Wait, what did you just say?

I'm used to Ugandans using a variety of words or phrases to catch my attention on the street, particularly if they're selling something or trying to convince me to ride their boda/taxi/bus. Some of these, roughly arranged by frequency, include:

Muzungu! (White person!)

Madame...

My friend...

My sister...

America!

Obama!

Mama...

My wife...

Germany! [I apparently look German?]

Oh, lady...

Today, I took a short walk from our MCC office to a supermarket a couple blocks or so away in order to buy a few necessities: shampoo, conditioner, soap, insect repellant. I spent most of my walk trying to avoid the puddles and mud which are so common during this rainy season, as well as trying to decide if Bukoto Street has more potholes than before (yes!), and there aren't many vendors on this street, so no one called out any of the above to me.

Once I reached the corner where the supermarket is located, a few vendors who were hanging out in the parking lot tried to sell me their wares: fresh peas, sweet bananas, blankets, pineapples. I bought airtime from a booth in the corner of the lot, shocking the woman and the nearby onlookers when I conducted the transaction in Luganda. Then, I walked across the large-ish lot to the supermarket.

As I reached the end of the lot where the supermarket is located, I noticed a white man walking away from that side. He looked to be about my age, wore a white shirt and khaki shorts (side note: the only men I know who wear shorts in Uganda are school boys, prisoners, and white tourists), and carried a backpack.

Now, normal protocol when I meet a white person out on the streets of Kampala is something like this: if we're going to pass anyway, we make eye contact, perhaps smile a bit to acknowledge the fact that we're both white and everyone is noticing us and assuming that we are well acquainted (I love the occasional encounter when Ugandans notice two white people walking somewhere in town and call out to make sure that these two bazungu notice each other!). We don't speak, just as I don't speak with random Ugandans I meet walking down the street in town. We go our separate ways, life continues, no big deal.

Today was different. This young man not only made eye contact with me from a few metres away, he also greeted me, "Hello sister!" It was a hearty greeting, the kind I normally expect from a man who is about to either try to sell me something expensive or ask me for my contact information. But no, this was a young, white, probably American, man, greeting me as if his skin pigmentation was many shades darker than my own. It was bizarre, awkward, out of place.

I think I nodded slightly in acknowledgement of his greeting, then looked away and continued on my way. Perhaps he thinks I'm rude, perhaps he was making a joke about the way Ugandan men often call out to white women, perhaps he is just overly exuberant, or perhaps he really does think I'm his long-lost sibling. I don't know. But it was a strange encounter.

And anyway, I'm back in Kampala now. For a couple days at least.

Leaving on a Jet Plane...

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.

I'm standin' here outside your door.

I hate to wake you up to say goodbye.

But the dawn is breakin', it's early morn.

The taxi's waitin', he's blowin' his horn.

Already I'm so lonesome I could die.

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So kiss me and smile for me.

Tell me that you'll wait for me.

Hold me like you'll never let me go.

Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh baby, I hate to go.

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There's so many times I've let you down,

So many times I've played around.

I tell you now, they don't mean a thing.

Every place I go, I'll think of you.

Every song I sing, I'll sing for you.

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So kiss me and smile for me.

Tell me that you'll wait for me.

Hold me like you'll never let me go.

Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh babe, I hate to go.

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.

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Now the time has come to leave you.

One more time let me kiss you.

Close your eyes, I'll be on my way.

Dream about the days to come.

When I won't have to leave alone.

About the times I won't have to say...

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So kiss me and smile for me.

Tell me that you'll wait for me.

Hold me like you'll never let me go.

Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh baby, I hate to go.

.

Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane.

Don't know when I'll be back again.

Oh baby, I hate to go.

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Itinerary

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Depart Dulles (Washington DC): 20:25 28-11-09.

Arrive Heathrow (London): 08:45 29-11-09.

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Depart Heathrow (London): 10:45 29-11-09.

Arrive Entebbe (Uganda): 22:10 29-11-09.

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Immigration.

Baggage Claim.

Customs.

Taxi ride to Kampala.

Reunion with my MCC reps.

Sleep.

Theory of Relativity.

