Heart-break

The world is a terrible place.

No. It's not the world--it's what's become of the world through the fall of man.

I have a close friend whose father passed away last night--suddenly and unexpectedly. Put simply his heart was broken and crushed under the pressures of this world.

Cardiac arrest is the technical term; or an infarction of the heart causing local death of the tissue.

Of course my heart goes out to my friend and her family, but strangely enough I've found my heart responding most intensely to this man and the condition of his heart that led to its destruction. What state does a heart have to be in in order to succumb to defeat?

We talk about heart-break, heart-ache, heart-sick, and we feel things in our hearts when someone is born, dies, hurts us or lifts us up. A movie can stir our hearts and a song can touch it. Someone can bring joy to it and someone else can crush it.

Medically speaking it's just an organ--a dense, muscular organ that pushes and pulls life giving blood through our body prompted by an electrical impulse. It started to form at conception and first began to primitively beat at 4 weeks gestation pushing immature red-blood cells through the body's immature and barely formed arteries and veins. It delivered oxygen from the mother via the umilical cord to the growing tissues and removed the left-over carbon dioxide back to the mother via the umbilical cord for her to exhale.

At birth it switches over from a fetal heart that bypasses the unused fetal lungs into an infants heart as the pressure from the air being sucked into the lungs closes off now-obsolete pathways. Our first breath initializes our first independant heart beats--seperate from our mother's as the cord is cut and the flow of life-giving oxygen is terminated from her end.

Then as we age our heart grows.
It builds up fatty-deposits and sometimes skips beats or beats irregularly.
It gets broken. It gets healed.

It's just an organ but it's so much more.
It can be broken beyond recognition. It can give up of its own will.

Cornered at every corner...

She checks the temperature of the filling bath with her foot while precariously straddling the tub. It's too hot so she turns the cold water faucet and attempts to 'stir' the mixing water with her submerged foot. Unsuccessful, she relents and creates a whirl-pool with her hands to mix the water subsequently making her book damp with soapy-wet finger prints.

Satisfied with the temperature she gets into the bath only long enough to feel the grimy-slime on the tub walls after the hot water has broken down the layers of dried-on shampoo and conditioner into an unpleasant film. Annoyed but uncaring she pauses as she remembers her last words to her roommate--I don't have my house keys. I'm going to borrow yours and I'll just leave the door unlocked for you--and realizes, of course, the door is locked. She debates: unlock the door now and maintain my integrity as a reliable roommate but suffer the disappointment of getting out of a bath prematurely, or wait for her to knock, risk annoying her and still suffer disappointment.

Sighing, she stands up, skims the bubbles off her arms and legs and steps onto the mat carefully navigating over her tall-boy of cider. In one swift movement like a starlet on the silver screen she pulls the towel from the rack and wraps herself in it. Her cider hits the floor with a dull, tinny thud and the sound of hissing bubbles is overcast by a frustrated 'shit.'

" In one swift movement...God I am such an idiot." From an imperceptible flow of ions hitting countless synapses a stream of self-deprecating thoughts plough through her brain. "The bathroom was just cleaned how could I be so careless it's on the mat and it's going to stink like beer who drinks cider in the tub I am such a romantic 'like a starlet on the silver screen' is a stupid alliteration I used up all the paper-towel don't just watch it spread across the floor use toilet-paper gees I am pathetic..."

Her thoughts towards unlocking the apartment door are forefront only after the spilt cider and slightly before romance. She shakes her head in self-loathing as she reflects on her last thoughts before the incident with the tall-boy and the towel. Somehow thoughts of romance never get old in the face of limitless reasons (and citations) to not count on it.

The cider is sopped up, the door unlocked in an uneventful moment that held so much promise for serendipity, and what remained of the cider was in hand as she finally broke the surface of the thinning bubbles for an evening soak.

Thomas Hardy was on the menu that night. Another book to add to an ever-growing list of books started and never finished--this, mostly due to an unsettling sexual nature of the book that robbed classics of their innocence with which she always had associated with 'classics'. Truth be told, sex has happened for a long time, but it was a dream to find a good book that wasn't between the sheets of lovers, husbands and wives or family members. Leave it to Canadian literature to fulfill one's literary quota of incest.

The words flowed...like the water from the faucet? No, smoother and more crafted than that. Enough to turn a filmy tub of luke-warm water and thinning bubbles into another world but not enough to smooth the troubled look on her face.
Nothing could distract her from her troubles today. And perhaps she wouldn't be so melancholy if only she could talk about it but no one was home. Perhaps she could lay her thoughts out on paper but then she'd only be telling herself what she already wondered.

Her one outlet that provided a forum for borderline verbal abandonment had been compromised thereby completing her trifecta of unavailable channels.

Now what, she thought.

Delicate trust and elusive patience.

Patience and trust.
Truth is very close to trust in mechanics, value and relationship.
It's hard to trust when you don't have the truth. It's such a vulnerable part of everyone too. It's can't be easily gained but can be easily lost. Essentially it's voluntarily handing your heart over to someone to handle as they see fit.

And patience. Wow. That's something I don't have time for. HA. I'm hilarious.
But really--who's the person in charge of teaching patience? Because I missed that lesson.

These days I've been having to revisit patience. Some people...most people are more patient than I am and that makes me anxious. It's important to have patience--you don't rush into things which can lead to regret, you're slower to anger, there are less misunderstandings because there's more time to understand. I am so wise.

