Wisdom.

Tonight, I've been reading poetry, seeking nurture and sustenance for my soul, meaning in the midst of confusion and frustration. Via google, I stumbled on the American Life in Poetry project, archives of which I've been browsing for the last couple hours. Words and images, rhythm, memories in metaphor and verse. Sometimes, it takes the breathing of others to remind my heart of the vast range of it's existence: sorrow, joy, humour, love, longing -- living ever so fully. Numbed by an exhausting flow of circumstance, my spirit has found new life among the words and careful pauses, awakened almost to it's own expression again.

.

Just thought I'd share a piece that has been especially meaningful today.

.

.

Found Letter

by Joshua Weiner

.

What makes for a happier life, Josh, comes to this:

Gifts freely given, that you never earned;

Open affection with your wife and kids;

Clear pipes in winter, in summer screens that fit;

Few days in court, with little consequence;

A quiet mind, a strong body, short hours

In the office; close friends who speak the truth;

Good food, cooked simply; a memory that's rich

Enough to build the future with; a bed

In which to love, read, dream, and re-imagine love;

A warm, dry field for laying down in sleep;

And sleep to trim the long night coming;

Knowledge of who you are, the wish to be

None other; freedom to forget the time;

To know the soul exceeds where it's confined

Yet does not seek the terms of its release,

Like a child's kite catching at the wind

That flies because the hand holds tight the line.

.

.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright © 2006 by Joshua Weiner. Reprinted from “From the Book of Giants,” University of Chicago Press, 2006, by permission of the author. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006.

Traditional Dance.

.

Students from my school performing in a local Education Week competition.

This video highlights their traditional dance routine.

St Jude won not only the traditional dance part of the competition,

but also took home first place at this level.

We had another (spontaneous) dance party when that was announced!!

Ink Making Meaning: Or, On Writing.

I didn't really intend to open a new post window tonight. My head hurts, my body aches from coughing, and I'm exhausted after a day of doing mostly nothing. There are a few blog thoughts on my mind, words and phrases beginning to weave themselves around the ideas they must express. But I don't have enough will-power or discipline for that tonight: if I try to write those pieces now, they will fall short, disengage, be mere caricatures of what I really need to say. This evening, even my journal is intimidating: white space and uniform lines mocking my desire to tell you this or that.

.

So, then, why in the world do I have this window open? Why have I put words in the title box? Why do my fingers flit across the keys, sounding perhaps like mice scampering in the walls? Why am I writing when I have just finished explaining that now, tonight, I cannot write?

.

Because between shows on Hulu and naps, I checked to see if any of my dearest friends had updated their blogs. And Alicia's brilliant comments about the writing process sparked some contemplations of my own. Contemplations not about something I necessarily wanted or planned to write about. Contemplations, instead, on thoughts that desire to be written, which push against the soil of my mind, extending and stretching, impatient in their demand to be given word and voice. A reflection, seemingly, on my own writing process.

.

First this: I understand Alicia's quandary; I've been in it numerous times myself. Wanting to write an essay, needing to write one, a deadline fast approaching, whether in the mostly innocuous form of a syllabus due date, or the far more intimidating introductory remarks before I'm called to speak. In college, I often did my best work in the days (or, hours) before a deadline. There were times when I would work on a paper for a week, struggling to grasp the intricate details of its structure and the subtle nuances of its personality. Yes, essays - and poems even more so - are as complex and layered as, say, an odorous ogre bent on retrieving his peace and quiet. After a week's work, or more likely, a week's agonising frustration as the due date loomed closer and closer, the moment of illumination might finally come. Well, less a moment than an afternoon, an evening, a night spent mulling over words and points, quotes shadow-boxing for prime status, metaphors spilling together and unwinding: to put it simply, the birth of an essay.

.

And, as Alicia understands, and perhaps others of you as well, those frustrating and unplanned for moments are demanding and all-engaging. Like a puppy trying to sleep in a new room for the first time, or a new football passed into the hands of a gang of African boys at lunch hour: it won't be easily put to rest. The words must be written, the ideas expressed, the meanings played with. After hours of attempting to leave it be, of letting the words play their own games in the back of my mind, I finally succumb to their pull. At this point, the essay usually doesn't take so long to write. Less a blessing than a trade-off for the rumination process.

