The sun rises at 6am. The morning dew sticks to the freshly grown foliage, shivering gently in the wind. Multitudes of dung beetles emerge from their hideaways and the dragonflies dip and weave to each gust and zephyr.
Yesterday evening came with dark clouds and the night brought heavy rainfall. The morning air smells crisp and cool, and the ground reveals a dark, fertile clay. Every bare patch of land displays budding sprouts-- the germination of freshly sown fields. Days of labor, hand plowed fields or cow-drawn plows, begin to bear results.
Mounds of fresh cow dung, renewed once again in pungent odor by the rains, lay on the roads. The dung beetles cluster and climb upon these mounds of treasure, shaping pieces into balls and rolling them with their hind legs off the road. The dragonflies flit capriciously, dancing, weaving and making love mid-air in the cool morning. Their translucent wings glimmer for moments with a spectrum of color, and they once again speed away, in search of a more playful breeze.
As the sun awakens and casts it's piercing heat upon the village, the dirt road bustles with life-- herds of cattle wander aimlessly to graze, motorbike taxis carrying people to and fro, and cohorts of matching school children, walking and giggling and fighting together on their way to school. As many go about their day, none stop to notice the adamant dung beetles, furiously balling and rolling their dung from the roads. No school child stops to point at the frolicsome dragonflies, fluttering about.
In America, December brings with it falling leaves and winter chills. Christmas music blares on every radio station, and shops bustle with business. But it is springtime in Kenya; the time for white perfume flowers to bloom and shed from the trees, the time for weddings and animal slaughterings. Time for people to start falling in love.
The dragonflies are whimsical. They shift and move purposefully, then in moments they stop to hover as if struck by an epiphany. They are much more clever than their dung-beetle counterparts; never have they fallen victim to a child's playful swat or the squash of a windshield. The dragonflies are magical.
The dung beetles are foolish. They are drawn toward the fresh dung like Their blundering strides look like those of a man who happens upon a mountain of gold, who ambles slowly toward it in sheer delight. Many of these dung beetles fall victim to the bottom of road tires, heavy cow hooves, or rubber shoe soles. They will die for their dung.
The springtime renews my sense of hope and vigor. I marvel at the stupidity of the dung beetles, but at the same time I admire them for their determination; they so clearly know their goal and set out to attaining it at all costs. And all the while I grow jealous of the dragonflies, that the mates are so in tune to each other they can make love in mid-air, without missing a beat. I draw in a deep, refreshing breath and think how beautiful it must be to be so in tune with the one you love.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Just a Day
Live a day with me (December 07, 2010)--
It is 6pm, outside I know the sun is setting though today I do not see it. I am busy cutting onions and the potency stings my eyes. Light still creeps in through my open window, where just outside children's laughter can be heard between the pattering, bare-footed stamps against the concrete floor. Among them is Kimonge, the smallest, cutest child God has ever created. I often pick him up and swing him by his arms, and his reflexive smile and giddy laughter tickles me. Whenever he sees me, he comes up and pets my legs curiously (since leg hair is non-existent on Kenyan men or women), or climbs under my arms where I can give him a hug. I never refuse him. I cannot.
**Just this morning I met three new Europeans from Belgium who had come to help build houses at a women's group near me. Their process was slow going, and for the entire morning we sat and spoke of our cultural differences, and the similarities our cultures share from the differences to that of Kenya. I came for a stove-making conference which was to begin at 8:30am. It was now 12pm and the instructors had just arrived. **
**Inside a nearby house, the conference was underway. I heard Swahili being spoken inside through the open windows as I neared, but the moment I entered the speaker switched to English. I took a seat in the back of the room and listened for awhile. The speaker spoke slowly so the masons could understand his English. The facades are out in full force, but by now I expect them.**
The sun casts its final, purple rays and loses its daily battle to the darkness. I draw my curtains and flip on my light. Onions are simmering in vegetable oil, and the deep green kale pops as I add it upon the skillet. The children outside have stopped playing. The older ones are washing dishes, preparing for their late supper.
