our selves and of our own footsore and sacred journey. We cannot live our lives constantly looking back, listening back, lest we be turned to pillars of longing and regret, but to live without listening at all is to live deaf to the fullness of the music. Sometimes we avoid listening for fear of what we may hear, sometimes for fear that we may hear nothing at all but the empty rattle of our own feet on the pavement. But, be not affeard. He says he is with us on our journeys. He says he has been with us since each of our journeys began. Listen for him. Listen to the sweet and bitter airs of your present and your past for the sound of him.
- page 77-78
A face in the sunrise
It is 6:30 on a Sunday morning. I am sitting ten feet from the foamy surf of the Gulf of Guinea. As I face the waves, the sun is rising gently to my left and giving the water a green, silky glow. I am sitting in soft white sand under a coconut tree. There is no one else here.
I woke up early to sit by the sea. I’ve come for solitude, or rather for communion with one who is sometimes best met in a place like this – a place that is mighty and beautiful.
Many people that I love could sit with me, taking in the green salty sea, and I suppose their hearts would likewise be stirred with awe. Awe for what or whom they may not know. However, I cannot sit here in a place of human paradise without making attribution, without overflowing with gratitude for the author of beauty.
Many people who I love shrug uncomfortably when the word “God” is mentioned. Perhaps it is better to see rather than hear. I wish they could sit here with me. I wish they could bask in awe as they stand small and human before the mighty water. Then perhaps they would be moved by the stirring in the heart that softly whispers - This thing, this moment, this beauty… it is not an accident, it is a carefully selected, carefully orchestrated gift for one who is loved, one who is cherished… for you..
“Never question the truth of what you fail to understand, for the world is full of wonders. Above all, never question the truth beyond all understanding and surpassing all other wonders that in the long run nothing, not even the world, nor even our selves, can separate us forever from that last and deepest love that glimmers at dusk like a pearl, life a face.” Frederick Buechner, The Sacred Journey, page 112
I woke up early to sit by the sea. I’ve come for solitude, or rather for communion with one who is sometimes best met in a place like this – a place that is mighty and beautiful.
Many people that I love could sit with me, taking in the green salty sea, and I suppose their hearts would likewise be stirred with awe. Awe for what or whom they may not know. However, I cannot sit here in a place of human paradise without making attribution, without overflowing with gratitude for the author of beauty.
Many people who I love shrug uncomfortably when the word “God” is mentioned. Perhaps it is better to see rather than hear. I wish they could sit here with me. I wish they could bask in awe as they stand small and human before the mighty water. Then perhaps they would be moved by the stirring in the heart that softly whispers - This thing, this moment, this beauty… it is not an accident, it is a carefully selected, carefully orchestrated gift for one who is loved, one who is cherished… for you..
“Never question the truth of what you fail to understand, for the world is full of wonders. Above all, never question the truth beyond all understanding and surpassing all other wonders that in the long run nothing, not even the world, nor even our selves, can separate us forever from that last and deepest love that glimmers at dusk like a pearl, life a face.” Frederick Buechner, The Sacred Journey, page 112
Reunion
I saw an amazing thing.
Last time I went to the refugee camp, the UNHCR car had an extra errand to do on the way. We picked up a 9-year-old girl from an orphanage. She is not an orphan but had been living in the orphan house for almost six months. This little girl was brutally assaulted by some men living at the camp. She was seriously injured to the extent that after she was released from the hospital, she was too weak to make the hour-long trip between the camp and the medical center. The orphanage is near the hospital so arrangements were made for her to live there until she healed physically. She has been separated from her mom for almost six months. Our job for the day was to take her back to live with her mother. While some of the group managed the paperwork, she wanted to change her dress so she would look special for her mom. She changed it twice.
As we drove out to the camp, she could hardly sit still. She fidgeted excitedly and carefully took in everything around her.
The plan was to meet her mom at a gas station outside the camp. Without phones, we could not call to confirm. Everyone in the truck was very nervous that her mom would not be there for some reason. None of us could bear her to feel any disappointment.