.

Oh, and poems are even worse. Catch me in a poetic mood, and I can't even pretend to pay attention to lectures about theology or chemistry. I might even begin jotting lines and sketching word pictures before my hair is combed from the shower or while my students work an exercise. Thankfully, it rarely gets quite this out of control.

.

But anyway. I've also been discovering, as I tried to explain to Alicia in the "comment box" that spilled over into this blog post, that I can, to some extent, nurture the mood, the passion, the moment, that is writable. This is not to say that I can simply choose to write whenever I want to: that I can, but the words themselves struggle for vivacity and elucidation. No, it's also that I'm learning to create spaces - inside as much as out - that foster writing, that bring to the surface those ideas and images that pray to be given voice.

.

I am a writer, that much of my identity I have come to terms with, though I still question whether it will blur the lines of my career. I have often dismissed the idea of writing professionally, in part because I fear that in making writing the end product, I will stifle and constrain what has beauty only in its simple naturalness. I can imagine myself sitting down to write, an empty book and full pen, cup of tea cooling by an open window, in a cabin office dedicated simply to this endeavour, only to find myself with nothing to say and no words to say it with.

.

But recently, walking through the crisp autumn air, it occurred to me that I've started to do that. A little bit. With outcomes which I appreciate. I've started to create more space in my life for writing, to more frequently expect myself to write, to sometimes make a date with an idea that needs to be fleshed out. And it's working. I write more these days than ever before - both in my head and on paper, neither of which is necessarily more important than the other. Life has enriched my perspective, but it also continues to stretch my horizon, to deepen my connotations, to challenge my cliches, and, perhaps most importantly, to add new names and subtler colours to my palette.

.

I'm learning that the more I write, the easier it is to find the words and rhythm when there is an idea within my heart bursting and jostling for space in the outside air. Hence, the journals. Among other things, journalling is a soul exercise, a way of finding meaning and shifting perspective. Rarely do I write simply what is, for who can capture the essence of reality? More, I write the ebbs and tides of my heart: I write what I have seen and wish to see, feelings and dreams and fears and deadliest emotions. And it is from this process, this vulnerable act of carving thought onto waiting pages, that I most often find what I need to write. Most of my truest writing is for my journal, or from my journal, or written in that space where the line between private and public blurs, where I'm writing myself, but also you.

.

Journals. If you've known me long, you know that I can rarely be found without mine, that I write in it whenever and wherever the inspiration to do so strikes me. A year in Uganda filled up seven or eight volumes; the current one began two months ago and will finish before the week. I'm picky about my journals and my pens, though not as much as I was a year or two ago. It's just that I recognise that there are some media which foster the easy flow of my thoughts - and some which don't. Same reason why I often can't express thoughts first with my keyboard. And the type of paper and ink changes every so often, just in case you were wondering.

.

But, here's the thing about my journals. They're not the wise and intellectual tomes that some people make them out to be with their gasps and exclamations, "I can't believe you write so much!" By which they tend to mean, "I can't believe you create original meaning so much!" The truth is, I don't.

.

My journals are full of emotional breakdowns, philosophical diatribes, and other people's thoughts. Sometimes I write letters, then copy them out to post. Often, I copy in poems, quotes, song lyrics, random snatches of someone else's meaning. Train tickets, maps, children's drawings, newspaper articles, directions, bits of metaphor that I want to play with: all of these thrown carefully into the midst of hundreds of words, mostly written in cursive. Anger, fear, disappointment, sorrow, longing. Joy, pleasure, hope, love, happiness. Meaning arises somewhere in the chaos of their intersecting.

.

I am a writer, not because you read my words, or even less, because I publish them where you may. Writing is my way of making meaning: be it an ode to a second kiss, or a burdensome attempt to give voice to another's pain. I write. It is who I am.

Webale.

