3 months with rosie

this is our second family picture since rose joined us, 3 months ago today.  it seems like a lot longer. in a good way.  now she's met some of the grandparents.  she has her own room.  she eats pizza and nutella, but still loves rice and beans.  she goes to sunday school with the big kids, she knows all the objects in her ABC book- she likes to say "mom- come 'eah" and "i'm comin'!" in this sweet little almost boston accent- that cracks us up. 

bascially we can't imagine our life with out her.

we are kind of in love.

complicated or not- we love her- another little beastly ham.

karamoja part 2

it began here.  and most of it happened here. in the car.  hours and hours in the car- for a short morning meeting, in a very far away place.  a place from another time- another world- a parallel universe.

notice not just the adorable child, but the car seat, the new dress (thanks katie!),  the car,  the automatic windows.  this is just the beginning of the differences - the time machine like differences we were all about to experience. 

it was a 10 hour trip, mostly on dirt roads. not your john denver-ish country dirt roads, but massively pot-holed, thick mud in active rain, stuck immobilized truck- get out and spend 20 minutes assessing which path off road to take, washed out bridges with naked men bathing in the overflowing river- type dirt roads.  i tried to capture it on film- but you can't really appreciate it.

there was much in these hours besides bumps.  the people were rich in color - the same dark black of the earth they worked- like they had emerged from it- like they were part of it- in a real and lasting way.  they were draped with large colorful robes.  they were barefoot, but they walked with their heads held up so tall and high and straight that they didn't need shoes.

my mind was full.  what is poverty?  is it shoelessness? is it carrying sticks on your head and going miles for water? or is it how you feel inside? is it growing up being stared at and asked over and over why you have a white mother?

and we were stared at. everywhere. by everyone.
at first i felt like a movie star.  i thought my hair must have looked great:). but then we were asked in native tongue, what we were doing carrying a karamojong child.

when we finally got to matany the closest town to the village, we gathered crowds.  everyone had  heard the story- that muzungus were coming to the village.

unfortunately there was no advanced booking, and the main inn in town was full, so we stayed in 'God's grace' guest house.

the courtyard

rosie checking out the couryard

"mom, go home now?" she asked.
not yet rosie.  we are off to the village- to find out.  to find out from a tribe you've never met- but who you share your genes with- where home will be- what home will be- what will become of you.
so we ate peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast with cold instant coffee and got back on the road.

this road/ path- our car filled with the village elders guiding us through the fields.  it all felt so biblical and ancient.  dusty roads, cattle with yokes, wells, washing down in the river- and then the meeting with rosies grandmother- was like the prodigal son coming home. she ran out to meet us, fell on her knees, raised up her hands and prayed loudly thanking God that she was seeing her grand daughter again. this child who was lost, thought to be dead, was now standing before her.

i wanted to cry as i knelt there, holding her elbow and her grandbaby and not understanding a word of her speech but feeling what was in it and behind it- thanks and love.
we followed her down the path to her encampment- rosie looking mildly terrified and clinging for reassurance as people tried to pluck her from my arms.

 













inside the hut, mike, rose and i sat on the guest of honor cowhide with a full audience of eager listeners outside the door.  the village elders and the translator sat on stools and the grand mother sat beside me on the floor.  they all began to speak.  it was surreal.

i had a moment. 
this is your life i thought, one of the good parts. soak it in. BE in it.  don't freak. don't cry.  live this national geographic moment. smell the cowhide you're sitting on, feel the rough walls of mud, look at the light coming from the edge of the thatching. hear the sounds of this slurry foreign language. don't let it go. remain open. choose this. this is what is being brought to you. 


in the hour we sat in that hut, that home that was so removed from cars seats and plumbing and nickelodeon and juice boxes and books, i felt the world grow small.  i thought of all the missionary films i'd seen, the national geographic pictures i'd studied, the things i'd read in college on culture- and it all seemed funny.  yes i could see the differences- more in how we think than how we live- but i could also see the similarities in how we feel, and love, and remember. and i wondered what was best? i wondered if i'd ever know.  

we came hoping for resolution and a plan for rose and for our family.  we came with our western ideas of time and planning and preparedness and 'what if's' and possible scenarios.  we were met with a desire for relationship, with a lack of concern about the future, with a sense of 'be here now' because that is how life is lived.

was there a conclusion?
i think this is it.

for now. 
we are their very pale, far away clan members to whom they've entrusted their child.  it's the openest of all open adoptions.  we will bring her to our village- the one in mukono and the one in america, and we will bring her back to their village too.  she will continue to become a part of our family- and we will become a part of their tribe.  and over time and visits, trust will grow. we will wait and they will wait and we will be patient and build relationships and have faith and try to become a little more african in our thinking as hopefully they become a bit more western in theirs.  rose might never be an african american- but she will always, in someway be a muzungu- karamajong.