"Thanksgiving looks warm and friendly

with clear skies and highs in the upper 50s."

-Radio Weather Guy-

I am really looking forward to the Ugandan climate.

A Plea, I Think, To Be Understood.

Today, in response to my own desire to look at some old papers, and to amuse my youngest sister, I downloaded files from high school and college from a back up CD onto my mac. It's been interesting looking back through them: I realise that I was a pretty decent writer even in late high school, though my writing style has been refined a great deal over the course of the last few years; indeed, I now feel comfortable writing in multiple styles. Anyway, I thought I'd share some pieces and excerpts that I've found most interesting today, though I realise that some of my readership may not be as intrigued as I. Don't feel obliged to read the work of my younger self.

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First, a poem from January 2004, second semester of my senior year of high school. Not sure what I wrote it for, but it was saved in my "AP English" file.

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Mistakes

I am the intelligent one;

Everybody knows my name.

You say I’m perfect—

I always get such good grades.

You think I’ve got everything going for me—

Life couldn’t get any better.

You never expect me to mess up;

No one thinks I make mistakes!!

And you’re probably right—

You won’t see me make many mistakes.

Not because I’m so perfect—

I have to work for my grades, too.

Not because life is so easy—

Sometimes I wonder if it’s all still worth it.

Yes, I do mess up; I make mistakes.

I’m just afraid to let you see the real me!!

Someday, maybe you’ll figure it out—

I’m not that different.

I live on the same planet as you do,

And surprisingly enough, we deal with the same kind of junk.

Yes, I’m good (okay, sometimes really good) at some things,

But so are you.

Just remember, everyone’s different; everyone’s special—

And everyone makes mistakes. . . .

Yes, everyone!!

Ephebiphobia.

This essay, from December 2003, fall semester of my senior year of high school, was written as a submission for our annual literary magazine. I have no memory as to whether it was published, but I find it amusing. Almost 24, I have yet to realise my teenage fears, and I still love working with teenagers.

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Are YOU an ephebiphobiac??

I found my current favorite word a few years ago in a friend’s high school yearbook. It was contained it a list of phobias, some common and some not so common. This word fits into the latter category; I had never heard of it before and never have since. The word is ephebiphobia. It is defined as “a persistent, abnormal, and unwarranted fear of teenagers.” At first, the word, along with its definition, struck me as funny. I wondered what kind of person would admit to being an ephebiphobiac.

As I thought about it more, and as I grew up and experienced more of life, I started to realize that the vast majority of the adult population either suffers from ephebiphobia, or else just acts as if they do. For many adults, teenagers seem to be representatives from another planet, a planet thought to lack intelligent life forms. True, some teenagers live up to this label, but not all of us do. Also true, not all adults suffer from this common and widely ignored disease, but the theory that teenagers should be avoided and ignored seems to be overtaking many adult minds.

Why then, is this my favorite word? Ephebiphobia--I see it as a challenge to myself. Someday, I will belong to that group of people that the world classifies as adults, but hopefully, I will not catch this strange and deadly disease. My goal is to one day work with kids and teenagers; for some reason, I think becoming an ephebiphobiac would hinder those plans slightly. Maybe when I grow up, I will understand, but until then, I will always wonder how anyone could have an extreme fear and dislike of my generation.

A Scarlet Symbol.

This excerpt is taken from an essay I wrote in May 2003, spring semester of my junior year of high school, for my Honors English class. The assignment (seemingly) was to analyse the use of symbolism in Nathaniel Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter. I'm intrigued by my comprehension of themes, as well as my ability to express them. Also, I love that my seventeen year old self dismissed Hester Prynne's story as meaningless "in and of itself."