**The conference lasted just two hours, and after I pedaled the 5 kilometers back home. Along the way, I noticed strong, green shoots of maize growing firm in the ground, so I dismounted and took a few pictures. The soil is red and strong, and provides food and security to these people. This season will show a good harvest, and the people will praise the name of God for the rains.**
**Just 100 meters down the road from my house lives a youth that I have recently befriended. He is the only one in the area with a computer, and we have been sharing media back and forth. His sister is beautiful and well spoken in three languages, and I enjoy spending time with them both. Today I came to say a few greetings to him. His beautiful sister is, in all honesty, a strong motivation for my frequent visits as well. I'm hoping my infatuation with her dies quickly.**
The fried vegetables sizzle even after I extinguish the heat from beneath the pan. Today I am sharing supper and company with my lonely neighbor who is housekeeping for a family that went on vacation. I brought my vegetables; she cooked rice and beans and we spoke together in Swahili. In the silence of our conversation, we could hear the screams of the neighboring children. Their father has come home drunk again, and has begun to beat them. I recognize each child's distinctive scream and my helplessness pulls strongly at my heart. My thoughts settle on Kimonge, the helpless small child who owns a piece of my heart. I hold back tears of anger out of respect for my companion, and excuse myself from her much-enjoyed company.
I cooked maize porridge for the absent neighbor's dogs: a mother and a puppy. I pensively stroke the baby puppy and in the cool darkness offer a prayer to God for the family who must needlessly suffer; the most sincere prayer I have had for quite some time.
My thoughts race as I begin to reflect upon today and transfer my thoughts into my computer. What conclusions can be reached, or what lessons learned? My body longs for sleep yet my mind remains disturbed. My life isn't so bad. I pause and watch a small lizard crawl across my wall. My life will never be so bad. Soft rain falls upon my tin roof, and abruptly stops.
It is 6pm, outside I know the sun is setting though today I do not see it. I am busy cutting onions and the potency stings my eyes. Light still creeps in through my open window, where just outside children's laughter can be heard between the pattering, bare-footed stamps against the concrete floor. Among them is Kimonge, the smallest, cutest child God has ever created. I often pick him up and swing him by his arms, and his reflexive smile and giddy laughter tickles me. Whenever he sees me, he comes up and pets my legs curiously (since leg hair is non-existent on Kenyan men or women), or climbs under my arms where I can give him a hug. I never refuse him. I cannot.
**Just this morning I met three new Europeans from Belgium who had come to help build houses at a women's group near me. Their process was slow going, and for the entire morning we sat and spoke of our cultural differences, and the similarities our cultures share from the differences to that of Kenya. I came for a stove-making conference which was to begin at 8:30am. It was now 12pm and the instructors had just arrived. **
**Inside a nearby house, the conference was underway. I heard Swahili being spoken inside through the open windows as I neared, but the moment I entered the speaker switched to English. I took a seat in the back of the room and listened for awhile. The speaker spoke slowly so the masons could understand his English. The facades are out in full force, but by now I expect them.**
The sun casts its final, purple rays and loses its daily battle to the darkness. I draw my curtains and flip on my light. Onions are simmering in vegetable oil, and the deep green kale pops as I add it upon the skillet. The children outside have stopped playing. The older ones are washing dishes, preparing for their late supper.
**The conference lasted just two hours, and after I pedaled the 5 kilometers back home. Along the way, I noticed strong, green shoots of maize growing firm in the ground, so I dismounted and took a few pictures. The soil is red and strong, and provides food and security to these people. This season will show a good harvest, and the people will praise the name of God for the rains.**
**Just 100 meters down the road from my house lives a youth that I have recently befriended. He is the only one in the area with a computer, and we have been sharing media back and forth. His sister is beautiful and well spoken in three languages, and I enjoy spending time with them both. Today I came to say a few greetings to him. His beautiful sister is, in all honesty, a strong motivation for my frequent visits as well. I'm hoping my infatuation with her dies quickly.**
The fried vegetables sizzle even after I extinguish the heat from beneath the pan. Today I am sharing supper and company with my lonely neighbor who is housekeeping for a family that went on vacation. I brought my vegetables; she cooked rice and beans and we spoke together in Swahili. In the silence of our conversation, we could hear the screams of the neighboring children. Their father has come home drunk again, and has begun to beat them. I recognize each child's distinctive scream and my helplessness pulls strongly at my heart. My thoughts settle on Kimonge, the helpless small child who owns a piece of my heart. I hold back tears of anger out of respect for my companion, and excuse myself from her much-enjoyed company.
I cooked maize porridge for the absent neighbor's dogs: a mother and a puppy. I pensively stroke the baby puppy and in the cool darkness offer a prayer to God for the family who must needlessly suffer; the most sincere prayer I have had for quite some time.
My thoughts race as I begin to reflect upon today and transfer my thoughts into my computer. What conclusions can be reached, or what lessons learned? My body longs for sleep yet my mind remains disturbed. My life isn't so bad. I pause and watch a small lizard crawl across my wall. My life will never be so bad. Soft rain falls upon my tin roof, and abruptly stops.
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