'yes rosie, we can go home.'

karamoja part 1 - (or really the never-ending story of zoe)

from my bathtub this morning, i could look out my window and see a branch of bright pink bougainvillea poking through a group of large green leaves. it seemed to be reaching to me, offering its perfectly bloomed arm as an example of the goodness.  i needed that.

i needed that because the trip to karamoja was so long and bumpy and more tiring than i realized.  i needed that because i came home to my life again, as if i wouldn't have, as if the people left at home would magically know that it was a lot of time in a car, on dirt roads that challenged the word 'road'. that they (being zoe) would know these things and act gently instead of aggressively- tread lightly instead of stamping- speak quietly instead of shouting.  but no, i came home to my life- which these days has some aggression, stamping and shouting.

i came home and instead of being filled with the emotion of what we'd seen and experienced and entered into, instead of processing the extremeness of that trip, i felt the same old crap i always feel- the pure exhaustion of the predictability of the inconsistency of our days.  i felt the dread of that ironic feeling of being stuck in 'ground hog' day- but the ground hog day being the unreliability of how zoe will feel and respond to life. of being trapped in the web of not being able to count on 'arriving'- of never sighing in relief, of never reaching a new plateau, of never reaching 'normal'.

here it was again.  our lives, all of our lives, revolving around her.  another post, revolving around her.  at a time when it really shouldn't be about her- it should be about rose.  it should be about the fusion of two cultures.  it should be anthropologic and sociologic and full of emotion and story and picture- (that will come but i had to say some things first).

soon after walking up, and making everyone breakfast, the crazy began because "why hadn't i shown zoe these pictures before?"  yes, the pictures that i had just downloaded off my camera the night before when she was asleep and didn't know we were home.  after losing my temper- trying to regain my calm, understanding, i'm sure this is so hard for you- voice, and after remember to beg God to please walk with me through this day- i knew i needed to begin that walk, up monkey hill- so i grabbed my sneakers and ran out the door.

it was cool and cloudy and beautiful outside.  i walked fast swinging my water bottle and told God that i was ready to listen but i got to go first because i'm younger- like in cards. i told him that this trip was hard, that no great conclusions had been reached and that i was pretty angry that zoe had such a hard time while we were gone.  angry mostly at Him- because he can take it.  angry because it would have been so nice to come home to her in a good day- and i knew that he could have arranged that. angry because i'm tired of her being the sun and the rest of us being planets that revolve around her at varying distances.   angry because all i wanted to do was shout at her that she's eating all our steaks and ruining everybodies lives- like napoleon dynamites uncle. angry that another thing has to be difficult- and complicated and so far away on such stinky roads. 

i was pretty sure he was getting the picture so i stopped talking.  i decided to listen.  because that is what you do in a relationship- or cards- you take turns.

patience, patience, patience- is what the sea teaches.  (it's what i want to teach you). Patience and faith.  One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach- waiting for a gift from the sea.

the situation with rose- it will not be decided quickly.  it will not be resolved in a meeting- it will take patience.
life with zoe requires, demands, screams for patience- it will not be 'resolved' - it will be lived with, grown through.  it will be seasoned with higher amplitude sorrows and joys- deeper valleys and higher mountains- but it will take patience- years and seconds of patience.

so yes, i get it.  i've figured it out- this is the lesson of my life.

keep asking me to walk with you

do i have a choice? i clearly can't do it alone.

i will give you what you need

okay- right- patience and faith.

pray the serenity prayer. 

'grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, the courage to change the things i can, and the wisdom to know the difference.'

but can i find serenity? really? can i accept this that i cannot change? this child with all her challenge? the never-endingness of it?
i thought it was strength i needed, but it's courage.  what can i change?  what should i change?
oh please, give me wisdom. please give me patience, and serentiy and courage and wisdom.  i was beginning to feel like all the characters in the wizard of oz lumped together.

i was almost up the hill when it began to make some sense.  maybe this is another opportunity to be still, in the unresolve of my life, to sit and ask (or beg) each morning, out of the brokenness of my pieces - for these things that life has demanded of me and that do not come naturally to me.  maybe the ambiguity with rose is another friendly reminder from above that my life will not be about simple answers, or quick fixes.  that my season of sprinting was short and sweet and is now over.  that we've moved on to the emotional iron man level.

in my heart, i heard the U2 song 40.