*I've been intending to post this for a week and a half now, as I had promised some of you. So, here it is: the sermon I preached at Mt. Olive Brethren Church in Pineville, Virginia, USA, on 11th October 2009.

.

Good morning. Thank you for coming this morning and for allowing me to share some thoughts about my time in Uganda. Some of you are aware that I recently returned from living in East Africa for a year. The reflections I am going to share with you this morning come from that time. Before I get into that, however, let me first tell you a little about where I've been living and what I've been doing for the past year.

.

.

I graduated from Messiah College last year in May. While a lot of my friends were preparing to begin graduate studies, I wanted to get out into the world and actually do something with myself, and I really wanted to experience living in a different culture for awhile. With that in mind, I applied to serve with Mennonite Central Committee, or, MCC. MCC is an international organisation committed to peace, development, and relief in the name of Christ. Currently, MCC has over one thousand workers serving around the world, and provides material resources, education, and financial support to numerous communities both in North America and abroad. If you're interested in knowing more about MCC, check out their website: http://mcc.org.

.

.

MCC has a short-term service program for young adults entitled SALT, Serving and Learning Together (More about SALT can be found at: http://salt.mcc.org/). Through this program, I spent the last year living and working in a small village in southern Uganda. Uganda is a small country in East Africa, home to more than thirty different tribes and at least as many dialects. Formerly a British protectorate, Uganda has been an independent republic since 1962. Thus, the national language is English, although children usually only begin learning this when they start school.

.

I lived in Bukoto village, just south of the equator in the Buganda kingdom of southern Uganda, among the Baganda tribe. I was assigned to work as a teacher in St Jude Junior School, a primary school overseen by the local Catholic parish, which currently has a little over 300 students. I taught English grammar, comprehension, and composition in Primary 4, 5, 6, and 7 – the Ugandan equivalent to 4^th, 5^th, 6^th, and 7^th grade. I also lived with a host family in the village, studied the local language, Luganda, and built relationships with people throughout my community.

.

Some of you are aware that I will be returning to Uganda again at the end of next month. I will be signing a new three year contract with MCC, but I will not be returning to the same community. Instead, I will be living in Gulu, a town in AcholiLand in northern Uganda, and working at St Monica's Vocational School for Girls. For those of you who have heard of the Lord's Resistance Army, Joseph Kony, and night commuters, this is the area where the LRA began abducting children many years ago.

.

At this point, communities in northern Uganda are working to rebuild their lives and communities after years of fear and violence. MCC partners with organisations like St Monica's to promote peace training and help individuals learn the skills necessary to rebuild their lives. I will be working as a preschool teacher and providing training in child development to young women, as well as building relationships with the amazing sisters, teachers, and students who form the community of St Monica's. [St. Monica's website, where I also copied the picture below from, is: http://www.stmonicagulugirlsrelief.org/].

.

.

Now that I've told you a little about how I came to live and work in Uganda for the last year, I'd like to briefly share some reflections about what this experience has taught me, focusing especially on a single Luganda word.

.

Many months ago, only a few weeks into my stay in Uganda, a professor friend of mine sent me a question that I've been reflecting on ever since. She was writing an article for a college publication about young adults involved in service work, and she was looking for first-hand reflections. In two or three sentences, she challenged me, describe how working for social change changing you.

.

I begged off, more than a bit intimidated by the question but also aware that I had not yet spent enough time in Uganda to do it justice. My friend found other more able to voice their reflections, but her question stayed on my mind. To be honest, I did know how to answer it, and a few months later, when MCC asked me to reflect on what single word captured the essence of my service year, the same thought came to mind.

.

Webale.

.

.

Translated into English, webale means thank you. It's one of the first things I learnt to say in Luganda, and it's definitely in the “top 3 phrases I used all the time”--the others being “sitegedde” (I have not understood you) and “ki?” (what?). I know my mother taught me to say “please” and “thank you” – those were the “magic words” of my childhood. But gratitude took on an entirely new dimension as I immersed myself in baganda culture.

.