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Lastly, the most obvious symbol within this work is the scarlet letter itself. This symbol, originally meant as a token to proclaim Hester’s sin for the entire world to see, is interpreted differently, by different people, throughout the story. As the book progresses though, it becomes obvious that the way in which the people interpret the meaning of the letter has, in fact, nothing to do with the badge itself; rather, the way in which the people view the scarlet letter at any given time is representative of the way in which they view Hester Prynne, the adulteress in their midst, at the very time. At first, the people of the town, particularly the women, believe that Hester’s punishment was not severe enough. They believe that the mark should, at the very least, have been branded on her forehead with a hot iron. As time passes, though, and Hester remains humble and repentant, the meaning of the letter changes, as “many people refused to interpret the scarlet A by its original signification” (Hawthorne 148). Instead of adulteress, the A is now interpreted as meaning able, referring to the time and effort Hester gives to many a sick or impoverished member of the town. Though the townspeople come to re-interpret the letter in this way, Hester, for as long as she chooses to wear it, continues to feel the same sharp pain which it first brought with it. It has such an effect on her that when she put it back on (at Pearl’s demand) in the forest, Hawthorne says “[a]s if there were a withering spell in the sad letter, her beauty, the warmth and richness of her womanhood, departed, like fading sunshine; and a gray shadow seemed to fall across her” (193). This spell, though, was not just attuned to Hester and her sin, for when Hawthorne picked it up years later in the Custom House, he experienced such a sensation that he could not hold onto the letter and let it fall to the floor. But while Hester was of the view that her sin would never be dispelled, and therefore the letter would never lose its stigma and most of the townspeople were of the mind that she had served her penance and should no longer have to wear the token, there were others who interpreted the scarlet letter differently, even from the very beginning. Those outside the boundaries of normal society, the Indians (wild men from the forest) and the servants (on the border of society, but not completely free from its touch), had been of the view, from the very beginning, that the scarlet letter brought with it great honor, and that the one who wore such a token “must needs be a personage of high dignity among her people” (Hawthorne 224). Throughout the story, though, one lady, Mistress Hibbins persists in her view that the scarlet letter was “the Black Man’s mark” (Hawthorne 170). Interestingly enough, she is the one keeps asking Hester to come to the forest with her, to meet the Devil and sign his book, showing that her interpretation of the meaning of the scarlet letter is tied up in her view of Hester Prynne.

Hester Prynne’s story seems to have no great meaning in and of itself. However, when viewed in the context of the time period, it comes to represent Puritan society in general. In truth, Hester’s wanderings along the immoral pathways of her mind are only significant from the journeys taken by the minds of others because hers are the ones Hawthorne recounts. Indeed, Hester’s badge of shame, which she is forced to wear on her chest for all to see, is only different from the tokens that others carry because she cannot keep her sin hidden--everyone knows about it. Hawthorne used the story of Hester Prynne, along with the many symbols scattered throughout his story to give an overview of the very nature of Puritan society.

Unfortunately, I've forgotten some of the context...

I, along with my friend Deena, took AP US History as a high school senior. It wasn't that I wanted to take a class traditionally populated by juniors as a senior. Rather, it was a result of scheduling difficulties the year before: somehow the school had forgotten that some of their intelligent flock were planning to take AP Calculus and AP US History concurrently, and they had scheduled the single section of each class during the same period. So, I took AP Government as a junior with a bunch of seniors, then took AP US History as a senior with a bunch of juniors (and my sophomore sister, who was jumping the gun). I have vague memories of the class: a few naps, a lot of definitions, and many many random inside jokes (okay, I also probably learned some history, I'll give Mr. Lancaster credit for that). At the end of the year, we were required to complete an extensive review outline (the document saved on my computer is 102 pages long). Surely exhausted and more than ready to be done with high school, in the midst of AP exam reviews, I referenced some of our funnier class moments in the title of my final project, copied below.

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RUM PITS, BEN & JERRY’S, and

THE ANNEXATION OF CANADA:

APUSH REVIEW PROJECT

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A bit of context (as best I remember it):

Rum pits refer to an ingenious idea we thought the colonists should have tried during the Revolutionary War: luring and capturing the British soldiers in grass-covered pits full of rum. Don't ask me why...

Ben and Jerry's... I don't recall.

At some point, most likely in the latter days of autumn or the early days of spring, we proposed that Canada be annexed to our own dear state: Virginia, preferably Rockingham County. We supposed this would give us more snow days, as school gets cancelled for the entire county when any section is deemed impassable.

I also made my own graphics...