And then trust. Trust is less learned and more built up or torn down by experience. And I think it's safe to say most of us have been torn down more often than we've been built up. Am I right?

So--what do you do? Do you start by giving someone 100% and only bad conduct can take away from their already perfect mark? Or do you start neutral and only trust once they've established their worthiness?

Janice! You're killing me here!

I don't know--do any of you out there have any ideas? I'm really stumped. I want to trust but I'm afraid. It's only bitten me in the ass in the past. (Ass in the past. Ass in the past.) Gun-shy. How typical of jaded 21st century single women, eh? But true.
Thoughts anyone?

WARNING: Mushy (like scrambled eggs and curry).

(Another barely-old post I forgot about! A thousand pardons!)

Anyway. Yesterday was a snow day for a few of us. A day for people to legitimately stay home and hang out without the guilt or burden of neglecting responsibilities or backing out of plans.

We had about 6-8 inches of snow fall through the night combined with rising temperatures equalled an impossible task of getting our cars out of plowed in parking spaces and up slick, icey-wet hills. Not to mention driving anywhere.

The night before yesterday, a few of us gathered for Gill's birthday and held an intimate dance party, which, I firmly believe is the way it should be. Dancing is pretty intimate...it's lame to have people who aren't into dancing at a dance party.

The snow had already started to fall by 10pm so my sister and three of her kids stayed at my place, while Laurie, Gill's cousin, stayed at Jenn's place. Dan was in town, so he crashed at Fosters. We thought nothing of it until the next morning.
With the joy of a school child looking out the window at an inevitable 'snow-day' so we all gathered around the window, amused and comforted by the cars unable to move and the general chaos.

My nieces climbed into bed and lay still only long enough for me to tuck that sweet moment away in my memory. After the girls molested me in my bed that I had shared with my sister we arose to make a plan.

When we saw a snow-truck get stuck the general consensus was to stay home from church. Left-overs from the party the night before were suddenly destined for that morning's communal breakfast--namely peppers, calbassa, salsa, and cheese.
Before long the Owensby's arrived at our door bearing random assortments of food and donning random assortments of dress and undress.

Shortly thereafter a modest yet glorious meal of scrambled curry-eggs, vegetables, bacon and toast was being served to an eager audience. I didn't finish my eggs so I let someone else finish them in true communion style.

Ryan paused at one point during the chaos and wished he could freeze the moment; family and friends gathering together, bring what little we had to share a meal together. What could be better? It's downright Biblical is what is it. And I'm Mary Magdalen. Ha! (She was the former-prostitute, right?)

Community makes me happy. How can you feel alone when you're surrounded by that?

I always regret not taking pictures of ordinary things.

...I didn't take this picture. Ha...

The internet is "public"?

This post goes out to Ken who's claimed he's only read one of my posts. But he's a dirty liar...or a gentleman and he was trying to be diplomatic when he lied.

I'm having to make clarifications too often. This isn't good. Perhaps I should just keep my mouth shut. That might be preferable. Perhaps if I refrain from publishing my thoughts online then I could save myself a lot of trouble and discomfort.

But I've come this far. So what the hell, eh?

Let's see--a little bit of drama this week.
I sent in my NARM application documents to APPLY to write my midwifery certification exam in the US in February. They extended the dead-line because I was having trouble getting some papers. I never thought the day would come then I would use the excuse 'there are typhoons in the Philippines and it's hard to travel between islands' to give myself more time to put together my APPLICATION to write an 8-hour exam.
They received my docs but things are missing, of course. Nothing in life is easy.

Today I finally caved and got winter tires. I really do notice a difference and am already a lot more confident driving. However, in my brain new winter tires translates into 'anything under me that touches the ground is now very grippy'. This isn't true. Yet I now walk and run down the icy streets with abandon thinking, it's ok! I have new winter-tires.

Um what else...I've had two photo gigs this week--which is a nice treat. And what I mean by that is it's immensely stressful. But people are starting to recognize my work here and there and I'm getting more and more requests. It's nice...and immensely stressful.
Here's a shot from this week:

Children are cute but rarely smile on command. It's annoying. Not the children---the way it makes me look as a photographer. Un-pro-fesh.

Ah...awkward.

I've been reviewing old posts.

What prompted it was realizing that my blog addy was posted on my facebook profile...which leads me to believe that people I don't particularly like can read this blog. And more importantly, people who don't especially know me that well are privy to my inner-most thoughts and dreams (which are published online. So...not so inner-most).

Anywho--I was reviewing old posts, and wow, why didn't anyone tell me I have an egg head? I mean, really. When my hair is long I have an egg head; pointy on top and rounder along the sides.
Well shit.

On that note I have officially entered old-age. I found a grey...gray...EYEBROW hair. Funnily enough I feel like I've earned that gra/ey hair. Actually it's more white.
I'm not plucking it because
1) 7 more might grow back in the SAME SPOT!
2) I'm proud of it
3) it's an oddity I like to pull out at parties

Well--for all of you out there who found your way to my blog and I either a) don't really know you that well or b) I don't really like you very much (and you KNOW who you are) please take this blog with a grain of salt. Be kind to me.
Sure I might not know you or even like you, but be gentle.

