Yesterday one of my students arrived in South Africa for her semester abroad. This of course makes me think about my semester abroad; my four months spent living in Africa. Today, I remember the time I met a Sangoma.
A Sangoma is a witch doctor. For most Americans, the closest we will ever come to meeting a witch doctor is seeing one on t.v. ... in which case we will most likely assume that he or she is crazy, or uneducated, or a con-artist. This, at least, is what I would have thought until I met Machumane. I met Machumane after having lived in South Africa for just over three months. During that time I had learned to let go of most of my expectations and ideas about the way the world works and what truth and normalcy are. I am telling you this simply so that you understand that when I met her, I was more disposed to be open to her than I would have been even a short time earlier. This being the case, I fully understand if you now reading this think I am crazy for telling you that I once met a witch doctor and I believed her.
Machumane received a calling to be a traditional healer when she was seven years old. Receiving a calling is not like choosing to be a teacher or a lawyer; there is less choice involved, less freedom. In fact Machumane tried to refuse her calling, which she received in a dream, but became very ill until she gave in and began training. She trained until she was sixteen at which point she "pumered" or became an official Sangoma. When I met Machumane we were both twenty. I was a liberal arts student from a private school in central Minnesota and she was an African witch doctor: clearly we had much in common.
The night we met, Machumane was to dance herself into a trance so that she could communicate to her ancestors for advice and guidance in regards to healing a member of her tribe. Machumane's colors are red and white. She wears red and white beads around each wrist and ankle, around her neck. Her hair is laced with what appears to be a mane of red and white beads. Around her waist is wrapped a skirt of dangling pieces of fabric; around her ankles she wears rattles made out of beer bottle caps.
Machumane begins with burning a plant that is supposed to ward of evil spirits and promote a positive atmosphere. The dance begins with drums, a horn, and a chorus of voices. Apparently Machumane's is a particularly musical family meaning that her trance utilizes more music than most. She cannot get into the dance without the drums. This means that if she wakes up in the middle of the night and needs to do a dance, her family wakes up with her to bang the drums. Everywhere I look in this cow-dunned hut, there are kids. This is Africa where your niece is your daughter and your cousin your brother. With so many children running around and joining the music, it is impossible to tell who belongs to who. I think it is because here, everyone belongs to everyone.
The actual dance is hard to follow. Here is this woman, entirely in her own element, gallivanting around this kitchen hut, marching, kicking, skipping to the beat, and it is hard not to acknowledge that she and this are beyond words. She is moving to the rhythm in her head.. to the voices and spirits inside of her. They are leading her steps and her music. At times, she puts down her hands and gets quiet. She kneels on the floor and begins a call and answer session with the audience. She is calling for the ancestors. She gets up and begins again with new energy and song. And the trance goes on like this for over an hour. Sometimes she is weeping, at others, she is obviously rejoicing. And the drums, the horn, the singing and the dancing continue on. Eventually, Machumane casually bends over and begins to release the rattles at her feet. We are told it is over.
I don't have a clue what the words that were sung and spoken meant. I don't know what a trance feels like or what she dreams and how she heals people. I do know that this is a deeply prevalent part of their culture. It is something they believe in wholeheartedly. It is an honor to have this call; to be this person in their society. And to them, this dance, this trance, is normal. This is their everyday.
This is their everyday and it is so far from my everyday it is unbelievable, there is little comparison. I try to dance with them. I am clumsy. My feet don't move in that way; my body doesn't flow naturally to that rhythm. I look awkward and out of place. And then, suddenly, without even realizing it, I am singing along. I know this song. I am in Africa, in a hut, dancing wildly and foolishly with the friends and family of a local witch doctor, and I know the words to the song... "Shosholoza." Echo, "Shosholoza" .. it's about a train coming from South Africa. That is all I know, but it is enough to be really and truly a part of this moment here and now, to feel completely and utterly at home, in my own element.
The next day I eat lunch at Machumane's hut. She cooks chicken and cabbage; it is delicious. Because of this, I spend the next three days with the most wretched food poisoning I have ever experienced in my life. I have never before nor since felt so much like my body was rejecting itself in its' totality. The food poisoning in conjunction with the captivating quality of Machumane's dance is a perfect metaphor for my entire experience of Africa. Africa to me is a combination of opposites: pain and healing, love and hate, sickness and life, the beautiful and the ugly... dancing and retching.
Africa to me is more than words can describe. Today, I hope that my student can find as much wisdom and life there as I did. Today, I hope that somewhere, Machumane is thriving, living her call, dancing to drums.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
I wonder...
Often I am reminded of a fudge selling man I met in South Africa named Keith. Upon leaving South Africa after four months, Keith told me, "That’s why you have four parts to your heart; so you can leave one here (Africa) when you go home.”
