ethiopia pictures- (just lisa and me)

at the airport in DC

leaving for court!

beautiful lalibela

old man praying

churches carved down into the rock

about to take off our shoes to enter a church

beside the most famous church

family going to the market in lalibela

another chuch

with the priest

no pictures of yoyo yet- not until it's official!

redemption

i love teen dance movies.  like "bring it on".  or "honey". or "fame". pretty much any story about redemption with cool street dancing.  i usually cry and always wish i could seriously dance- like dance my heart out- pour all the challenges of life into the way my body moves. that would be so cool.  the thing that always comes out is the girl or guy from the wrong side of the tracks- who's been dealt the bad hand-earns respect through dancing- or makes the right decisions to stay away from drugs and violence, by choosing to dance. 

one of the most important teaching moments of my residence training came one afternoon during my clinic.  i was exhausted and very burned out.  it was the middle of my second year of residency. i had been up all night on call and then dragged myself to afternoon clinic to see patients until 6 that evening. i was running on fumes. it was the pre- 80 hour work week, and i was on hour 30/36 straight.  things happen to you when you've been up that long.  when you've been dealing with very intense situations that require attention and good judgement and you've had very little sleep and really, the outcome is sometimes  life or death. you feel an ironic combination of the weight of the world and also the lightness of being.  a sense of the seriousness of life and also the normalcy of death.  it's how i image it would feel to be in war.  your body has to reset it's emotional clock.  you have to set up a system and boundaries.  you have to find a new way to process.  things change.

so i had just seen this patient who was struggling with something - maybe substance abuse- i can't remember.  i was frustrated.  i wanted to go home and sleep and see my daughter.  i'd lost my ability to empathize with him.  i went out of the room to tell the senior physician about the case and go over my plan.  it was obvious by my presentation that i had given up on this guy- whatever his issue was- i had given up. 

my preceptor - well rested and wiser than i- said very clearly, "i believe in redemption."

dohho!!

so do i!

and all of a sudden i was terrified at who i'd become.  i believe in redemption.  i went into primary care because i believe in redemption.  who was this person giving up? i was ashamed.  i was embarrassed. i'd miss represented myself. this is not who i am.  this patient had become a symbol of all the wrong in the world.  all the things you see when you can see other peoples lives understood backwards.  the fall out from years of substance abuse.  the heart failing after years of cocaine, the liver after a lifetime of alcohol, the worn out lungs from smoking.  and into the mix go all the unexplained sufferings- the 20 year old with shoulder pain that turns out to be leukemia, the 30 year old with cardiomyopathy from a random virus- and the reactions become judgments - and we taking care of them are at risk for vilifying and glorifying.  for over identification and under-identification.

and there i was, 30 years old and bitter. there i was forgetting who i really am.  but his words changed me.  because i began to remember. his four words reminded me of who i was. he refocused the blurry lens through which i was looking. and i was so thankful.

today i did a home visit with a wonderful man who has spent much of his life on the streets. a man who allowed his cancer to bring him home.  to reunite him with family. a man who was willing  to experience redemption. and as i listened to his story, as i heard his process, i was reminded again that it's grace. it's humility. it's a willingness to let life take and guide you. and that  it's possible no matter where you are, no matter how far you've fallen.

hearing those words years ago, when i was at the end of my emotional rope, that was redemption. transformation. it's what we crave.  what we hope for- even when we think it's not possible.  it's the good end to the movie.  it's what touches that spot in us - it's art. dance.  it's the cross. it's soul deep.  it's that longing for the right choice- it's what unites and inspires and keeps us moving on.

for the next year and a half of my training those words followed me in the dark nights when i watched the fall out from the badness in life.  i believe in redemption.  i believe in redemption. i believe in redemption.

thank you paul nadler- i will never forget it again- i promise.

where the red fern grows

moments of break through come at the strangest times- or in the strangest ways. today it came with a movie from my childhood.

this week has been a great home-school week for zoe and me.  we've calmly worked- we've not over done it- but a lot of learning has taken place.

she now goes to two classes through the LEAD home school organization and she goes by herself. this is big.  she's with about 6-8 kids and one teacher and she's doing it! she's learning- she's not horribly distracted or distracting ( or at least i haven't heard about it if she is).  she likes it.  she's made some friends.  she is happy.  at home this gives us a bit of structure- we need to get things done to work around the classes- it's good motivation.