Throughout my year in Uganda, I had a notebook where I would write notes every time I met with my language tutor. Looking back through it, it charts my progress from spelling simple words phonetically to conjugating new verbs and eventually reading the scripture at my farewell mass in Luganda. As you can see, this notebook has been well-used.

.

.

When I first arrived in Uganda, the schools were on holiday between terms, so the younger children of my host family—who are boarders during the school term—were home. While a couple of the kids were originally shy of me, my cousin Hafisah and my brothers Mutagubya and Pinto were not. All three took it as their to teach me to communicate in their native tongue. Pinto, who was 2 at the time, taught me body parts before I had finished two days in the village; then we learnt numbers together. Then seven year old Muta was eager to learn English and patient with my slow progress, so we'd engage in many “broken language” conversations.

.

.

But it was twelve year old Hafisah who first sat with me and helped me write new terms in my notebook. In a box on page 1, partway through my first full day in the village, she and I recorded some essential Luganda phrases:

How are you? – oliotya?

Fine. – jendi.

My names are ____ – amannya gange _____.

Thank you. – webale.

Obviously, my cousin considered "thank you" an essential part of my vocabulary.

.

The next day, I met with my language tutor for the first time, and we spent an hour discussing polite greetings: How are you? How have you passed the day? How did you spend the night? I'm fine. I'm not fine. Though—it would be many weeks before I would ever have confidence to say I wasn't fine and face the onslaught of questions regarding my well-being.

.

There is also, however, an essential part of the Luganda greeting which may sound strange to you when I translate it into English: “Webale emirimu” – “Thank you for the work you are doing.” This phrase, or some variation of it, is part of even the most basic greeting: part of formal introductions and casual encounters, what I say to friends I meet on the road and vendors selling vegetables in the market. Walking through the village, waving to people I know, this is the simple, “hey, how's it going?” – thanks for what you do. It's impossible to keep track of how many times in a day I would thank – or be thanked – in this manner. It became natural to me, something I didn't generally think about, although there were a few exceptions to this rule.

.

.

There were a few men in the community that I would encounter on a regular basis who would almost always be at least slightly intoxicated. Some days, I did not want to thank these men for “what they were doing;” I would have preferred to tell them to straighten up and contribute to the general welfare of the community. But, according to cultural norms, I would bite my tongue and greet them properly: “thank you for what you do.” It took a lot at times to express appreciation for people that I didn't really want to appreciate – and I think it taught me something about the general worth and importance of all individuals. These men weren't necessarily making positive decisions when I encountered them, and I might have been hardpressed to identify what I considered to be meaningful contributions they were making at that moment, but overall, they were members of the community, and that in and of itself was reason enough to appreciate them.

.

Of course, Baganda don't just thank each other as part of their greeting: they also use webale to express appreciation in general. For example, just like us in America, Baganda thank those who do nice things, give them gifts, or teach them how to do something well. Most of my experience with this occurred in my classroom. Children are taught to greet their teachers very formally. Every time I entered a classroom, I would be greeted: “You are most welcome, dear Auntie Kristine” by a roomful of children of children standing respectfully.

.

.

At the conclusion of an hour period, as I gathered my books to leave and the next subject teacher prepared to enter, my students would stand again: “Thank you for teaching us. We appreciate your lesson.” While I think these gestures could become formulaic at times, my students were (almost always) sincerely glad for the lessons I taught them – and they expressed that gratitude in other ways as well.

.

Whereas American teachers are traditionally supposed to be given shiny red apples, I received whatever was in season. In our tropical climate, this was almost always something. Avocadoes, maize, mangoes, sugarcane, pumpkin, passion fruit, bananas, papaya, jackfruit, eggs, milk, grasshoppers. Often, I would have a small collection of fruit to share with other teachers at breakfast – though, they often got the same treatment. In shy messages or with broken pens, my students expressed the same message: Auntie, thank you for teaching us good English. Thank you for coming to Uganda.

.

.

When I used money donated by my supporters, including this church, to buy new school materials and uniforms for our neediest students, the parents joined the appreciating. Morethan once, I received a live chicken or a bunch of matooke, the green banana which is the staple food of southern Uganda. Shopkeepers in our village would give me a discount, and people I didn't know would thank me for teaching their children.