Almost seven years later, I have once again returned “home”, feeling as if I have left part of my heart behind. This time, I left it in Haiti. It’s an awful feeling, one that makes me almost physically sick. And yet, the pain and the longing are accompanied with gratitude. How grateful I am to have had this one, short week. How grateful I am to have met these people; to have found yet another beautiful place in which to leave a piece of my heart.
On my last plane ride home, I read Elle magazine. In it, Reese Witherspoon quoted Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare wrote, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love is deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have. For both are infinite.” I think that that almost perfectly describes this sort of blessing.
Yesterday morning I said good-bye to Alix, likely never to see him again. I have no picture to remember him by. I have nothing but the fading image in my head of him sleeping with his two forefingers in his mouth or his rare but captivating smile. A week ago, I had not met Alix. I wasn’t aware that he even existed. Without these days, I’m sure my life would have passed on without notice… I would not have felt the absence of his presence in my life. Now, I wonder how long I will worry about his continued existence.. about whether or not he continues to move and breathe and inhabit this same living world as me.
Alix is eight months old and he is sick. I watched as the Sisters struggled to put an IV into his tiny, fragile hands. His small body is too weak to sit up or stand or laugh. He is strong enough to eat, but not strong enough to keep the much needed nourishment inside of his failing body. I wonder if he’ll get better. I wonder if they’ll find a way to get his body to stop rejecting the very sustenance it needs to survive. And, if he does get well, I wonder if his young mother will have the means to take care of him anyhow.
Before I left him, all I could do was stroke his brow and offer him loving kindness:
May you be happy and peaceful.
May you be healthy and strong.
May you be safe and protected.
May you live your life with joy and ease.
That is all I could do. And, it has to be enough. It has to be enough or I won’t be able to fall asleep, or pay my bills, or go to work. How could anyone ever fall asleep in a world where helpless babies die daily if they couldn’t blindly trust that someway, somehow, everything was going to be okay?
I take a deep breath and realize that I am still trying to convince myself that everything is indeed going to be okay. Life is interesting. There are over six billion people on the planet and sometimes you can be surrounded by them and yet feel completely alone, lost, hopeless. At other times, you can be so close to just one person, one little Alix in your arms, that you can block the whole rest of the world out and rest assured that even if you were the only two living beings on the planet, all would be well. Your love would be infinite and you would never be alone.
As I descended into the Twin Cities, I noticed how the city lights sparkled like stars. In one day, I left mountains, and sunlight, and warmth to find flat lands, artificial light shining amidst natural darkness, and cold. It’s weird to think that all of this exists in the same world, the same life, the same day. I wonder exactly how this came to be my plot.. my tiny.. short.. fleeting.. beautiful.. deep place in this huge, never-ending universe. I wonder how Alix’s plot came to be his.
I wonder a lot of things.
Almost seven years later, I have once again returned “home”, feeling as if I have left part of my heart behind. This time, I left it in Haiti. It’s an awful feeling, one that makes me almost physically sick. And yet, the pain and the longing are accompanied with gratitude. How grateful I am to have had this one, short week. How grateful I am to have met these people; to have found yet another beautiful place in which to leave a piece of my heart.
On my last plane ride home, I read Elle magazine. In it, Reese Witherspoon quoted Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare wrote, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love is deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have. For both are infinite.” I think that that almost perfectly describes this sort of blessing.
Yesterday morning I said good-bye to Alix, likely never to see him again. I have no picture to remember him by. I have nothing but the fading image in my head of him sleeping with his two forefingers in his mouth or his rare but captivating smile. A week ago, I had not met Alix. I wasn’t aware that he even existed. Without these days, I’m sure my life would have passed on without notice… I would not have felt the absence of his presence in my life. Now, I wonder how long I will worry about his continued existence.. about whether or not he continues to move and breathe and inhabit this same living world as me.
Alix is eight months old and he is sick. I watched as the Sisters struggled to put an IV into his tiny, fragile hands. His small body is too weak to sit up or stand or laugh. He is strong enough to eat, but not strong enough to keep the much needed nourishment inside of his failing body. I wonder if he’ll get better. I wonder if they’ll find a way to get his body to stop rejecting the very sustenance it needs to survive. And, if he does get well, I wonder if his young mother will have the means to take care of him anyhow.
Before I left him, all I could do was stroke his brow and offer him loving kindness:
May you be happy and peaceful.
May you be healthy and strong.
May you be safe and protected.
May you live your life with joy and ease.
That is all I could do. And, it has to be enough. It has to be enough or I won’t be able to fall asleep, or pay my bills, or go to work. How could anyone ever fall asleep in a world where helpless babies die daily if they couldn’t blindly trust that someway, somehow, everything was going to be okay?