today she had class and then we came home and were able to get through a lot of things- copy work, math, poetry, piano, greek mythology, grammar, and vocabulary.  i actually didn't hear the words "OH why did you help me!" not even once!  even when i helped her remember how to play two of her songs on the piano- she thanked me.  she wanted to 'google' information on the vikings- her class is on vikings- so we did this. and this lead to looking for a movie about vikings since we'd accomplished so much.  we couldn't find one- but we did find "where the red fern grows".

now i'm remembering this from my childhood- the book and the movie.  i'm remember it being about a boy and his beloved dogs.  i remember it being very poignant and a bit sad- but i can't remember why.  so i tell zoe that it's a great movie and set her up to watch.  she eats lunch and is fully engaged in the movie and i'm running around cleaning up and periodically watching scenes with her.  then i sit to watch the last 10 minutes.  the part when one of the dogs, big dan, dies trying to protect his sister dog and billy his owner.  it's very sad.  then it gets worse.  the sister dog, little annie, dies of grief over big dan's death and over their graves the red fern grows.  zoe is trying to process this.  she's upset and curious about why and how little annie actually dies.  so we talk about it, about the sorrow and about the loss.  and then she wants to see her dog, so she feeds her and watches her eat. and then she looses it.

she says, "this is just so sad!" and starts weeping.  and she's sitting on the floor crying.  so i gathered her up and sat her on my lap- and then it turned into anger.  she was angry at me.  "why did you tell me to watch this terrible movie!" and she began trying to pinch me and slap me (in her very gentle zoe way of not actually wanting to hurt me, but to explain her feelings).  i reminded her that there were beautiful parts and sad parts to the movie- the boy's love and friendship with his dogs was beautiful, and that their dying really is sad and that it's OK to feel it.  that i was so proud of her - because it meant that she understood how billy felt.  that she was able to relate - that she could empathize.  i told her not to confuse sadness with anger- that they are separate- that sadness isn't always bad.  for zoe anger is easier.  anger is daily, she runs from sad and i'm not fully sure why.  i told her it's OK to cry and allow herself to feel sorrow.  that understanding other peoples feelings is a really important part of living.  and she put down her little fists and cried in my arms.

this is huge.

this is progress.

this is her right brain engaged.

zoe has never reacted much to movies except for humor.  unlike all her friends or classmates or brothers, she was never scared at a disney film or cried during ET.  she wasn't able to relate on that level- she didn't connect herself to the story line- to the characters. 

we hit another developmental milestone.

we're working on holding that tension- not avoiding an entire movie because of a sad ending, not all or nothing, living with the good and the hard-having the ability to feel  the spectrum of emotion- because that is real. that is life.

it's another velveteen rabbit moment- zoe becoming more real, more alive. and it hurts. but it's worth it.

there is more in that box than vegetables

i'm sitting out on the porch listening to the rain. i can smell it.  i love it. the day started out as my favorite type- the gray - closed sky - kind of day with blowing leaves and dusty colors that stand out. with a warm breeze and no direct sun. the kind of weather that holds you- that you can feel.  it makes me so happy. like little white lights and the smell of a bonfire on the beach and the color of the ocean before a storm and fireflies.

today is wednesday. the day of the vegetable box. and i'll admit it- it's beginning to stress me out.  today as i peeked in- hoping for no more green peppers- i saw a cabbage.  once again- a high maintenance vegetable with very little pay off.  i mean come on- if i'm going to be cooking something for a while that i first had to prepare for a while- it better be worth it- it better be something like chocolate.  the rest of the vegetables were covered in so much dirt that i needed to wash before i could identify. seriously.  and as i was washing- i think rutabaga and sweet potatoes- and beginning to resign myself to an afternoon of chopping and stirring- i heard a noise and then felt water at my feet.  sink leak. great.  so i abandoned my mission (after sticking the beets in to roast) and washed the kitchen floor- because what else are you going to do with water everywhere- OK- half the kitchen floor.

life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.  that's what my mom always says, and she's usually right.  and life right now is something that i 'm trying to relinquish control over.  i'm trying to let go.  i'm trying to not have a plan for everything- a reason for everything- to be in a place where something as beautiful and organic and life giving as a box of vegetables- doesn't cause anxiety.