.

.

If you can imagine, all this thanking felt strange and a little over the top to me at first. Here in America, we are more reserved with our gratitude. We send thank you notes or offer a private word of appreciation. We go out of our way not to make a show out of what someone has done for us. We give anonymously so others don't feel indebted to us.

.

I tried that once – giving anonymously. The first time I put a few thousand shillings, equivalent to a couple dollars, on a child's school fees tab, I made the bursar, a friend of mine, promise not to tell her who paid it. She thought I was so strange – but she agreed. Nevertheless, before supper that night, the child's guardian came and thanked me. I learnt a valuable lesson that night about gratitude: there is a dignity that people, especially poor people, have when they can express heartfelt appreciation to their benefactors without feeling burden to repay what has been done. Sometimes I fear that our American custom of anonymous charity strips people of this dignity.

.

Eventually, I became more used to the Baganda way of expressing gratitude. The items on the table below were gifts from students, parents, and other community members as I was leaving Bukoto. The basin of eggs and multiple fresh pineapples, however: those I left for my host family to eat!

.

.

I want to talk a little now about another aspect of the Baganda appreciation customs that continued to feel strange to me, even after a year of living with it. Baganda thank each other for everything! Remember how I told you that “thank you for the work you do” is a part of thebasic greeting? That's barely the beginning of the “thank you for ___”s I got used to hearing on a regular basis. People get more specific, too: Thank you for digging. Thank you for repairing vehicles. Thank you for washing clothes.

.

.

This last one always made sense to me when it was directed at the dry cleaner who lived next door to us. It was amusing and at times a bit annoying, however, when random visitors to my compound thanked me for washing my own clothes or bathing my little brother or tending the cook fire, things I did regularly. I generally tried to just accept their appreciation and continue with my work.

.

Two more specific “thank you for ___”s stick out to me, both for the amusement and for the lessons they taught me. The first, webale kutudde bulungi, is always said to guests at parties or ceremonies; it is even the first part of the song traditionally performed for the king. To be honest, I should probably have said it to you when I first began speaking this morning.

.

.

Webale kutudde bulungi means “Thank you for sitting well.”

.

It's a way of thanking people for coming, for listening to and watching what will be presented, and yes, for sitting well. It reminds the audience of their value and warns the host to be aware of the time and engagement the guests are investing.

.

So let me tell you all now: thank you for sitting well. Thank you for listening and looking at my pictures. You make a much more interesting audience than a room full of cold pews would.

.

The second phrase is one I would usually hear at least once a day. Webale kusima. Here's an example of it's usage. At the end of supper, after some good-natured banter about how “little” I had eaten, I would always tell my host mother, “webale kufumba,” “thank you for cooking.”

.

.

Her response, “webale kulya,” “thank you for eating,” would inevitably invite my closing reply, “webale kusima,” “thank you for appreciating.”

.

Just in case you missed this, let me say it again: Baganda value gratitude so much that they even have a phrase to thank people for thanking them.

.

Webale kusima. Thank you for appreciating. It's used all the time, too. Thank you for coming. Oh, thank you for appreciating. Thank you for pounding the groundnuts. Thanks for appreciating. Thatk you for dancing. Oh yes, thank you for appreciating.

.

.

Sometimes, I was talking in Luganda to strangers outside my village, I would use this phrase. More than once, I got a shocked reaction, “That is deep Luganda!” They meant that I had used a phrase and conveyed a meaning that is fundamental to their culture – but not often grasped by foreigners. I understand where they're coming from. Before living in Uganda, I didn't thank, or even feel appreciation toward, people nearly as much as I learnt to among the Baganda.

.

And, I surely never would have considered thanking someone simply for thanking me.

.

But for the last year, I have been appreciated on a regular basis. I have been thanked for who I am and what I do, for learning and trying and teaching and yes, for sitting well. I have been appreciated – and I have learnt to appreciate. My students, my family, my friends, strangers whose lives intersect with mine at a street corner or in a crowded taxi. I have thanked people for their work despite knowing nothing about them – and in doing so, I have learnt to more fully appreciate the simple fact of their existence. I think, perhaps, learning to do so has changed the way I think about people.