As a high school senior, I took AP Biology, a class which I still believe my friends and I mostly taught ourselves. We must have done a decent job of it, too: Messiah gave me 6 credits for that AP score. Early in the year, when I was still quite motivated (or had abundant time to procrastinate other forms of studying), my chapter notes are interspersed with numerous colourful graphics that I created with Paint. For your viewing pleasure, here is one such image.

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A Personal Statement.

The following is a personal statement I wrote about six years ago for a college application. Though it shares the introductory paragraphs with the essay I submitted to Messiah, this piece was written for William and Mary College, where I was accepted, but chose not to attend.

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I curl up in a blanket with two nine-year-old girls. As we listen to the rain hit our cabin roof, they ask me questions. “Who created God?” “Why are people mean?” “What is Heaven like?” “Why do my parents fight all the time? What can I do to make them stop?”. . .

Two weeks later, five-year-old George looks up from the jello he is eating. For a moment, he stares at me, his Bible School teacher. Then, all of a sudden, he says, “You’re really tall. You must be old.” Surprised, I pause a minute before asking him, “How old do you think I am?” He thinks for a moment, confidently responds, “Seven,” and goes back to his jello. . .

I spent my summer working as a District Crusader in the Brethren Church. In general, this meant that I spent my time traveling to various churches and camps in four different states to work with kids and adults. The moments described above were typical; there were times when I laughed at my kids and times when I cried with them. I learned many valuable lessons while traveling this summer, lessons that I can apply to life overall.

First, I learned to be responsible for everything I do and say. Spending every moment of every day with kids ranging from three to seventeen years old, I realized early on that I was looked up to as a role model. Little eyes watched me all the time; little ears were always listening. I was cool, I was old, and I was mimicked repeatedly. Just like real life, I could never take back anything that I did or said; therefore, I had to be careful that I never talked badly about anyone or did anything with a negative attitude. Sometimes, it was difficult to be so careful every moment, but I learned to take responsibility for the times when I did slip up.

Second, I learned to be patient, especially when working with younger children. One of my three-year-olds managed to spill his juice at least twice every day at lunch. Although I would have liked to strangle him or forbid him from ever drinking juice again, I chose each time to just clean up the mess and keep my cool. Many times, my kids were just like some adults; stubborn and sure of themselves, they thought they knew everything there was to know about anything. Instead of becoming upset over their refusal to follow my directions, I took the time to explain things to them, learning in the process how important it really is to be patient with people who either do not or cannot understand something.

I certainly never had a dull moment this summer. I made many memories and learned just as many lessons. As young as my kids often were, they taught me many valuable lessons that I will continue to live by even as I grow old and move on.

Dreaming of Peace...

The following is an excerpt from a presentation I've been working on this afternoon for the junior and senior high youth groups at the church I grew up in. Although I will also talk a lot about MCC's work worldwide and specifically what I've done (and will soon be doing) with MCC, their topic this month is peace, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to throw in some of my own thoughts on that. This passage was one that mostly just flowed out of my pen as I tried to express what I mean when I talk about peace and peacemaking.

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When I think of the word, "peace," the first thing that I think of is the Hebrew word, "shalom," or its Arabic cousin, "salaam." Beyond its basic usage as a greeting, this term has many deep and beautiful meanings. The best way I know how to summarise shalom is to think of how the world would be if everything was right and good. No war. No racism. No domestic abuse. No sexual exploitation. Enough food for everyone. Warm clothes on cold days. Access to education and health care. I think of a world where no child goes to bed hungry or scared, where babies don't die of preventable diseases, where women are valued as much as men, where violence is never used to resolve conflict, and where people care for and protect the earth, rather than ravage and despoil her. I believe this is how our world was originally created, and I believe it is what Jesus called his followers to work for.

Whenever I think about peace, a verse from Matthew 5 often comes to mind. Jesus is describing those people who receive God's blessing, that is, those who act according to God's desires. In verse 9, he says, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God." Simply put, I think Jesus is telling people: God will delight in you when you work to bring about goodness, peace, shalom in the entire created world. So long as our world does not have shalom -- so long as it does not fit the vision I just suggested above -- it is our responsibility as followers of Jesus (and indeed, simply as human beings) to work to bring about such peace.