and this is the paradox of my life.  things ruined by expectations.  i'm realizing that i'm wrought with unnecessary ideas and expectations.  by a moral hierarchy that i've created and then demand that i follow. and it's exhausting.  things such as not being able to do anything indoors if it's nice outside- because that would just not be right.  or being overwhelmed by a cabbage and a mess of peppers. feeling like if i don't learn to make slaw and pickle things i'm a bad person.  or trying to strap my daughter into a grade level, or hold her to a rigid schedule on a day when her brain is disconnected.  just let it go.  seriously.  that is where i want to be.

the days that i get there are so much smoother.  so much happier.

have you seen that commercial for nutri-grain bars? it's about starting the day right with healthy choices.  the idea being that if you start off right- it's easier to continue on the path of healthy eating. and healthy eating leads to being happier and so we should all just eat nutri-grain bars and things will be better.  no. kidding. but i get the idea. when i start of the day in a place of peace- a place of prayer- a place of how would God want me to live-a place of letting go-  it goes better.  i do make better choices (not about choosing cabbage over brownies) but about responding to life.

this week there was also honey in the box- at least that's what it looks like- but apparently there's even more - because each week i get a little lesson about living.

transparency

the other day i chased down an old man in the hall of the VA, because i thought it was malcolm.  it wasn't.  malcolm is a older gentlemen who i met last month while waiting for the elevator after i finished my morning clinic. he spoke to me in french and had sparkly eyes. he is 87 years old.  we were talking and accidentally went up before we went down.  he told me briefly about his life- his wife from buenos aires-where he'd gone to high school, how he'd learned french and then taught it most of his life, how he still carves wood, and reads and writes poetry, and that is how he keeps his mind going- how he keeps himself together.  he told me his name, and said in french that it was a pleasure to meet, and then there was an awkward minute when there was obviously no reason for us to keep talking.  the elevator ride was over. we'd reached the main floor. we shook hands- which seems strange, yet not enough.  i almost wanted him to ask me to dance.  none of it made sense.  we'd just met in the elevator. but i didn't want to let him go.  it was a moment when you wonder about past lives.  when you think about these quick connections and how they can possibly feel so meaningful when they happen in less than 5 minutes.  weird.  i kind of knew i'd never see him again.

it was also a moment that would have been ruined if it had another five minutes.  it was a scene. a snapshot.  that's what made it beautiful. brevity.

one of the ingredients that i think allows us to be in those moments is transparency.  openness.  willingness even. being in the moment- not so busy with what just happened or what happens next. being present.

this is something i like to teach the medical students because sometimes white coats come on and barriers come up. and sometimes the shorter the coat, the higher the barrier.  the sick/ well split, the doctor/patient split, the information holder/ information seeker split. and in it, people forget that it's also two people having a conversation. two people who share a lot more in common than not.  we are united by our humanity. by loss and joy, by illness and health, by sour relationships and life sustaining ones. holding on to this, remembering this- is essential to good communication. essential to being relational.

but sometimes i wonder if i practice this at home as well.  am i transparent with my kids? am i real with them? obviously this needs to be in an appropriate parenting way, but am i present with them. do i say, 'because i said so' or do i take the time to explain it? do i invest in the little moments? do i make myself available to them? they are the most important things in my world - do they feel that?  i hope so. i want to model that. i want to be that. maybe tomorrow i'll ask them each to dance.

beautiful day

beautiful day, beautiful world.  beauiful girl. and i'm trying to get my head out of africa, although my heart is really there.

these days are scrumptious - truly.  the light reminds me of northern california- crisp and angled and sharp. not that thick, hot dusty air i've been used to.  it seems to energize and clear the head.

yesterday we went apple-picking. or tried too.  they were out of apples to pick.  and we were stuck in traffic for an hour- because of a moonshine festival.  that's right. moonshine.  red-neck awesomeness. it was coupled with an old car show, country music and a lot of motorcycles and fried food. every thing from an entire fried onion, to fried pies.  anyway- we finally made it, two moms and nine children (only three were mine- go erin!!).  it was so fun.  what was best for me was the normalness of it all.  zoe was pretty much just a kid.  there was no drama. can i say how much i love no drama? i love it.  my spine could relax. i could enjoy myself.  i could spread my attention equally between my three kids.  i could focus on spending time with my friend. 

it's the small things in life.  and i think what i'm actually most thankful for, in addition to having a great day with her, is the perspective i get from all those bad days. when things go smoothly- it's not to be overlooked- not to be taken for granted. it's to be celebrated!

so cheers!

