Open to life/saying goodbye

I have one week left in this strange and captivating sliver of the universe.

A lot has happened to me, to the people I love, to the U.S. and to the world between 2014 and 2016. I’ve learned a lot about Lesotho, myself and the nature of humanity, some of which I’ve written about here and a lot that’s been too difficult to put into words that other people would understand. I’ve been able to travel all over southern Africa, and have found a deep sense of peace and satisfaction during innumerable hours spent alone in and around the round walls of my hut. I’ve had the highest highs and the lowest lows of my life here, and in some ways it feels like it’s been four years instead of two.

And just when I thought I had gleaned everything there was from this experience, when I expected to just coast through my last few weeks, something happened to me that forced me, yet again, to face up to the unpredictability of life.

About a month ago, I went to Pretoria to get a visa to go (back) to Ghana, and was away from my house for a week. When I got back, emotionally and physically tired from my last trip out of Lesotho and from a weekend spent saying goodbye to my host family from training, all was not as I had left it. I went to put the rest of the money for this tuition assistance program for high school students in the envelope with the money that I had left by the window. It wasn’t there, and the window had been broken. The first punch had been thrown.

By the end of the week, I had talked over the situation with my teachers, the priest, the Peace Corps safety and security dude, and my host brother, the only one who had been home the week I was gone. I had reported it to the police and had received a scary facebook message out of the blue from my brother that said he was going to kill himself because everyone in the village was blaming him for what had happened. I won’t go into details, because that’s not really what this post is about, but it became clear that my brother was indeed the person who did it. After a peaceful two years spent building a relatively close relationship, with him, the person I had come to trust the most in my village ended up betraying my trust and spending a whole lot of money that wasn’t even mine to spend in just two weeks. That was the second punch.

But again, that’s not really what this post is about. It’s about being open to life.

Obviously, I was distraught, not only from the betrayal of trust but also because I ended up having to leave my beloved house weeks earlier and stay in a hotel in town, away from my school and my community. The third punch had been thrown, and I sank to my knees, crying uncontrollably, the night I was told I’d have to pack up early. I had already been more than ready to leave Lesotho, and this felt like a sign from the universe that it was high time to get the fuck out. I was angry, disappointed and hurt by the fallout of what he did. I also felt a deep sense of hopelessness and sadness, because he may or may not get to return back to school now, and who knows what will become of his future.

Then I began re-reading The Untethered Soul (basically my bible) and the chapter on being open to change struck a chord with me, yet again (because aren’t the most vital lessons always the hardest to learn?).  And here it is, the whole point:

If I want to grow spiritually, which I do, I have to make the choice to be open to life unconditionally.  That means keeping an open heart all the time, and not closing it when I get hurt. It means I don’t get to choose the curveballs that life throws my way, and I don’t get to only accept the good things that happen. I have to accept it all, and use it all as an opportunity to grow, to learn, to let go.

So I did. I let go. I knew that if I let those feelings of disappointment and anger block my heart, I would regret it, and I would leave Lesotho with a bad taste in my mouth. I let go of what happened, and was reminded yet again about how little control I have. And that’s okay; that’s just reality.

I went to my village for the last time this week. I visited my thinking rock, the place I would go over these past two years to breathe and write and look out over the wide world beyond. I went to my school and gave some photos to my teachers and said my final goodbyes to these boisterous and loving women who let me in and loved me. I went to the high school and got some signatures for the forms that will allow Peace Corps to refund the money. I ate dinner with my dear friend Moliane, and played with her baby, hugging her repeatedly before I got on the taxi back to town. Who knows when I’ll see their faces again.

This week, I said goodbye to the jovial couple at my produce stand, my host Mme who got very sick the week I was away, and my brother for the last time, right before he got into a police van.

Tomorrow, I will go to Maseru and spend my final days eating my way out of this country with the other PCV’s who have kept me mildly sane here; it’s really not a goodbye with them.

And next Sunday, I will be back in Ghana, the country and the experience that really inspired this journey in the first place, because life moves in circles and cycles and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

And it all is. It just is. I’m ready to go, but I’m calm. I’m not chompin’ at the bit anymore, not fighting to get out like a dog in a cage.

It’s all reality. It all is.

And I’m happy.

Photos from my goodbye party and last day in my village coming soon.

I'm out of here next Friday. Terrified for the future of my country and the world, but more than ready to be back in the arms of the ones I love and ready to join in the fight. 

Khotso ya'll. I'll see you on the other side very soon. 

Not thirsty anymore

About a month ago, my dear friend Sierra asked me what it felt like to be ready to leave, to be fully done with this experience. I thought about it more when we got off the phone, and later sprang out of bed and wrote this stream of consciousness. Hopefully the rawness comes across.

*Likhooa is the word for white person in Lesotho
*Sesotho is the language we speak
*Famu is the national music of Lesotho. Accordians and husky voiced singing and often voiceovers of donkeys braying or babies crying. I won't miss it.
*A pitso is a community gathering, the way that all big decisions and announcements are made here.

And I took it.

I took it and I drank it up.

Drank from the long, wide, seemingly never-ending test tube (or is it an old, slightly moldy water bottle?) that seemed to billow out from the bottom like a ball gown of whatever Lesotho had offer. Had to show. Had to give.

I drank it all down.

I drank down early morning rooster crows and furtive calls of “likhooa” across a littered junkyard. Rich liquidy singing and the brightest of stars covering me each night.