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Dream with me:

What would a perfect and peaceful -- shalom-full -- world look like?

And what can you and I do

-- today --

to make ours resemble that vision more fully?

Take Your Photo... with This Hydrant!

discovered this weekend in Harrisburg, PA:

fire hydrants painted with many random designs,

apparently intended as photo ops.

so, we decided to obey the instructions

and take photos with one of the artistic hydrants.

even though we had just gotten off the train from philadelphia,

were dressed up for dinner and a show,

and were carrying the couple backpacks i've been living out of

for my state-hopping venture.

jonathan: "they're everywhere!"

kristina: "fire hydrants? i hope so."

Old memory stuck in my head.

reposted from www.psalty.com.

A Moment of Molecular Humour.

Presumably, most of the world's population wouldn't break out into sudden and uncontrollable laughter while reading a thick tome on Cell Biology (the general populous does not typically seem to have such a refined sense of humour as that). But molecules can be quite humourous, and I'm not just talking about the naming schema. Some are downright comedic, like this formin protein which uses its whiskers to load actin, thus speeding filament growth. Left side, right side, left side, right side. It's a bit like a child stacking bean bags on her head.

And, just to keep the record straight, no, I was not the one to discover this amazing molecule (or the section about it in the textbook). Nor was I the one to break into hysterical laughter while reading about it. While I do find it an amusing image to consider, I was actually the one to stare in open-mouthed amazement at my biologist boyfriend: What, really, have you found so humourous in your textbook?

Quote of the morning: "This protein is so funny!"

Eight 8 ounce glasses daily.

"I know some people who meet the recommended hydration standards,

but you're the only one I've ever met who exceeds them."

--Emily, to me.

Calling Directory Assistance...

Note: this was one end of a phone conversation I overheard on the train. It lacks some very distinct changes in tone and voice pattern, but still, I think you'll understand...

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Disk Makers.

Disk Makers.

Disk Makers.

Disk Makers.

Operator.

Disk Makers.

Disk Makers.

Operator.

Operator.

Can I have an operator, please?

Directory Assistance!

Operator.

Operator.

Can I have an operator?

Can I have a person?

A human being, please?

Oh.

Operator.

No.

Postcards Crossing the Globe...

Randomly browsing blogs, I stumbled upon the "Postcrossing" project tonight. It's a networking site that invites members to send postcards (real, snail mail postcards) to other members around the world. It seems pretty easy: you sign up and receive an address to send a postcard to. When that person receives (and registers) your postcard, another user gets sent your address, so you get a postcard too. You can stop sending and receiving postcards at any point, but it seems like a fun way to make simple connections around the world.

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Check it out here: http://www.postcrossing.com/about.

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I've got an address and will be sending my first postcard once I reach Uganda again. More updates as the project unfolds...

I am because we are.

Today finds me in northern Indiana, South Bend, to be exact, visiting dear friends from college. I've been here for the weekend, hanging out, visiting their lovely church, rehashing old memories and making new ones. Yesterday afternoon, a visit with my fellow Ugandan SALTer involved ordering our lunch in Spanish, an amazing play at Goshen College, and an evening of good coffee and catching up. Today, another dear friend and I will make a not entirely expected adventure into Chicago; I'll sleep in Michigan tonight.
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There have been some to question why I would take this journey out to flat "Michiana," why I'd spend the money -- and the time -- on Amtrak tickets, and especially, why I'd do it now, when the countdown to departure is mostly creating anxiety. Even my own heart has at times asked these questions, though mostly in the days before I came, and the sleepless hours of steady chugging and stoner seatmates.
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It took only a few hours here (well, a few conscious ones, at least) to know within myself how right this choice was. Travelling insomnia and ticket prices are nothing compared to the sweet comfort of conversing with a dear friend face to face. Emails are good, and letters are like gold, but still, how delightful to lay on a couch and let our hearts flow once again together. We talk about men and life and school and children and houses and future and past and questions and everything that matters, as well as much that may not. And somehow, in those moments of being together, we make more sense of who we are: and it is good, tov, the whispered blessing of a long-forgotten creator. This trip has been, is continuing to be, all about relationships, but also my own soul.