.

.

Appreciating that everyone has something to contribute to the community, be it meaningful work, washing one's own clothes, or simply sitting well, makes it a lot harder to overlook or judge people who are different from myself. Being appreciated so often and openly has also affected my perception of myself, I think, reminding me that even when I don't feel like I'm making a difference in the world, the very fact of my existence has meaning.

.

As I close today, I want to thank you, sincerely, for listening and reflecting on this topic with me today. I don't have any fresh fruit or live chickens to pass out, but I hope you will feel appreciated. As we leave this place, I would encourage you to continue to reflect on this concept of gratitude as you think about people and places in your life where you could perhaps be more appreciative.

.

Webale nnyo. Kati, tugende mw'embirembe. Katonda mukuume.

[Thank you very much. Now, let us go in peace. God keep you.]

how i may possibly make all future life decisions.

http://www.phdcomics.com/comics/archive.php?comicid=370

Fear.

There is a line noted in my journal, dated mid-June, that I had been thinking about for weeks.

.

Perhaps if adults didn't teach children to fear death, they wouldn't.

.

.

Tonight, reading a Newsweek interview with the author, screenwriter, and director of Where the Wild Things Are, I found this quote.

.

Grown-ups are afraid for children. It's not children who are afraid. (Maurice Sendak).

.

.

.

Some fears are natural and healthy. The child who falls off her bike learns to steer more carefully. The boy who feels the heat of a fire tries not to fall in.

.

As adults, we know that children have to learn some of these lessons on their own.

.

But, out of a desire to protect them, to keep them safe, to prevent them from getting hurt, we try to circumvent parts of this process and teach them to fear certain situations. Don't touch the stove: it'll burn your hands. Move your hands, I'm going to shut the door. Don't talk to strangers. Don't get too close to wild animals. Never run with scissors. Always wait thirty minutes after eating before you go swimming. {Actually, at my grandmother's house, it was an hour, and we weren't allowed to skip lunch.}

.

Generally speaking, I think teaching children to fear certain situations is a good thing. Parents and other adult caretakers should be concerned for children's well-being. Some children, of course, won't learn these lessons without experiencing them personally, but most will develop at least some sense of caution from the warnings of adults.

.

It saddens me, sometimes, however, to observe how much fear we tend to instill in children. First graders who line up to use the optional hand disinfectant before lunch because they're scared to contract a sensationalised strain of influenza. Eleven year olds stressed out by standardised tests and diets. High schoolers who believe their futures to be tied to SATs and GPAs. Young adults worried that they'll choose the wrong major, college, boyfriend/girlfriend, career, and life will be doomed to failure from that point on. All of us scared to die or to watch others die.

.

We try to cushion our children--and ourselves--from all forms of suffering and complication: germs, financial setbacks, accidents, broken hearts, unemployment, people who believe different things, wild animals, burns, people who look different, complicated relationships, death, and perhaps, fear itself.

.

But in doing so, in so anxiously avoiding all possible encounters with pain, we don't learn how to deal with suffering when we do experience it. We become afraid of the parts of the world that we can't control, that we can't protect ourselves against, and this fear paralyses us, or at least, makes it more difficult for us to fully live.

.

We spend so much time trying to avoid suffering that sometimes, we might miss the parts of life that are exactly the opposite of suffering: the wild, scary, freedom of spontaneous joy. And our cushions surely prevent us from truly experiencing life in all it's rich fullness.

.

Our fears also do nothing to prepare us for the difficult circumstances that do, inherently, lurk around all of our corners. Afraid of death, we don't know how to prepare ourselves positively for it, to interact meaningfully with those on death's doorstep, or to grieve in emotionally healthy ways. Afraid of relationship tension, we never learn to fight through it alongside a friend or partner. Fearful of financial setbacks, we nevertheless buy on credit and base our self-worth on our material possessions. When tragedy or setback comes, we are often paralysed, traumatised, unable to cope and continue living.