I waited patiently for the Lord
He inclined and heard my cry.
He brought me right out of the pit,
out of my miry clay.
I will sing a new song,
How long to sing this song?

wait patiently.
this is what is asked of me.
what are my options? 
not a lot.
i think i'll be singing it for a very long time- life times.

He set my feet upon a rock,
and made my footsteps heard.
Many will see,
Many will see and fear.
I will sing, sing a new song.
How long to sing this song? 

my feet were climbing up rock- i could hear my footsteps crunch the gravel.  i reached that beautiful view - mist covering the hills, the far off lake to the left,  and i sat breathing in the stillness of the cool morning.
breathing in acceptance. breathing out patience.  breathing in faith. breathing out courage. 
somewhere singing this old song of mine- about once again, trying to wait patiently.

time and light and rose

time and light and rosie on the porch playing.

these things amaze me. 

the light right now is so perfectly beautiful- everywhere i look it's slightly different. some parts ambient,  some direct and reflected, some parts patterned with light that has fallen through from above.  there are leaves illuminated, some transparent- some just deep green in the shadows.

time changes things.  things like light- and skin- and circumstances. 
she has been with us now for more than two months.  grown more than two inches. eaten more than two new green vegetables. she has embedded herself in our hearts and lives as we knew she would.

in two days we will take this time and the light of our day and this little girl, far up north to a village she's never seen, we've never seen- to meet with people who none of us know, who will make decisions about her time and her days.

what will the light look like up there?  what will time feel like? will it be frozen as i imagine and will the light be as alive as i think it will be? will the colors be bright? and the skin dark and the smiles white and the dirt dusty and the hills thirsty? and what of rose? our little light even in a short time. 

we will wait and see.  we will sit in these days and hours and try to be still.  we will watch this light become night and day again and night again and early in the dusky light of saturday we will go north in eager anticipation.

saturday morning with rose and a poem

BONE

 

1.

 

Understand, I am always trying to figure out

what the soul is,

and where hidden,

and what shape

and so, last week,

when I found on the beach

the ear bone

of a pilot whale that may have died

hundreds of years ago, I thought

maybe I was close

to discovering something

for the ear bone

2.

is the portion that lasts longest

in any of us, man or whale; shaped

like a squat spoon

with a pink scoop where

once, in the lively swimmer's head,

it joined its two sisters

in the house of hearing,

it was only

two inches long

and thought: the soul

might be like this

so hard, so necessary

3.

yet almost nothing.

Beside me

the gray sea

was opening and shutting its wave-doors,

unfolding over and over

its time-ridiculing roar;

I looked but I couldn't see anything

through its dark-knit glare;

yet don't we all know, the golden sand

is there at the bottom,

though our eyes have never seen it,

nor can our hands ever catch it

4.

lest we would sift it down

into fractions, and facts

certainties

and what the soul is, also

I believe I will never quite know.

Though I play at the edges of knowing,

truly I know

our part is not knowing,

but looking, and touching, and loving,

which is the way I walked on,

softly,

through the pale-pink morning light.

from Why I Wake Early (2004)

mary oliver

bring it!

i'm here with mike on the nile river.  it's a little cloudy and there is a breeze and we are taking tea and no one is asking for juice or to play legos, because we are having a kid free getaway before the crazy starts- or the extra crazy. 

on thursday we are picking up rose, assuming the court order to foster her goes through.

i have never adopted a child before, or fostered one, but i've birthed three and with each of them the last month of pregnancy was all about nesting.  i used to think it was hormonal, but now i think it's just maternal.  and it feels animal maternal- instinctual- unavoidable.  so for days i was nagging mike to rearrange the furniture in zoe's room to make room for rose.  i was washing and sweeping and buying toothbrushes and potties, because that is what you need when you bring home a three year old instead of a three day old. and i folded all the little clothes we've bought her from the second-hand store at the orphanage (where all proceeds go for the kids medical issues), and pulled out 'good night moon' and 'the run away bunny' and put them on a shelf that she could reach.  i'm. so. excited.

last friday when we went to visit, we took her over to the little store to pick out her clothes and she was a trooper.  zoe, jude and bryn were all flocking to her with various pieces to be tried on- ranging from sun hats to halloween costumes.  no fuss, no tears, she loved the attention. 

they are a little blurry, but you get the idea.

so this is our last hurrah for a while. before we begin getting up in the night, and buckling people into  car seats and trying to understand what someone wants when they don't yet speak english.  it's our night away before we go from three to four, from five to six. 

the room is almost ready, there are even little shoes, and i'm ready too.  i'm going to learn how to make millet porridge and cook red beans and carry a child on my back with out a baby bjorn.  and i'll probably have less time to write, but possibly more things to say. 

bring it!