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You may have noticed the change to my blog title this morning. I've been contemplating the need for a new title for some time now, a natural part of the transition process. This morning, I realised what it must be. Ubuntu. I first encountered the term, as far as I remember, in readings borrowed from my friends' first year reader. A South African concept, presented often by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, it reframes human identity. Translated, or at least, paraphrased, it means, "I am because we are." My being is embodied, entwined, in your being, in our being together and relating. It is the cornerstone of a communal culture, the instinctual philosophy of people born to think of family, tribe, clan, and kingdom more than self. And these days, it is the beat of my own heart as well.

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These months in the US have been all about relationships: family, friends, new acquaintances. Coming to terms with who I am and how I've changed, mostly seen through the mirror of others' eyes. In college, community was an over-used buzzword; they tried too hard to teach us how to live together. These days, I know it's value on a deeper level: in the place where my heart and mind reach out for meaning, and my self is made manifest mostly when I am with those I hold dear. These bonds have formed me, transformed me, stretched and challenged me; these strange bridges of trust and honesty, love and challenge, painfully difficult in all their beauty. And, despite the frustration of physical separation, they will continue to.

On my mind...

(banner at Kern Road Mennonite Church, South Bend, IN)

Good Eating.

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"Food culture in the United States has long been cast as the property of a privileged class. It is nothing of the kind. Culture is the property of a species. Humans don't do everything we have to do -- that is arguably what makes us human. We're genetically predisposed toward certain behaviors that we've collectively decided are unhelpful; adultery and racism are possible examples. With reasonable success, we mitigate those impulses through civil codes, religious rituals, maternal warnings -- the whole bag of tricks we call culture. Food cultures concentrate a population's collective wisdom about the plants and animals that grow in a place, and the complex ways of rendering them tasty. These are mores of survival, good health, and control of excess. Living without such a culture would seem dangerous."

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"Doing the right thing, in this case, is not about abstinence-only, throwing out bread, tightening your belt, wearing a fake leather belt, or dragging around feeling righteous and gloomy. Food is the rare moral arena in which the ethical choice is generally the one more likely to make you groan with pleasure. Why resist that?"

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from Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life,

Barbara Kingsolver.

Train Conversation.

19:07 Direct quote from the conversation I just had with the older man behind me: "I was in Chad once. We were going to start an airline there. Air Chad. But there were only three markets we were going to create it for: narcotics, guns and ammo, and conflict diamonds. But the penalties for all that is really stiff."

19:14 Another direct quote from the guy behind me, this one in conversation with a friend on his cell phone: "Well, Tim, I'm on the train to Toledo, and I have no one to talk to. Except this cute girl in the seat in front of me..." ... Now he's asking Tim how he plans to prepare the turkey for Thanksgiving and if he has any plates without egg stains to eat the food off of. ... "You can always count on Tim for the latest in plastic ware [he's still talking to Tim at this point!]."

Listening Session (On a Westbound Train)

Swaying a bit as it rocks side to side, moving ever forward, the train has a steady purr. Sometimes it deepens into a growl: I think the track is a little less smooth at those times. Or perhaps it only wants to remind us that it is alive – and powerful. It is not a meek beast, this monster of heat and metal. Tamed for today, it rumbles occasionally to draw attention to its own power.

Here inside, the purring, mumbling, onward, onward is joined in the chorus by all of these other parts. Doors, windows, luggage shelfs, seat backs, roof panels: grumbling a bit, breathing loudly in tune. They make their presence known as well, call to mind a child's contraption. Blocks and plastic pieces, cast off string and bottle caps, perhaps a spoon from mother's drawer. Spliced together, they provide the course for marbles, cars, and sometimes rocks, but those don't roll as well. It works: you've seen it. The magic is in the held-in breath, exhaled only after the race has run its course without catastrophe. This car runs a more stable course, but still, it makes you wonder when you hear the constant shaking.