.

Indeed, for some of us, the fear of such an outcome keeps us from taking the risk in the first place.

.

Surely, some of this fear is a natural part of being human. But a lot of it, I think, is more the result of our unique cultural conditioning, trained and nurtured by the society in which we live. I say this because I didn't see it nearly so much in the villagers I interacted with daily in southern Uganda.

.

Not that they don't have fears. I've spoken to adults who remember fleeing in terror into the bush during the coups of decades past. Others recall the years when AIDs lurked as an unseen and incomprehensible villain. They're starting to see firsthand the results of worldwide environmental degradation. Children are learning to worry about standardised tests and future (un)employment.

.

But, generally, people don't seem to live under quite the same cloud of fears that seem so normative to life here. Children are left more to experience the world as it happens, rather than taught to view it through a cautionary lens. To be honest, they probably get messier and eat more dirt, fall down more and come away with more scars... but isn't that a lot of what childhood is about anyways?

.

Even, isn't that what grown up life is about too? Living and falling and loving and getting dirty and figuring things out and trying again and generally letting life happen?

.

.

Today, won't you try setting aside some of your fears and doing some of the things you might do if you weren't afraid of them? Some of the things you always wanted to do when you were little, back before you learned to worry about the future?

.

I double dog dare you to!

part of my heart will always live in bukoto.

Africana Studies Symposium

Today, I attended some of the presentations of the first annual Africana Studies Symposium at James Madison University here in Harrisonburg (YAY for living in a college town and getting to go to amazing FREE/cheap events!). Not yet to the point of posting my actual thoughts/reflections about any of the talks, but here are some quotes that are hanging out in my head...

.

"The people who are most affected by global warming are the ones least responsible." -Dr. Jennifer Coffman, JMU

.

"Our history has not been written." --Stephanie Mireku, JMU, sharing the reflections of Zimbabwean youth currently living in the US

.

"One could tell the history of civilisation in two stories: ... one, of a stranger who comes to town, ... and two, of someone who goes on a journey." --Dr. Patrick Dikirr, Binghamton University

.

"We know a lot more about how to start a war than resolve one." --Terry Beitzel, JMU

.

There is more at stake in the telling of traditional stories than an unbiased presentation of history or an "abstract view of truth." --Professor Isidore Okpewho, Binghamton University

No offense taken, my dear.

A fifth grade student's comment on my second day subbing for her Social Studies teacher:

.

"No offense to you and all. I mean, you're a good teacher. But I hope [my teacher] comes back soon so I can ask her about the [major project] and stuff."

Two Months.

From my journal, dated 27 September 2009 13:29.

.

My flight takes off two months from tomorrow. Mostly, I have been not thinking about that, preferring to immerse myself in the present rather than contemplate another difficult transition.

audience participation requested.

When I explain what I do in Uganda, or sometimes as soon as they hear that I've been living in East Africa, a lot of people assume that I'm a missionary. "Oh, you're a missionary?" My usual response: "No, I'm a teacher." I don't think of myself as a missionary; I don't consider what I do in Uganda to be missions work; and I don't generally think of MCC as a missions organisation. But it's difficult, at least somehow, for me to explain in words why this is the case.

.

It's been coming up more and more lately, though. So, here's the challenge I'm undertaking for myself: to reflect on this word, "missionary," and try to put into words my connotation of it. Hopefully, like with so many other subjects, such introspection will eventually lead to a blog entry, and I'll share my thoughts with all of you...

.

As I begin this intentional quest to know myself more fully, here's my request for the readership of this blog: share your thoughts on the matter. Offer your reflections on what "missions work" connotes. Consider answering the questions below: please share with me either by posting comments here, by sending me an email, or in a face-to-face conversation.

.

-What do missionaries do?

-What makes someone a missionary?

-What do you consider the main goal of missions work?

-Do you think of me as a missionary? Why?

-Do you consider MCC a missions organisation? Why?

.

Thanks in advance to the many of you I hope will undertake this reflection with me...