live a life less ordinary

last night i picked up my vegetable box from our local CSA.  that's community supported agriculture.  it was full of large leafy greens, many, many squash and about 20 green peppers.  i love it. i do. but it can be overwhelming.  and then i feel guilty.  what am i going to do with all this stuff- it's all so high maintenance. but since i'd committed to the entire season of the CSA box- i decided i'd better start cooking.

pretty soon i was back to the early '90's making a Moosewood-esque butternut squash soup- and some bacon-fat sauteed kale item. and i began to remember back to those early days before we had children.  when we were first married.  when we did cook almost every soup out of that Moosewood cookbook.  when we were still unwrapping wedding presents -like blenders- to make the soup.  when we listened to enya on tape and used empty wine bottles as candle holders and had tapestries on our walls.  (i guess actually not much has changed except the tapes). we were so young.  we had no money, but we had so much time.  unfortunately we didn't know it.  i so wish someone had told us.  we had 6 kid free years- with 20 year old bodies and energy- and we squandered it!  we probably worked too hard and studied too hard.  a typical night back then would seem like a date-night now.

the best thing we ever did was to borrow a few thousand dollars from my parents and go to europe for 6 weeks.  that was fantastic, not squandered time.  we stayed in cheap hotels, rented a cheap car and only went out for dinners.  we played cards, sketched, talked, looked at art and buildings,wrote in journals,  drank coffee and wine, probably smoked a few cigarettes  and read the same books out loud to each other outside on park benches.  in Prague we listened to Mozart in an upstairs room while it rained out on the square, in Assisi we spent all day at St. Francis's monastery walking through the woods he walked.  we soaked it in.  we lived in each moment. i love those memories.

so last night as i peeled the squash and riped the kale- i thought about life and expectations.  there is a line i love in Cutting For Stone, "life is lived forward but understood backwards".  so true.  you do the best you can. you can't hold on to things you once assumed or anticipated would come to be.  life changes us- we evolve. and if we don't evolve, life still changes us, but we're left holding onto old things.  then i wondered,  if life is super easy- if it does go according to plan-is it harder to break out of the routine- to live a life less ordinary? it might be pretty and secure and comfortable- but its it fun?  is it full?
i'm kind of used to things not going as planned.  i'm kind of used to things being out of the ordinary and i think it makes it easier to move outside of the lines- easier to dream - easier to take risks- because you've already lost what's 'normal'.  and maybe out of the chaos is the answer to why mike and i have such a hard time settling down- maybe as life bends us out of our expectations we evolve in a new way. in new places.

or maybe i just have a restless soul.

now what do do with all those peppers.........

holding the tension of the opposites

i am boring myself with my banter.  so i’m sure i’m boring you as well.  but if i can be quite honest- it’s really hard to be back.  the constancy of our days, the ongoing obsession of zoe not wanting help- with anything, the number of times i have to coach her on behavior, the waste of hours on distractibility.  it’s got me down- low down. 

today i told her that in the 45 minutes we spent with her falling to bits over not knowing how to say the number 464,438 (four hundred and sixty four thousand, four hundred and thirty eight), that i could have held a family meeting and really helped an entire group of people come to terms with their loved ones illness.

that in the 20 minutes it took her to change her shirt and come down stairs again, i could have adjusted someone’s morphine dose and significantly improved their pain.

  i’m pretty sure these are not appropriate comments.  nor is “you know you’re making me crazy” or “why did i have children?” although that one i usually  manage to keep under my breath- notice how i said usually- ie: i've said it more than once.

and while i’m saying these things, i’m envisioning being back in Ethiopia with my morning coffee and pastries and lisa and the kids at the orphanage.  and i’m wondering quite honestly what the heck i’m doing. 

i realize that we find what we need to, when we need it.  that life experiences morph together and people and places take on meaning- assigned by something else.  and being alive and happy with out her- gave me meaning, perhaps too much meaning, perhaps it was a window into what is not. and what won’t be.  because this is where i am.  here.  atlanta. most of the time at home with my daughter who struggles to learn, but less than i struggle with helping her learn.  less than i struggle with my own ideas of what i should be doing on a daily basis.

so as  i watch her contort her body into a pretzel of stress while she exclaims her frustration and the energy becomes palpable, all i can think of is how bad these stress hormones must be for her little body and that i’m surely going to end up with an ulcer from watching her and sympathizing.  and i think  “why can’t she just let it go?”, "why can’t she just stop fighting it all the time?”