I drank passive aggressiveness and calls from people I didn’t remember giving my number to (or maybe that was one of my more generous days hitching?) and the sharp deep-throated sounds of boys and men rushing after their cattle.

I drank in laughter.

I drank in lateness.

I drank my first genuine fear of a dog, the reason I began to run with a rock in my hand from that day forward.

I drank in Sesotho, lots of it. It pours out of me now without my noticing. It may never fully empty from this body.

I drank in love from a woman who had only just met me, who immediately began going on in Sesotho as she led me away from the pitso and towards what would become my home for my first three months here.

I drank in skinny dogs and cows and an eleven year old student told to hold an umbrella for a teacher while she ate her food, happily protected from the scorching sun, unaware or unmindful of the sour yet obedient expression on the girls face. Respect is compliancy.

I drank in bright colored dresses and a menagerie of blankets during all seasons.

I drank joy. I drank sadness. I drank laughter.

I drank hard cultural boundaries that would not and could not be crossed.

I drank the sound of my small neighbors calling “’M’e Mpho! Bye byeee!!!”. I drank it every morning along with my coffee on my walk to school.

I drank in vibrant sunsets and freezing cold winter nights that left me clinging to my hot water bottle like a lover.

I drank in loneliness. I drank homesickness.

I drank white boys discussing “the Africa problem”.

I drank positivity and happiness and vitality, for it was here where I learned that these are active choices one must make, here where I chose to make them.

I drank in candlelight and dirt filled fingernails and blood from a chicken slaughter, fresh on my hands.

I drank in famu.

I drank in beauty and I drank in dust. It seems I can never fully get it out from between my toes, the backs of my ears.

I drank in the same sight of the same three skirts and three button-down shirts every single goddamn morning, sometimes asking myself how I looked on a good day at home. How did I smell? How did I wear my hair? My underwear probably didn’t have holes in it. My feet were probably softer.

I drank in work and idleness, the lines often blurring between the two.

I drank books, endless books. My tongue is sandpapery with the remains.

I drank exasperation and misunderstanding and laughter.

I drank confusion and pain. I drank the sun coming up over the mountains in the morning, lighting the way for my early morning runs, making it easier to effectively dodge the animal shit on the road.

I drank the tears I swallowed when I had to leave my home early.

I drank it all.

I’m still drinking, but I’m not thirsty anymore, and the test tube (or is it a wine bottle?) is damn near finished.

Like a newsreel, it all plays back in my mind. Emotions and “aha’s!” and tears and sweat and shivers and that sensation, shifty as a leopard, that this is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.

But that’s gone now too.

It’s been days, weeks, hours.Years.

Years.

Khotso. 

Things of the last few months

My last few months in Lesotho have been busy and crazy and exhausting, and I haven't shared much of it yet. So here are some words and photos that give a lil taste of what my september and october were like:

I finished my last GRS (Grassroot Soccer) intervention with the other kids from grades 6 and 7. It always fascinates me how different personalities gel together and transform a space-whereas the first go with this class (different students) felt like pulling teeth, this group was a dream-The girls and boys really listened to each other and the energy was positive and affirming pretty much the whole time. Felt good to finish the work that's really gotten me through these two years on a high note.

my amazing counterpart explaining the HIV limbo activity: To demonstrate how having an older partner increases your chance of contracting HIV, the rope gets lower and lower, the limbo harder and harder to do. 

The GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) camp that I've been co-organizing with a top notch squad

for a hella long time. For Peace Corps super incompetence reasons that I don't need to delve into, it turned out to be an INCREDIBLY stressful week for those of us on the inside. The good news is the other staff and the girls had no idea, and I think it went well-the girls left happy.

Holy Rock

would've been nothin' without these humans

Queen Ototo killing it with a drug and alcohol demo

every school took one home

Walk on fire: face your fears&reach your goals. This real. 

Lithebae <3

The amazing women of our career panel

Then, like a crazy person, I went directly to Thabo's BRO camp for a day and a night, just to see my host bro participate in something he was so excited to attend. 

Goal races

My counterpart, 'M'e Thakane, also had a party for her son that just graduated from University (big deal ya'll, especially here). It was one of my last Basotho parties: a long as fuck church service that mostly consisted of listening to 'M'e and her beautiful choir sing joyfully, growling stomachs that are finally filled with as much food as you can squeeze in, and a whole lot of drinking and dancing as a dust storm blew and rain began to fall. It satiated the part of me that will miss Basotho festivities, and gave me an opportunity to finally meet her extended family. Apparently after I left, people were saying that I needed to come back so they could have a ritual to welcome me to the family (here, the lines between co-workers, family, friends and lovers are forever blurred and cross-hatched). Too late fam, I'm out!

My class seven's wrote their exams, and per usual we went to T'sehlenyane, the national park down the road from me, for a celebration picnic. There are a few that will only pass and therefore go on to high school with a damn miracle, but it's out of my control. I did what I could, and life will go on. This day was just about being together and celebrating their accomplishment just in taking the exam. They gave me a headache and sometimes they were downright shitty (because what middle schooler isn't?) but I love em, and I'll miss them when I go. 

And later that week, I went with my teachers to Katse dam, the biggest dam in southern Africa (or maybe the whole of the continent) that was built solely to send water to South Africa (if you want an example of a shortsighted vision, look up the Lesotho Highlands Water Project. Electricity and jobs are cool, but water is life. South Africa is chillin' with Basotho have died because of the drought). But it was a great day, great to spend quality time with the people who have really been my family in the village.

Much love ya'll.