Love, actually is,

This is an old post I never posted--for some reason. It was from my time in the Philippines over the summer. Perhaps it was too sappy at the time. Perhaps I was too vulnerable and emotional at the time. Either way, here's one of my favourite unposted moments:

That's my little girl...
There is something so right. So contented. So...wonderful about that sentence. 'That's my little girl.'
I knew this was a baby I didn't need to pray a parents' blessing over. I knew that her parents weren't likely to pray over her like I would have, say the same words, etc., but I knew in my heart that this one was going to be ok.
This one would be loved, and cherished, most likely spoiled with candy and lose all baby teeth to subsequent rotting. But I noted a complete lack of urgency in myself to pray over her--like I had with most other babies. I felt in my heart that I could and should step back and let her parents do their job.
'That's my little girl' he told me like I didn't know. Only, it was more said to himself than to me.
That's another one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
Another moment was after the birth of a baby to a happy couple. The wife lay exhausted, happy, but exhausted on our archaic delivery table, complete with stirups, cleaned up, heavily padded, and ready to rest with her prize. She had lost a lot of blood, so we debated about how to move her from the table to her bed in the other room. But quick to her rescue, like a knight on a valiant steed (Donkey?!?), her husband swooped her up into his arms and carried her to her bed to recover as tenderly and excitedly as he might have carried her to their wedding bed. There they strained their backs to huddle over their new baby, cooing and giggling to eachother.
Love is everywhere.

Ageing is the correct spelling. Look it up in the big-print dictionary.

This post goes out to Mike who suggested I write on my blog than party alone. Good advice as always.

I'm not sure what's happening to me but I'm pretty sure it's what they call 'aging' or 'ageing'. Apparently once you get old you've earned the right to put an 'e' and an 'i' together.

My skin isn't as...fresh looking, my knuckles and elbows get stiff in the cold and if I cross my legs for too long my knee hurts. I often find dark circles under my eyes and find...other things that shouldn't be appearing where they are.
And lastly...I've failed th pencil test. See Oprah.com.

Then tonight I'm with a bunch of old friends I've known since I was 14. They're all married, married-with-children, or talking about marriage with their partners. And then there was me.
Sitting by myself all dolled up for...who? Whom? Maybe once I hit 25 I can incorrectly use 'who' and 'whom'.
I feel like a prude sitting next to some of the younger girls there. I mean, how tight can my dress get before it's gross?
And it's winter!

I don't know what age it was when I started caring that I wore gloves, a hat, scarf, proper winter jacket (zipped up) and boots that were lined with Insulate. But that's what I care about now. I don't like exposing skin in temperatures below 10C.
It frightens me to think that soon I'll be avoiding going out all together because it will interupt my early mornings when I do my hair and eat my muslix.

I am ageing. And it scares me.

I told a friend that my skin was wrinkling and they asked if it was on my butt. I said "You can get wrinkles on your butt? I didn't even look there!" I am seriously distressed about that.

Even though it goes against every principle I have I'm starting to get a little panicky about still being single. I mean, I need to find someone...quickly! Before things get really out of hand. Pardon the pun.

Twenty-five is in 5 months. I need some serious training to prepare for that. I feel like after 25 I need to be an adult. No more ripped jeans, no more striped gloves that go to my elbows, no more big sunglasses from the Village, no more squealing when a friend tells me about a boy....well, no more of that because almost everyone I know is married.

I'm afraid to believe that I won't meet someone soon and in 15 years I'll find myself saying to some special guy 'Oh man, you should have SEEN me when I was 24.'

Allowance of Loneliness

There is an undetermined age for the single person when lonliness is assumed by all and not disregarded as a sincere state of heart. That time tends to come earlier for men than women, because, as we all know, women are emotional creatures. In other words, we're usually lonely at all times.

"Oh poor Garry--he's just really lonely," is a comment known to excuse a misdemeanor or two. Men and women of known loneliness are generally justified in their socially awkward mentalities and general quirkiness which tends to exercise itself as being 'pervy' or a real 'creeper' for men and as a 'cougar' or 'bitch' for the women.

Sadly we don't often take the next step from 'Yeah. She's not really a bitch. She's just so lonely, ' to befriending said bitch.

In highschool I would try that tactic with teachers. The real jerks and bitch teachers were my personal game to win over to my friendship. It was less an act of love and more an act of personal challenge to get these cruel, unfeeling teachers to like me, nay, love me.
But like a cougar on the lose at happy-hour so I was with my prey once I got what I wanted. The kill isn't nearly as fun when your heart isn't even in the game.

Anyway--all that to say: I'm lonely but I'm only 24 so I don't feel like I have a right to it. I feel like I need to put in at least another 10 or 12 years before I can say 'I'm lonely' and actually receive sympathy, or not feel selfish for saying so.

My life is a full life. Free evenings are rare these days. Facebook has ignited a forest-fire of reunions and 'let's catch up over coffee! When are you free?' dates with old highschool and university friends.
Yet I feel, in my heart, unfulfilled.

Will more friends fill that gap? Unlikely.

Will less friends and more intimate existing friends be the answer? It's possible.

Is a boyfriend any sort of solution? It's always been a dream of mine... But when the "solution" seems non-existant at the moment what's the next step towards fulfillment?