what? me? why can’t i do that?

exactly.  because really, this is much more about me than her.  i spin my wheels.  i fight against resistance.  i waste emotional energy.  i try on other peoples lives.

but i'm about to get a lot healthier, because i just found a therapist.

she spoke to me about Jung’s idea of ‘holding the tension of the opposites’.  like learning to live in the gray.  between two worlds. not throwing the baby out with the bathwater.  that there is truth and value in the extremes of life and the challenge is to hold the tension- rather than letting go of one end and clinging to the other.  that we grow and understand and learn from that straddle.

so that is my lesson for the day.
live it.
hold the tension.
love it because it's making you better.
and be still.

finding our 'Gloria'

i'm reading a great book.  Cutting For Stone.  i bought it on the way to ethiopia because i wanted to read something about africa.  and i found so much more.  there is medicine.  there is love.  there is the pursuit of meaning.  now i'm hanging on to it. savoring it. because it takes me back there. i don't want it to end.  i don't want to let go.

many of the characters are finding themselves.  finding their place. understanding their histories, their families.  separating themselves. asking the questions we all ask.  what is it that we were meant to do?  and where? and with whom? and why?

i must quote:

*        *         *            *           *               *                 *             *         
"We come unbidden into this life, and if we are lucky we find a purpose beyond starvation, misery, and early death which , lest we forget, is the common lot.  I grew up and I found my purpose and it was to become a physician.  My intent wasn't to save the world as much as to heal myself.  Few doctors will admit this, certainly not the young ones, but subconsciously, in entering the profession, we must believe that ministering to others will heal our woundedness.  And it can.  But i can also deepen the wound.
    I chose the specialty of surgery because of Matron, that steady presence during my boyhood and adolescence. "What is the hardest thing you can possibly do?"  she said when I went to her for advice on the darkest day of the first half of my life.
    I squirmed.  How easily Matron probed the gap between ambition and expediency. "Why must I do what is hardest?"
    "Because, Marion, you are an instrument of God.  Don't leave the instrument sitting in its case, my son.  Play! Leave no part of your instrument unexplored.  Why settle for 'Three Blind Mice' when you can play the 'Gloria'?"

     "But, Matron, I can't dream of playing Bach, the 'Gloria'...,"

      "No, Marion," she said, her gaze soft, reaching for me, her gnarled hands rough on my cheeks.  "No, not Bach's 'Gloria'.  Yours! Your 'Gloria' lives within you.  The greatest sin is not finding it, ignoring what God made possible in you."

*          *            *           *            *                *            *             *           
that is the search we all face.  finding our Gloria.  and that is the hope we have for our children.  it is what we stop and think about when we are moved by something, shaken up by something. or when we are still.  when we get off the merry-go-round of life and take pause.  when we experience God.  when we get that dose of perspective that shoots us to the moon and we're disconnected instantaneously from our bodies and our little worlds and we remember that there is so much more and that we have so much more to give.

another little piece of my heart

thrown right back in.

her world is so tough. but i'm so proud of her.

we were at a birthday party for her "best friends" brother. best friend is in quotes because it should be. it's a label. it's become something that is said, something with out much meaning- or maybe extreme meaning. maybe to her it means 'long time friend' or 'i know you'll be in my life forever because our parents are best friends'. but it's not best friends. it's not reciprocal. it's not real.

the last few times we've been over their house, there have been problems. trouble for zoe navigating social situations- neighborhood kids- newness- non-predictability. today there were two groups, the big kids and the little kids. the little kids were the less than seven year olds- the friends of the birthday boy. the big kids were zoe, her "best friend" and two other 11 year olds- and they were to help out.

deep breath. sigh. batten down the hatches. this could be a disaster. or maybe not. maybe there is hope. maybe things will go smoothly. maybe it won't be so bad. this is me- like a running tape inside- background noise. makes it hard to have a meaningful conversation. hard to be light and happy. because i have my running tape and my senses are on high level-listening for sounds of trouble- eyes sideways glancing for her- to check- waiting. then another tape starts. can't you just relax and live? can't you just enjoy this? it will be OK- it's not that big of a deal. separate yourself. just be.

things were OK for her for most of the party. she was on the outside looking in but she didn't get upset. she struggled to fit into the mix- but pulled back when she needed to. i was OK too, although it's always hard to watch the gap- the gap between where she is and other 11 year olds are. to see them role their eyes or chuckle when she says something and watch her not notice.  to hear them talk about the Friday Night Skate and who is going with who- while zoe sits trying to engage a 4 year old in a puzzle. God bless her.