Thankfully, her mom was there. She let out a squeal when we pulled into the parking lot. Before the car could stop, she was scrambling out and was instantly enfolded in her mother’s arms. They twirled around as her mom began to cry.
I was very humbled to bear witness to this moment. It felt like a sacred moment, one in which the deepest longings of two people were met in a reunion. I hope it was a redemptive moment, one that marks a shift from surviving a horror to healing and new life.
Last time I went to the refugee camp, the UNHCR car had an extra errand to do on the way. We picked up a 9-year-old girl from an orphanage. She is not an orphan but had been living in the orphan house for almost six months. This little girl was brutally assaulted by some men living at the camp. She was seriously injured to the extent that after she was released from the hospital, she was too weak to make the hour-long trip between the camp and the medical center. The orphanage is near the hospital so arrangements were made for her to live there until she healed physically. She has been separated from her mom for almost six months. Our job for the day was to take her back to live with her mother. While some of the group managed the paperwork, she wanted to change her dress so she would look special for her mom. She changed it twice.
As we drove out to the camp, she could hardly sit still. She fidgeted excitedly and carefully took in everything around her.
The plan was to meet her mom at a gas station outside the camp. Without phones, we could not call to confirm. Everyone in the truck was very nervous that her mom would not be there for some reason. None of us could bear her to feel any disappointment.
Thankfully, her mom was there. She let out a squeal when we pulled into the parking lot. Before the car could stop, she was scrambling out and was instantly enfolded in her mother’s arms. They twirled around as her mom began to cry.
I was very humbled to bear witness to this moment. It felt like a sacred moment, one in which the deepest longings of two people were met in a reunion. I hope it was a redemptive moment, one that marks a shift from surviving a horror to healing and new life.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Giving Psychology Away
I've spent the last week at a workshop to trains missionaries in crisis response. The content ranges from practical skills to reflecting on a personal theology of suffering. It seems like the focused time to think about crisis and the opprotunity to receive training in how to support friends and collegues in the midst of trauma has been absoluetly invaluable to those who are here. These folks are all "well versed" in crisis through personal experiences. This training adds more formal knowledge and the opportunity to practice specific skills. Perhaps most importantly the training forms the basis for a network of peers who can advise and support each other as they are assisting and supporting other people.
The simple fact is that there is much trauma and few professional mental health workers. It is most effective for the few trained workers to use some of their time and energy equipping other people to better fullfill the supportive roles they are already playing. It makes sense to enhance the organic "counseling" and care-taking that is already taking place, rather than attempt to care directly for each person who may need some psychological support.
As an emerging professional it has been neat to see psychology used in such a practical, empowering way. I think there is some tendancy to among professionals to hoard knowledge and training and treat it as if it needs to be restricted for use by a select few. It costs professionals some tokens of authority to reveal their "secret" knowledge and offer it to others. I understand that there is danger in a little bit of knowledge and I am not arguing for the careless distribution of psychological practice and theory, but I do think professionals do a disservice when they underestimate "non-professionals". I really like the word empowerment. Give power to others, don't hold it all to yourself.
The simple fact is that there is much trauma and few professional mental health workers. It is most effective for the few trained workers to use some of their time and energy equipping other people to better fullfill the supportive roles they are already playing. It makes sense to enhance the organic "counseling" and care-taking that is already taking place, rather than attempt to care directly for each person who may need some psychological support.
As an emerging professional it has been neat to see psychology used in such a practical, empowering way. I think there is some tendancy to among professionals to hoard knowledge and training and treat it as if it needs to be restricted for use by a select few. It costs professionals some tokens of authority to reveal their "secret" knowledge and offer it to others. I understand that there is danger in a little bit of knowledge and I am not arguing for the careless distribution of psychological practice and theory, but I do think professionals do a disservice when they underestimate "non-professionals". I really like the word empowerment. Give power to others, don't hold it all to yourself.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Out for a stroll in a village
Last week I spent a day in a village outside of Accra. Village life is very different than city life. It is harder is some ways- daily life is more difficult to manage without an abundance of stores. There is only one place to buy laundry soap. When they run out you have to wait until the next trip to the city. Inconvenient. Yet, it is refreshing in its slowness, and friendliness. People learn to do more with less.