Clearly I know the answer. But I'm reluctant to believe that a God, although flesh and blood too, is able to really fill that void. I mean, really fill it.
It doesn't matter when, or how, or why, or even who--sometimes you just need a hug. And sometimes there isn't anyone around to provide that contact. Then what? Is it truly possible that without a hug God can satisfy the need for...a hug?

If not for myself, then for others who clearly won't be getting a hug anytime soon, I hope that the above it true. That when you really need a hug God can provide that sensation without actually...touching.

Don't hate me because I'm introspective.

I've been thinking a lot lately about action versus our words.

Words have matter--is that right RB? Sounds can cause things to change shape. Sounds carry on forever.

How much more does action affect the world around us?
I believe the time for talking is over. It's time for action and movement.

This isn't a new concept (how many times have I said that over the course of this blog? Not enough times to think I'm unoriginal...apparently) but it's a NOW concept.

When do we get inspired the most? When we talk about things we want to do or when someone else starts to do the things we want to do? Sure it might be a bad motivator but jealousy can come in handy when we're talking about being jealous for our own dreams and purposes to come true.

So this is my personal challenge: to do.
It's funny because that's my heritage in a way. Check this out:

This is from the Winking Circle--a group I belonged to in highschool til today! We were all about getting off the couch and doing something. Anything. (Usually arts-related... )
Anyway. It's time for me, at least, to do what I was made to do.

What about you? What were you made to do?

Percocets at midnight after a movie and dancing=lethal.

Maybe it's the percocets talking, maybe it's really me for a change, but something in me has shifted. Something at my core, something foundational and instinctual has risen up and I'm unwilling to stop it. In fact I'm curious to see how it unfolds in the same way I like watching a car accident: in slow motion but too sudden to try and stop it; ashamed to be so fascinated yet not shameful enough to look away.

Maybe it's a combination of watching a movie about literary under-achievers slumming it out in N'arlins and the crispness of Fall that gives birth to new beginnings and dreams (and percocets too) that has stirred my soul again.

Maybe it's dancing so hard that I strained muscles in my back while I stomped to the beat with my head tossed back that's opened thess flood-gates.

Or maybe it's the freedom that comes with living under a budget. (Which for me really just means I have to return the boots I bought today).

But whatever it is...I like it.

It's the feeling I got in highschool with teachers who were passionate about their subject. Whatever Port Perry High School educators lacked in social graces and morals they made up for in passion. And nothing is more contageous to a student then a teacher in love with learning.

Maybe it's midnight turning me into a dancing literary warewolf of fine arts...

Maybe I'm just finally giving into myself.

Maybe I'm realizing everything I need is in front of me and everything I want to know about myself and my purpose and my future and my calling and my giftings are things I've known for a long time. Maybe I'm listening to the truth from my family and friends and my gut that says 'yes--you are an artist.'

Maybe I'm learning that God was first and foremost a creator. Why should he be ashamed if I am one too?

On that note RB and I highly highly recommend the following movie for your viewing pleasure. It's an all round entertaining flick about "invisible" people. If you're melancholic like me or just like Scarlet Johansens jugs (like me) then you'll like this movie.

Thanksgiving is supposed to be my favourite holiday...

Kinda tired.
Melancholic to be precise. I would have made an excellent protagonist for a novel by one of the Brontes. Does that make me more suited to marry a Heathcliffe type or less suited? I'd prefer more suited, but I think that's a recipe for romantic disaster.

Mmmmmm.....romantic disasters:
1 male
1 female
2 equal parts melancholic tendancies
2 parts drama
4 parts romance and passion
equal parts creativity and lack of discipline
a lot of good looks (optional)
and a pinch of legalism

Fold in each ingredient until well combined. Allow to stew for a few months. Then bake under intense pressure for a month or two until explosive.
Serves 2

Anyway--Thanksigivng was last weekend for all you Americanos out there. For the rest of us Canadites we will spend the rest of the week eating up leftovers of turkey, stuffing, gravy, pie and soups. It's almost the best part.

Sadly I didn't have the best Thanksgiving--which IS sad because most of you know it's my favourite holiday. The night I arrived in Port I was struck down with a flare-up of....whatever it is I have. I suppose 'crohn's' is the technical term but I maintain I've be misdiagnosed.

My mum and I debated spending the weekend in port while almost everyone else was in Perry Sound, but ended up heading North after lunch (with percocets in hand thanks to an uniterested doctor at emerg).
I love rainy weather too but didn't this weekend. Can you believe I actually packed my tanning oil? High hopes. High hopes.

Anywho! All this to say Thanksgiving is amazing but not when one's sick.

The night we returned from Perry Sound I made another 3am trip to emerg where I was treated to 4 failed IV attempts (it's like someone taking a thick, hallow needle and puncturing your skin here and there....wait....that's what it actually is) and eventually morphine, which, I confess is half the fun.

So now I'm home, behind on everything, anticipating on letting a lot of people down over the next weeks to months and wondering about the future...
I don't like big public announcements about my up and down health but it looks like it's the long haul, so I thought I'd put it out there. Kind of a preemptive notice.

At this time I am accepting any sympathy and attempts to 'lift' my spirits.

Oh but I also publically maintain that I am celebrating my future! It's going to be amazing.

Listen up!

We always knock beauty pagent floosies but I wanted to post this clip because it really spoke to me about a huge issue in North America, well, the world: education.
It's a super short clip so check it out--it will really inspire you. I promise.

When the body says 'what the hell is your problem?'