but then, the ending was sad.

the big kids were downstairs- listening to music. we could hear them laughing and singing. and i was so happy for her. she loves music. she loves laughing. she loves being with people. it's just hard for her to understand the subtleties- to know the meaning behind the angle of someones eye or mouth- those slight difference that communicate worlds without words. and when words don't sound bad- and non-verbal communication is lost-it can get ugly.

the grownups were upstairs and up comes zoe doing her rendition of a chicken dance. kind of funny - we've seen it before- kind of inappropriate. as we tell her this- she says, "one of the kids said he'd pay me 5 dollars to come up stairs acting like a chicken and not come down for 10 minutes."

crack. ouch. little break in my heart.

i told her that they weren't being nice- because it just flew out of my mouth. because it wasn't and i couldn't help letting her in on it. but i think inside she already knew this because immediately she started to cry. it was like the feeling was in there, but she'd gotten lost in the forest of what the words themselves said and what could be behind it. at face value it sounded good to her. a dare. i'll get 5 dollars to do this. what was lost was the tone of voice, the reason behind the request, the goal of exclusion.

so much of what is said, is what's not said. our words are so limiting. the way our mouths shape them and the way our eyes help speak them, and what we do with our hands while we talk- there are volumes in those moments. it's amazing that we can speak with out speaking. communication is powerful- even with different languages like in Ethiopia - or no language at all like my patient yesterday. unless you don't get it. unless you can't speak non-verbal. unless for some reason your brain doesn't process that way.

ouch. crack. another little piece of my heart now baby.

all of my days

my mind needs to run. it is so beautiful outside- it's calling. but my body is jet-laggy and so tired. my heart is in between- needing to run, needing to be still, needing to cry- at the beauty of it all, and the sorrow.

a long day of work. and not a lot of sleep last night. it's friday. the day when i get to be peoples doctor. when i spend time with people who are in a different world. who belong to a different club. they are sick. they are dying, sometimes slowly, sometimes soon. they have life still and they are teaching me.

i had a student with me today- he's doing an elective with me- he's at the beginning- but he has wisdom in him. sometimes i see things differently when i can see through the eyes of someone who is where i was once. today we got to see one of my favorite patients (i know, i always say that- but really- i enjoy him and his wife so much!) they have volunteered to let me interview them in front of a large group of students, about their experience with terminal illness- with facing the things we all avoid- with looking death in the face- with looking ourselves in the face- with seeing ourselves as finite. and we were able to talk with them today about the past year- we were able to reflect together on our shared experience of his illness- his dark place last year when i thought we were close, and his revival to good health and happiness- despite living with cancer, terminal cancer.

next an old man with dementia-who doesn't speak- or walk or look in the eye. a man who shares my birthday. we can't communicate but are we united in the stars? i wondered.

another older patient with pain. not actively dying- but in pain and with years of life- years of wisdom. and conversation can bring down the pain. connection.

then we moved on to another patient- with another cancer. a patient who's been homeless for most of his life- who has seen a world i have never seen. a man who's disease brought him home. in illness came redemption. in pain- came peace. in confusion and unknowing, came clarity. i have so much to learn.

these are the ones who remind me of being thankful. of being. of the value we all have in our humanness- in our process- naked and vulnerable we enter the world and that is how we head out as well. illness strips you. i see it all the time. in the end- all that we've done, all that we've acquired, all the initials after our names, just doesn't matter. it's those people we've influenced, those we've shared ourselves with- those who've touched us- that is what matters- what sustains- what gives the grace.

and today, in my fog, i am grateful for it all.

on returning

i'm back. i'm home. life is real again.

while i was away the air cooled and the leaves have begun to let go. the sounds are different, the light is brighter, the haze is gone, and the air is quieter, but more alive. like someone blew the dust off a season that sat too long.

i'm feeling still. i'm feeling rested. i'm reminded of the rest of the world again. i'm especially reminded of me. that i exist outside of my children, especially my child with special needs. that her life goes on with out me- and mine with out her. that there is fun to be had, and other people to value and important things to be done, and talked about. that the world is really as big as it is- not as small as it can feel sometimes. and that i am happy.