Then there is the door. Well, two of them actually. The one behind keeps quiet, the older sibling winning at that dastardly game: “Don't talk first!” It opens sometimes, it must. You can never catch it blinking, but there, and again, people appear and shuffle their way through. There are many of them who wander this path, this last leg of the pilgrimage between coach and dining car. Their passage is marked, time and again, by the solo of that other door, the one in front, whose song is neither beautiful – nor succint. Each time it opens, pulled aside, to admit an exit or an entrance, it sings a bit, in a whispering gush of words. Older brother always quick to open, easy to close. This younger child demands attention – listen to me! – as it struggles to master that delicate art of closing. It pushes too hard, strives to force. Calm down, little one, you want to say, go slow and rest easy. Perhaps it only learns by making its own mistakes.

Air ducts overhead breathe ever out, pushing oxygen into the box that is contains us. It is not quite breathing, though, this steady exhalation. It lacks the rhythm, the in and out, now, again. Carefully nurturing this artificial space, less than human in their perfect consistency.

Sound emanates metal and plastic, badly hung doors and ceiling ducts. Ah, but also, there are the other passengers. You are not alone in this journey, despite the isolation you sense as you stare into the black night, met only by your own reflection.

Come back inside, let the train itself fade into the baseline, and there are other sounds. Listen carefully, and you can hear it: this is life. As it is lived in a box passing through the early darkness. Living is being done here: living and loving and hurting and joy-making, longing and wanting and hoping and wishing, though mostly sitting.

The elderly couple ahead chatter with light voices, fading often into the silence of her crossword and his nap. They don't need so many words: they have journeyed long together. His gait is heavy, stumbling, as he brings her drink. Her voice is soft. She lets her words float on the moment, there for only him to find. Her movements slow, when she makes them, but hinting at the sweetest grace she used to have. Is this how aging sounds, comfortable in its obvious familiarity?

Every so often, the conductor strolls through, his footfall full of confidence and vigour. His shoes proclaim, with every step, he knows where we are. And maybe, also, why we are here.

Nearby, perhaps in the hidden seat in front of you, a young woman sings. Her voice is soft, though more melodic in its youth. Not even singing, really, but a tune hummed to accompany her magic music box. Tucked deep into her ears, swaddled like a newborn babe, these tiny pieces protect her from all that is silent.

A man coughs. Not deeply, no, he does not seem sick. There is a catch in his throat: of dust, perhaps, but maybe, also, of words unspoken and dreams just begun. It catches him there, tickles, plays that childish game, “catch me, catch me, catch me if you can.” He clears his throat, coughs, and again. But it persists, comes back to find him unawares: you won't be rid of me so easily.

Another couple, younger, still learning to be together. They pay much attention to each other, speak in whispers, but seem somehow less aware of each other's presence than their older counterparts. She leans in close to share a thought, not yet knowing how to say it with the touch of a hand. They want to be alone, but they draw an audience, wanting it so loudly.

Somewhere, a younger voice: the loudest in the car. Too young to know the rules of keeping quiet and to one's self, he murmurs, cries, and laughs. Phonetics blurring together, he is a storyteller, regaling us all with his tales of personal exploit. Until he tires, like us all, of this steady sitting, quiet being, this moving without moving. He is ready to be home, to see Daddy, to put on his pjs and eat his supper. The darkness is heaviest for him, you know, a metronome calling him to sleep. Mama tries to hush his cries, her voice soothing, “It's okay. We're almost home.” She speaks, unknowingly, to each of us, who, tired of traveling and playing and seeing these strangers, want only to be home.

Overheard at Messiah...

At my alma mater for a couple hours before catching a train to the cold midwest... just thought I'd share this, since it amused me quite a bit ;)

A bit of conversation at the beginning of class between one of my favourite theology professors and her poor student...

SB: "So, you're getting married in August?"

Student: "Yeah."

SB: "Did you buy her a ring?"

Student: "Of course!"

SB: "Ring by spring..."

Oh, I think I've missed this place...

Must Read.

A fascinating blog about the more intricate details of life:

Feynman's Flower.

I particularly recommend reading Dopamine Day and

the original post about Feynman's Flower.

1st November: Seeking Truth on a Rainy Autumn Morn.