I've learned something interesting about myself this weekend.

I was asked to start working for family on Wed. and on Thursday I was in the office. But by Friday I called it quits. Yes, perhaps I am a bit of a quitter--just ask my ex's--but it was MORE than that. My body was saying for me what I couldn't say with my voice: I don't want to do this.

I'm in a very clear season of studying and preparing to take my midwifery exams in February. In fact, it's so clear to me that I'm supposed to be focused on my education that I've stepped down from a couple things I've been involved in and turned down offers to get involved in new things.

Yet when this job came along with it's nice hourly wage and perks I thought why shouldn't I take this job? It would be illogical to NOT take this job. I SHOULD take this job. My father would want me to--he would think it was the right thing.
But in my gut, what's left of it, I knew I didn't need to and shouldn't take this job because I had made a commitment to my education and nothing should distract me.

But I went into work--it was fun. I had a good time for a first day and things looked really promising until the next day when my body said 'no'.
That's a book by the way--a very highly recommended and fascinating book about stress and how the body will say 'no' for us when we don't have the courage to say it ourselves. Check it out--When the Body Says No by Gabor Mate.

Anyway. This is a cool discovery for me and I think it's interesting how the body is so intertwined with the conscience and heart that it will speak out on its behalf if necessary. I know this isn't a phenomenon just isolated to me--I know we all experience it in different ways. So I encourage you to check this book/link out.

On the note of health--I'm finally seeing a chiropractor for the three car accidents I've been in in ths last two years. Here I am at my first appointment. As you can see I'm really slimming down. However, the rapid weight loss really aged my skin.


Dr: So, what brings you here today?
Me: Uh a sore back and neck.
Dr: Alright, any idea what may have caused it? Any kind of stress or trauma?
Me: Uhhhh...I think it's from a car accident I was in.
Dr: Could be. Whip-lash?
Me: Well the first one was a rear-ending. The second a t-bone and the third was a motorcycle accident.
Dr: Have you seen someone about these....three accidents already?
Me: No.
Dr: But you've been in three car accidents?
Me: Yes.....I have issues with chiropractors. I'm afraid they're going to accidentally kill me.
Dr: Ah.

And here is a picture from a textbook from the chapter on correcting whip-lash. In this case the chiropractor attempted to crack the neck but clearly just killed the patient. Thus are the occupational hazards of chiropractors.
And lastly--as a little bit of history for you--Port Perry, my adolescent home town of horror, is home to the founder of Chiropractry, Mr. Palmer.
On a completely different note Port Perry is also home to the founders of S&M.

This is the scene I happed upon yesterday morning. Too cute. TOO cute that it's DISGUSTING.
No, I'm just making fun of 'too cute'. What does that mean anyway? Can something go from being cute to TOO cute and therefore hideous? I'm indifferent.
&
Last night I said goodbye to my Little Dancing Cheesecake, Naomi, along with her cousin Alison. We danced the night away at a seedy little bar in downtown Hamilton--Absinthe. Tacky, eh? But when the tunes are from Al Green, Blood Sweat & Tears and Stevie Wonder you really can't go wrong.

We danced the night away, literally and it wasn't until I crash in bed at 3:45am that I remembered that I had a doctor's appointment at 8:30am in Ancaster. Miraculously I got to Ancaster in time only to get very very lost for 45 minutes. Google done me wrong. Real wrong. In fact I wrote those rat bastards a letter.
Anywho--it's not 10:13am and I'm dying a slow death. But I can't sleep yet. An unemployed person's work is never done.

36 hr crash-parenting...

My brother and sinister-in-law (ha...just thought that up, but it's not true. She's great) have gone to Vegas for a few days and have entrusted the care of their 3 boys into my capable hands.

I'm so domestic.

Here are a few things I've learned:
1)being 2 minutes late to pick kids up from school is borderline child neglect for a 6 year old.

2)children ARE cuter when they're sleeping

3)no matter what you're having for dinner, you WILL be making different dinners for as many children as are eating. Ie. three boys= three different ways to make speghetti and meatballs.

4)on average it's impossible to escape to the bathroom for no more than 7-8 seconds before your absence is detected. Then the rest of your time in the bathroom WILL be spent watching and praying that the lock on the bathroom door handle won't give in under the weight of a 3 year-old hanging on it. And sure enough, upon exiting the bathroom minutes after repeating 'Just a sec....just one more second...' over and over again there WILL be items lined up at the threshold of the door--items such as dinky cars ("These, these, these, these, these....these are my favowits.") In the event of a meltdown (most likely) while you're in the bathroom sure enough there will be a child cowering against the door who inevitably forgets all woes once the door opens.

5)in the dead of night it's possible to be aware of a child in your room staring at you sleeping yet not actually wake up.

Those are just a few gems I've picked up in the last 36 hours. Who knows what's to come!

So, in the mission-field front, I am NOT going to South America for Christmas. Annnnd I think it's pretty unlikely I'll be going to South Africa for a month either. But, seeing I'm not the matriarchal figure in the family I'm stil trying to arrange a christmas get-away (from family) trip to Oregon. We'll see.

Thanksgiving is my favourite holiday anyway.

Goodbye Summer. You were a hot lover.

This is my farewell salut to summer---blueberries in hand.

I want to be napping right now, but I'm not. Naps on Sunday are mandatory for all childless people, as far as I'm concerned.