before i left for ethiopia, i was badly stuck in my own head- my own world- myopic. i felt panicked about leaving- about my body being so far away from my people- especially the little ones- and also mike. the feeling that we'd grown together so intensely that i couldn't tell if the entanglement was good or bad, if we were the roots of trees or a giant snarl. but i knew i felt stuck in it. and this made leaving really scary. i had to snip things. i had to close my eyes and jump.

and so i did- and i landed in on the other side of the world. in addis ababa i found the parts of me that i'd forgotten. i found the voice that doesn't need to talk about zoe everyday. the heart that doesn't need to worry always about the future- or obsess over the past. that the focus my life should not always be about me and my immediate family- but friends and their lives, the world and it's needs. and in this i was reminded of the vastness of poverty and the extreme discrepancies that exist, and are often only separated by a tin fence - and a lifetime.

life is just plain unfair and compared to the rest of the world- the unfairness of my life is pretty small. but it took a week of being far away to know this again. i played with other peoples children. i held held other peoples babies. i heard about other peoples stories. i watched the beginning of other families lives.

and i took hot baths at night, and lay in the sun in the day, and i let it all go. i read a book that took me out of my head. and i remembered how to swim the breaststroke and the backstroke and play in the water and swim at night. and i was the rider not the driver. i ate and didn't cook. i didn't do a single dish or settle an argument or give a time out. and i remembered that there is much more to it than the spinning top that feels like my life. that there is more to me than i allow myself to be.

so i'm back to busy schedules, dinner and homework, dishes and timeouts. back to balancing acts and work. back to sticky thoughts and sensitive skin and boys that wrestle and accidentally give each other bloody noses. back to the people i love most in the world. back to the one who gets me- the one who's never forgotten who i am even when i have.

hopefully the light will stay crisper, the sounds clearer, the air more alive. and hopefully i can hang on to the parts of me that were dusted off after a season that has stayed much too long.

gift

i am in ethiopia because i was given a gift.

the gift was to come to ethiopia with one of my oldest and bestest friends and be with her as she meets her son for the first time.

her little, adorable, coy, smiley-eyed almost 3 year old son- Yoyo- (short for Yohannes). not only do i get to share in the joy of seeing lisa love on this little one, but i see him slowly start to realize that now, he has a mama. it's truly indescribable.

she is one of 11 amazing families- who are all meeting their kids for the first time. and they are all first time parents. and they have all been waiting, for a long time. what a gift to see this amount of love. to see the giving of people to each other- from worlds apart. the unity. the joy. the wholeness. the completion. the life bonds of family forming. i feel somewhere between a quiet observer and a doula. i do not share their stories- although i get the loss some have had, and i get the joy of seeing your child for the first time. i get the fear we all share for our children's future. the insecurities that come with having someone ultimately depend on you. the awe in that change, of one minute being just you- and then being someones mommy. what a gift- all around.

the one sightseeing thing we've done while here is to fly north to lalibela- a musical word- and a place of religious pilgrimage- home of the beautiful churches of the 12th century- carved down into the red volcanic rock of the ground- carved from the top down. the countryside is amazing- tall mountains and canyons- like the american southwest but green and covered in vegetation, grasses and acacia trees and flowering aloe plants. and there are shepherds draped in white cloth scarves with staffs surrounded by goats and skinny cows. there are no cars in lalibela- everyone walks on hilly cobblestone streets- lined with tin-roofed huts and purple bougainvillea and yellow flowering trees- the poverty of mans earth and the natural beauty of how it was before. the contrast i find humbling.

at night it is so dark- the poverty is covered under the blanket of the most amazing starry sky- with only the few scattered lights on the hillside joining it. things seem fairer at night. lalibela feels ancient and biblical- but for me- not in the churches themselves. they are impressive in their history- their architectural structure and religious symbolism- but my feeling of spiritual connection came not in those thick walls with their worn grottos and old priests- it came from the dirty houses and the flowers and the night sky- it came in the universality of a smile- when you can't speak the language. it came with the gift from adom of a goatskin cross for our gift of 2 dollars so he could eat breakfast. "something to remember me by." he said. and in this same way addis ababa has been a spiritual experience. the sharing of souls- the joining of peoples. the connection found in common experience and the connection formed despite uncommon experience. it elevates- there is hope-there is joy- there is grace.

so we left lalibela with her flowers and stars and histories. and soon we will leave addis ababa too. and lisa will kiss yoyo 1000 times to hold him over until her return when she will bring him home for good. the gift will be complete and two worlds will begin again, now together.