I take a deep breath and realize that I am still trying to convince myself that everything is indeed going to be okay. Life is interesting. There are over six billion people on the planet and sometimes you can be surrounded by them and yet feel completely alone, lost, hopeless. At other times, you can be so close to just one person, one little Alix in your arms, that you can block the whole rest of the world out and rest assured that even if you were the only two living beings on the planet, all would be well. Your love would be infinite and you would never be alone.
As I descended into the Twin Cities, I noticed how the city lights sparkled like stars. In one day, I left mountains, and sunlight, and warmth to find flat lands, artificial light shining amidst natural darkness, and cold. It’s weird to think that all of this exists in the same world, the same life, the same day. I wonder exactly how this came to be my plot.. my tiny.. short.. fleeting.. beautiful.. deep place in this huge, never-ending universe. I wonder how Alix’s plot came to be his.
I wonder a lot of things.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Essence
The last few days I have spent a good amount of time thinking about my essence, about what makes me, me.
It started after a conversation I had with a dear friend. We were talking about accidents. Accidents like the adolescent boy in our area who just last week was playing hockey and got checked in just the wrong place so that now he is paralyzed from the waist down. Accidents like my friend’s previous law-school classmate who was in a horrible car crash that left her brain damaged, including loss of her short-term memory. Accidents like when a friend’s twenty-year-old brother fell off of some scaffolding to his death.
Our discussion made me think about a line from The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer: “I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be along with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.”
Like the boy, who lost hockey… who is he once the majority of what people defined him as, fell away? Who would I be, if all else fell away? If you looked past being a Youth Minister, a middle-class suburban woman, a dog owner, a traveler, a theologian, an ultimate frisbee player, a writer….. who am I then?
Because the truth is, at the end of the day, none of those things really matter. Those are things I do.. and they’re important to me… but they aren’t who I am. They don’t define me. They don’t encompass my identity.
I’m the one my friends send in first at an awkward social engagement. I’m chatty; I like meeting new people. I like people in general. I’m easygoing and not easily angered. I’m empathetic and compassionate. I’m bad at saying “no” and I like to feel needed. I believe that the Divine is present everywhere and in everyone and it pains me to think of the ways that people and the earth are hurt, neglected, misused and abused every single day. I am made of stardust.
It terrifies me to think about what I would do if I was in an accident and became paralyzed. That sort of damage would severely change my expectations about my future: about the sort of relationships I hope to have, about the sort of work I hope to do. But, it terrifies me more to think about what would happen if I was in an accident that somehow altered my personality in some severe way. What if people looked at me and thought: this is not her, this is not her the way we remembered her, she has lost herself.
The interesting thing is that we don’t need to suffer through a tragedy in order to lose ourselves. We can lose ourselves on a daily basis if we aren’t paying attention. We lose ourselves for success, for honor, for love. We lose ourselves as we let other people’s expectations of who we should be or could be take precedence over who we truly are. Sometimes we even forget ourselves completely.
That’s why it’s important to take a pause every once in awhile; to breathe and reevaluate. Sometimes we need to remember what makes us, us. Sometimes we need to ask ourselves, “Do I like the company I keep in the empty moments?”.
Sometimes, we need to quiet the noise of the world so that we can hear the wisdom of our own being.
It started after a conversation I had with a dear friend. We were talking about accidents. Accidents like the adolescent boy in our area who just last week was playing hockey and got checked in just the wrong place so that now he is paralyzed from the waist down. Accidents like my friend’s previous law-school classmate who was in a horrible car crash that left her brain damaged, including loss of her short-term memory. Accidents like when a friend’s twenty-year-old brother fell off of some scaffolding to his death.
Our discussion made me think about a line from The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer: “I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be along with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.”
Like the boy, who lost hockey… who is he once the majority of what people defined him as, fell away? Who would I be, if all else fell away? If you looked past being a Youth Minister, a middle-class suburban woman, a dog owner, a traveler, a theologian, an ultimate frisbee player, a writer….. who am I then?
Because the truth is, at the end of the day, none of those things really matter. Those are things I do.. and they’re important to me… but they aren’t who I am. They don’t define me. They don’t encompass my identity.
I’m the one my friends send in first at an awkward social engagement. I’m chatty; I like meeting new people. I like people in general. I’m easygoing and not easily angered. I’m empathetic and compassionate. I’m bad at saying “no” and I like to feel needed. I believe that the Divine is present everywhere and in everyone and it pains me to think of the ways that people and the earth are hurt, neglected, misused and abused every single day. I am made of stardust.
It terrifies me to think about what I would do if I was in an accident and became paralyzed. That sort of damage would severely change my expectations about my future: about the sort of relationships I hope to have, about the sort of work I hope to do. But, it terrifies me more to think about what would happen if I was in an accident that somehow altered my personality in some severe way. What if people looked at me and thought: this is not her, this is not her the way we remembered her, she has lost herself.