I don't really have much to say--I just felt obligated to write.
At the moment I'm suffering from eating-too-much pains---consisting of Jalapeno Doritos, pizza and iced tea. Needless to say I feel pretty hot.

An opportunity to go to South Africa has come up. Through my traveling-buddy Ames I've been offered to apply for a position as a medical person (whoa...) on a month long mission trip to work with AIDS orphans and vulnerables. Sounds pretty good. That, however, would mean I couldn't go on my trip to South America over Christmas.
Sigh.
Well, TECHNICALLY I could go to both, but that's just asking for trouble.

Right now it's raining outside mixed with bursts of semi-tempid air. I'm reluctant to see summer go. I only got a month of it, remember. Gerrit told me winter was coming no matter what so I'd better deal with it. His words struck my core like a snowball hitting a frozen flag-pole. Yup. That's my analogy.
He's right of course. But there's nothing more satisfying than running out the door in flipflops and a sundress. There's no need for coats, and boots, and gloves in summer. No extra bulk. Just...freedom.
This post sucks.
I'm going to have a nap and hopefully the Lord will impart something radical that I can add to this post later.

As dots on a trendy dress--these are the days of my life...

Hello my little gnag...ha! gang of phantom bloggers--I know who you are.
You are my blog-gnags.

Today's post is...gag me...deep and reflective. A little evangelical prose mixed with some good ol' cynicism and doubt.
My issue is with ... whoa. Wouldn't you believe it: I've forgotten. The Lord spake and proclaimed I shant speak against the evangelical church nigh again so he smote my short-term memory and it is still that way to this day.

No really--I sat down very purposed to write and it's just gone. I can't even tell you what it was about. Perhaps if I go back to where I was and what I was doing when I thought of it...so, I should lay back down on the carpet spread eagle and start crying while examining the crappy plaster-job on my ceiling. Ah yes. That's the ticket.

I guess I'm just confused. I feel like there's this 'key'; this particular phrase, sentense, prayer, thought, action, prophecy, PROPHET, or license plate that will make it all make sense. Something that will click in my head, heart and soul. Something other-wordly that will strike me when I'm least expecting it and despite it's simplicity will connect all the dots. You know?

Which dots? Friends, the giftings, interests, hobbies, skills, knowledge etc that I have gleened over the years is as numerous as the dots on a trendy polka-dot sun dress from last season. The dots, albeit 'cute', have no real purpose--they're just dots. They don't express anything; they don't convey an image or message; they don't work--they're just dots. Until they're connected.

And that's what my 'key' is--it's the sentense, or prayer or dream that will give me the insight into how the dots connect. But this 'key' is the most elusive, cryptic, complicated thing I've ever searched for--just when I think I have it, I realize I've been deceived. But that's the truth--isn't it? That there isn't a mystical 'key' that we just need to seek out and obtain or recite--God doesn't play games like that, (yes, He does).

No he doesn't.

(Oh, silly Claire, I can assure you he most certainly does.)

But that's not the God I want to know.

(Don't be so naive. It's the God you've chosen and you know it. You're just going to have to keep striving to get that key--until you figure out the magic words that heal you and forgive you and redeem you and give you purpose and destiny that get you a husband and a sense of wholeness. Good luck though. )

The instantaneous internal debate is unsatiable. I fight between defending God to MYSELF and doubting his character TO myself. I am my soul's own devil's advocate and it's exhausting.

Can I get a 'whoop whoop' if you're picking up what I'm putting down here?

I don't want to run through the 'hoops' anymore. I'm tired of the disciplines my other-half calls 'games'--like fasting and intercession. I want to understand these things so that they're not games--they're either a way of life or just a bunch of crap that never interests me.

I feel like I'm in highschool again and I have my main courses of interest but now I need to fill up my electives--should I choose prophecy and worship after 2nd period, or should I take a spare after lunch and end the day with a tongues class? But then that prophecy class is a real bird class, so I could potentially bullshit my way through it and it will help my average.

What exactly AM I intersted in? How exactly do I pull all this together into something cohesive and fluid? Show me how to connect the dots. What's important and what can go? What's the TRUTH and what's the lie?

Oh, look at me--little shit-disturbing Clairice. Just give me a 'whoop whoop' if you can relate at all.

The long days of summer are fading...

Oh--that's a sad title. I'm sorry.

Yesterday a bunch of us moved my sister Catherine and her family to Niagara On The Lake--a posh little village nestled in the heart of wine country. It's a dramatic change from East Hamilton (come on guys--admit it. You were essentially living in East Hamilton).

As the story goes--my brother-in-law Chris was at the new place in Nottle painting the rooms when a neighbour came by to 'get the painter's business card'. She needed her place painted too and assumed Chris was the painter. Sigh. This is what it's come to.
(saying goodbye to the hardwood floors in the Hamilton house...)

Hell must have indeed frozen over after Chris and the family moved THEMSELVES into their new home yesterday. I can just imagine the outcry the rose from the village.

But the place looks great--we're happy for them. Just sad they're almost an hour away now. Despite our best intentions I know we won't be able to visit as often as we'd like. Thus is life. Unpredictable and often upsetting.