With my hosts, I went for a walk through the village. I wish I had been able to take a picture of the elementary school children leaving school for the afternoon. Each of them was neatly dressed in their brown and orange school uniforms. They walked with arms linked emphatically exchanging stories from the day (both boys and girls link arms or hold hands- there is no cultural prohibition against friendly male affection). Some kicked soccer balls as they walked and others sort of skipped along. A few carried book bags. Most carried a notebook of some kind and a writing utensil. The striking thing is that all carried a small, kid-sized machete.
I have no explanation for why all the school kids were carrying large knives. I do not know if they were learning machete techniques in gym class or if it was bring your machete for show-and-tell day. In Africa, a machete is common as a toothbrush. Here a machete is much more than a weapon; it is an essential multi-purpose tool.
When I lived here, I had my own machete. I don’t remember where it came from, I acquired it somehow. Once you get over the strangeness of identifying yourself as a machete owner, it turns out to be quite useful. Some uses I found for my machete included:
1. Flipping pancakes or frying eggs (like a spatula)
2. Cutting fruit
3. Cutting grass (this is probably the most common use in an urban area and is sure to result in a back ache)
4. Scraping grime off a number of surfaces
5. Clearing brush from the path of a wild fire
6. Chopping down a small tree in order to build a shelter for the night
7. Creating a tasty beverage from a fresh coconut
8. As a can opener
9. As a back scratcher for the mid back or other hard to reach itchy spots
10. As torque to loosen stuck things
Unhappy African Experience #2
I was sick over the weekend. I feel much better now, but I had a few unhappy days. First vomiting, then the other. I was fatigued. I was hot and cold. Feverish.
Whenever anyone gets sick in Africa, you instantly think: MALARIA! Of course, this is a good first consideration given how common it is and how dangerous it can be. However, I am taking malaria prophylaxis and have not had too many mosquito bites so malaria was not likely. Yet, the possibilities keep you up at night.
I can be very neurotic, especially when sleep deprived. I think I inherited a worry trait from my mom, or maybe just an overactive desire to have a contingency plan for a range of possible situations. Over the course of two nights, I lay awake between bathroom trips considering what diseases I could possibly have. Amebas, parasites, typhoid, cholera, dysentery, yellow fever, elephantites, leprosy… they all sound really horrible. Which ones are treatable? Which ones are not? I considered what would happen if I were to become severely dehydrated and have to go to the hospital for an intravenous drip. I reminded myself to make sure I see the needle being unwrapped before they put it in my arm. I wondered: How sick should I get before going to the hospital? Before deciding to go home? Should I call someone? What should I say? “I have an upset stomach, and I think I might die” sounded too paranoid, even at 3 am.
After consulting with Marion, who is trained as a nurse, I did go to the lab for some tests (just in case). It looks like I will pull through after all and make a full recovery. I felt well enough to have a burger and fries for dinner tonight.
Whenever anyone gets sick in Africa, you instantly think: MALARIA! Of course, this is a good first consideration given how common it is and how dangerous it can be. However, I am taking malaria prophylaxis and have not had too many mosquito bites so malaria was not likely. Yet, the possibilities keep you up at night.
I can be very neurotic, especially when sleep deprived. I think I inherited a worry trait from my mom, or maybe just an overactive desire to have a contingency plan for a range of possible situations. Over the course of two nights, I lay awake between bathroom trips considering what diseases I could possibly have. Amebas, parasites, typhoid, cholera, dysentery, yellow fever, elephantites, leprosy… they all sound really horrible. Which ones are treatable? Which ones are not? I considered what would happen if I were to become severely dehydrated and have to go to the hospital for an intravenous drip. I reminded myself to make sure I see the needle being unwrapped before they put it in my arm. I wondered: How sick should I get before going to the hospital? Before deciding to go home? Should I call someone? What should I say? “I have an upset stomach, and I think I might die” sounded too paranoid, even at 3 am.
After consulting with Marion, who is trained as a nurse, I did go to the lab for some tests (just in case). It looks like I will pull through after all and make a full recovery. I felt well enough to have a burger and fries for dinner tonight.
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