The interesting thing is that we don’t need to suffer through a tragedy in order to lose ourselves. We can lose ourselves on a daily basis if we aren’t paying attention. We lose ourselves for success, for honor, for love. We lose ourselves as we let other people’s expectations of who we should be or could be take precedence over who we truly are. Sometimes we even forget ourselves completely.
That’s why it’s important to take a pause every once in awhile; to breathe and reevaluate. Sometimes we need to remember what makes us, us. Sometimes we need to ask ourselves, “Do I like the company I keep in the empty moments?”.
Sometimes, we need to quiet the noise of the world so that we can hear the wisdom of our own being.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Darkness
Sweet Darkness
When your eyes are tired the world is tired also.
When your vision has gone no part of the world can find you.
Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize its own.
There you can be sure you are not beyond love.
The dark will be your womb tonight.
The night will give you a horizon further than you can see.
You must learn one thing: the world was made to be free in.
Give up all the other worlds except the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness
to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
~ David Whyte ~
In our world, and especially in places like Minnesota where the winter brings a harsh bite of cold, shorter days, and the darkest of nights, it is common to hear people talk about “Seasonal Affective Disorder”. This is a fancy phrase for a sadness, a tiredness, maybe even a depression that seems to sink into people as the darkness enfolds. Once you have experienced it, you start to prepare for it. You know that as the winter comes, so will the sorrow, faint at first and then ever more present and substantial as the darkness increases, the light fades. You settle in, hold on tight, prepare for the darkness just as you prepare for a plane to take off or the immanent death of one you love.
These feelings resonate with me, especially as I get older. I too seem to seep into an unusual melancholy, accompanied by a slight distrust for the world, as the temperature begins to drop and the day gives way to night.
I am beginning to wonder, however, how much of these feelings are of our own making? How much of this “seasonal affective disorder” is merely another example of a self-fulfilling prophecy?
Most definitely sunlight contains Vitamin D and that has been proven good for the Spirit. But, still, when did we decide that darkness was bad? Instead, why can’t darkness merely be a time for quiet, rest, deeper reflection maybe?
Tonight there is supposed to be a meteor shower. Lasting for several hours, there are supposed to be up to 100 shooting stars each hour. Amazing things happen in the dark. Beautiful, mysterious, breathtaking things happen while the rest of the world is asleep.
“Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.”
As we stand in the dark, as we marvel at the stars, as we breathe in the quietness of our own presence, may we find the courage to trust that we are enough for ourselves.
May we believe that darkness can bring us joy and hope, just as much as lightness can do the same.
Most of all, may we stop blaming the darkness for our sorrow. May we realize, instead, that whatever or whoever it is that is truly keeping us from being fully alive this season or ever, is indeed, too small for us.
When your eyes are tired the world is tired also.
When your vision has gone no part of the world can find you.
Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize its own.
There you can be sure you are not beyond love.
The dark will be your womb tonight.
The night will give you a horizon further than you can see.
You must learn one thing: the world was made to be free in.
Give up all the other worlds except the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness
to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
~ David Whyte ~
In our world, and especially in places like Minnesota where the winter brings a harsh bite of cold, shorter days, and the darkest of nights, it is common to hear people talk about “Seasonal Affective Disorder”. This is a fancy phrase for a sadness, a tiredness, maybe even a depression that seems to sink into people as the darkness enfolds. Once you have experienced it, you start to prepare for it. You know that as the winter comes, so will the sorrow, faint at first and then ever more present and substantial as the darkness increases, the light fades. You settle in, hold on tight, prepare for the darkness just as you prepare for a plane to take off or the immanent death of one you love.
These feelings resonate with me, especially as I get older. I too seem to seep into an unusual melancholy, accompanied by a slight distrust for the world, as the temperature begins to drop and the day gives way to night.
I am beginning to wonder, however, how much of these feelings are of our own making? How much of this “seasonal affective disorder” is merely another example of a self-fulfilling prophecy?
Most definitely sunlight contains Vitamin D and that has been proven good for the Spirit. But, still, when did we decide that darkness was bad? Instead, why can’t darkness merely be a time for quiet, rest, deeper reflection maybe?
Tonight there is supposed to be a meteor shower. Lasting for several hours, there are supposed to be up to 100 shooting stars each hour. Amazing things happen in the dark. Beautiful, mysterious, breathtaking things happen while the rest of the world is asleep.
“Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.”
As we stand in the dark, as we marvel at the stars, as we breathe in the quietness of our own presence, may we find the courage to trust that we are enough for ourselves.
May we believe that darkness can bring us joy and hope, just as much as lightness can do the same.
Most of all, may we stop blaming the darkness for our sorrow. May we realize, instead, that whatever or whoever it is that is truly keeping us from being fully alive this season or ever, is indeed, too small for us.
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