The night before moving I attended a film festival in Toronto. No, not THE film festival, but the Bicycle Film Festival. I...just keep making myself weirder and weirder. I am aware.
But this festival was hosted by my old cohort of friends The Winking Circle. IN FACT, I'm actually IN one of the film fest movies---so how could I not make an appearance? I couldn't disappoint my fans. Clearly.
This is Ruthi and I at the festival:

I successfully ran into two sort-of-exes during my short stay in Toronto. I was batting 100 when I thought I saw a third, subsequently had to grab onto Ruthi for physical support, then, as the blood did not completely drain from my head to my vital organs (such as my breaking heart) I realized, it wasn't who I thought it was.

To me, Toronto is this...frightening city of ghosts. I don't like it one bit. Around every corner, on every street-car, over my shoulder riding by on a bike named Sarah, at every turn I am this close to facing my personal torture: broken relationships that I wish weren't. Weren't broken, that is.

Unrequited love, romantic and platonic, isn't the melodramatic prose I was hoping for.

I don't have time to eat well but I have time to blog.

Yikes! It's almost been two weeks since I posted last! Remember the days when I posted daily? Almost too often? Those days are gone, my friends, for now.

Today I have a hilarious audio clip for you courtesy of my brother in law, Chris Jones via his blog buddie Kevin. Yup, not Chris. Just Chris Jones. Check this out--if you don't choke, cry or suffocate laughing I will likely do nothing except be very disappointed (and isn't that the worst? Disappointing someone?)

What do I have to say today...hmmm let's see...I feel like there was something really important (aside from the links above...)
Well, here's a funny picture I took at my sister's last night of me, Catherine, Jenn, my niece Anna and nephew Caleb. This is our horrified face. Classic really.

On that note, Chris and Catherine are moving to Niagara on the Lake, also known as NOTL, or Nottle. This is a sad thing. However last night Catherine told me they're not changing churches! Which means I'll still see them all at least once a week. I mean, come on! How could you stay away from a face like this:


Last weekend I was at a family reunion and this was a highlight:


I was dreading the reunion but it went well as only half the family showed up allowing the rest of us to actually talk and laugh with those there. It was nice.

Well I suppose I should stop rambling and actually get some work done. There is no lack of it.
In parting, here is a verse I read in the Message (2 Sam 21) this AM that sums me up...at least sums up what I want:

God made my life complete
when I placed all the pieces before him.
When I cleaned up my act,
he gave me a fresh start.
Indeed, I've kept alert to God's ways;
I haven't taken God for granted.
Every day I review the ways he works,
I try not to miss a trick.
I feel put back together,
and I'm watching my step.
God rewrote the text of my life
when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes.

Mickey Mouse boob hats and disecting purpose from chance.

(Sorry no spell check today...won't work. A thousand pardons.)

Today was an ordinary day.

I drove home from Port after visiting with my Mum, who's just returned from the Philippines, avoided traffic at all costs, sped, bought Timmy's--the usual.
When I got home I unpacked from my long weekend in Perry Sound.
Checked my email. Returned a couple. Deleted more.
Had a dental appointment at 2pm. The hygienist I had was probably the worst I've ever had.

She was chatty.
Can someone please explain to me HOW I'm supposed to talk when I'm being 'hygiened'?

Anyway. It was almost laughable how this woman was able to pin-point and address every single f-ing sensitive area in my mouth and life.
So, are you on vacation?
No. I'm not working right now.
Oh........
Oh, you sure are crowded in front, eh? Does it bother you?
No. (Does it bother you?)
Have you concidered seeing an orthodontist? (jab, jab into my gums)
No.
.......
Well, if you do need that root canal then your insurance won't cover it. You're on disability?
Yes.
Oh...back problems?
No......I have Crohn's disease.
Oh really? Wow. Are you on medication for that? (Gags me with that sucky air-tube thing)
No.
No? Why not? You manage flare-ups yourself? (Scratch, scratch of metal against plaqued teeth)
Yes. I don't like medications.
No? They have a lot of bad side-effects?
(Nod. Refusing to speak.)
Well, we're all finished up. You're sure you don't want me to book an appointment with an orthondontist for you?
Yes. (But if it makes you feel less queasy I'll stop baring my horrid teeth to you.)

And WHILE this is all happening, Chesty McGee, is mashing her boobs into my head while she probed my mouth. It was like I was wearing a Mickey mouse hat from Disney World. I'm not against breasts, per se, I just have an issue when strangers' nipples are millimeters away from my nose and mouth. Call me crazy. I was just waiting for her to say something like 'So, do you have a boyfriend?' or even better 'Have you considered joining the gym around the corner? I noticed you're fat.'

Then it was raining. Traffic was bad.

Seeking purpose in license plates is loosing it's charm.

Rejoining society has proven much more difficult than anticipated. It's nice to have my Mum home so at least I have someone who can and wants to talk endlessly about the Philippines and babies. I feel like I have this volcano of experiences, and relationships, and thoughts, and prayers and questions that's just simmering away. Soon it will turn into volcanic rock and that will be that.

All those experiences, relationships, thoughts, prayers and questions petrified by time and pressure.

The awkwardness of home...I'm never satsified.

Well I've been home for a few days now and getting back into the 'groove' is proving to be increasingly difficult.
I hate this period of adjustment. The ease between friends is missing; any sort of routine is gone; there's this heavy feeling of impending reunions at every turn--which, let me clarify, isn't a bad thing, I just feel a little anxious when I'm seeing friends again for the first time.

Take this morning for example--I have tried a few angles trying to get my roommate to stay home from church with me. Alas, she's not a pagan like me...or at least, like I wish to be this morning. But then I wonder--do pagans have places to go on Sundays? Anti-church services? Maybe they feel the same way--trying to convince their friends "Hey, come on, stay home from anti-church. We'll be Godly together! HAhHahahahaha..."

Fortunately, but mysteriously, I never suffer from reverse culture-shock--so that's a blessing. In fact I ease back into driving my car, eating out and shopping a little too smoothly. Heck--when is spending money NOT done smoothly?

Well--I guess I should go. I'm just putting off the inevitable...church.

Here's some visual stim. for you all--I know it's been a while since I tried being creative. This is my Dad and sister while I visited them in Port this week:


Oh--and in honour and rembrance of the guy who has never and "will never" read this blog, yet who is mentioned quite a bit lately; the same guy who did NOT say goodbye to me when I left Malawi and the guy who I kinda miss...(don't get any ideas everyone)...this is James in all his Glory:

No jetlag, but recovering from dancing...

Well, I'm home. At my parents' home to be more specific (minus my mother who's still in the Philippines, sweatin' it out).

The 36+ hours I spent on PLANES alone, NOT INCLUDING time in airports, was exhastuing, but I managed to carry all my stuff out on my back (weird...backpack ON my back) and was met by Catherine and my Dad.

I'm not feeling jet-lagged in the least, and I'm already unpacked and in Port Perry ready to visit some people, do laundry and suntan because I'm ashamed of my white skin after being in Africa and the Philippines, for Pete's sake.

Oh, and my time in Jo-burg was....very very fun. We went dancing. Old-school dancing to modern dance music. It was hilarious and so much fun. There's something strangely attractive about a man who can dance well and spin a girl. Spinning is fun, but I hurt my neck. Because I'm a senior citizen.

So, if anyone reading this is in Port and wants to hang out then call me at my parents' place. I'll be here for another day and then I'm going up to my brother's cottage. Oh, and I'll be in Uxbridge today--so...be in touch!

Lastly, everyone should know how amazing my Mum is. She's been toughing it out in a birthing clinic for a month in extreme heat and stress. And, (she's going to kill me) she's in her 60s. She's pretty cool.
She only has less than 2 weeks left of her time there---but if you think of it pray for her that her last days there are good ones.

Headin' Home Baby

Well, I leave Emmanuel International Malawi in about an hour. And I can't say I'm not very excited.
I would be quite sad to leave if I wasn't going to be seeing most of these people again soon--but since most of them live in Uxbridge then I simple 'See ya' will do when I leave today.

I'm not big on good-byes. Some of you may have noticed that. (!)

Anyway--some of you know (oh, did I already blog about this?) that I have a 24hr layover in Johannesburg, and I have just heard one too many horror stories about that place that I was seriously considering NOT leaving the airport.

Well, by the grace of God, not only do I have people (that I don't know, but know through friends) picking me up tonight in J-burg but I also have a date! I use the word 'date' loosely.

Anyway--I had a shower, picked out my clothes and shaved my legs, sooooo if it looks like a date and smells like a date, then I suppose it is.
So, we'll see how things go. I've done long-distance and was not a fan, I can't see how dating someone in South Africa is a good idea.

RB just drove my car back from her parents' place to our place--and it's gotten me quite excited. I just don't know what I'm going to do with my joy when I can actually be in a car with a stereo...and seat belts!
I might just have to drive along going 'EEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!'

Alright, that's it, I'm going to eat some breakfast before I have to head to the airport.
See you all on the flip-side! (Was that gay of me to say that?)

Death by Baboons?! CONCLUSION

Ah...where were we?

Right--night was falling quickly due to gathering rain-clouds, yet rain falling wasn't likely, thank God.
I had received only one badly connected phone call from Tim; a disconcerting phone call.
About 2.5hrs into my baboon sit-in, between hot, panicky tears, and swearing, I prayed that God would do the miraculous--that I would not only not see another baboon, but more importantly, I would not even HEAR another baboon. In particular, I asked that God would keep the big guy away from me--his snorting and heavy stalker-breathing was just getting to be too much.

And in God's fashion he spared me. From the moment I prayed I never did see or hear another baboon noise.
But then my mind was occupied with night fall (within the next 2 hours and I was over an hour away from the car) and the undeniable truth that the others were lost and most likely NOT coming back my way.
After another panicky attack, some intense head-buried pray, and some idol threats, glorious glory the cell phone vibrated in my shirt...which was also terrifying considering every sense in my body was on high alert. Sure enough it was Tim.
"Where are you?"
"Right where you left me." I said.
"You didn't get my text?"
"No. Nothing. Where are you?"
"Uh, well, we're not so good." (Not so good? In Tim's language that's 'things are bad'.) "We haven't found the fort. Head back to the car and we'll meet you there in a bit."
(GAH.) "Ok. See you soon!" (Dying inside.)

Already packed and prepared to take off at a moment's notice I sling my backpack on, slide off my boulder and hit the ground running. I don't give a crap if I see baboons anymore. I felt like that guy from X-men 3; the unstoppable helmet-head guy. Once I got some momentum going I would just bowl through anything obstructing my way. There would be baboons flying right and left as I charged through them.
I was unstoppable. I had a helmet-head, so to speak.
Juggernaught! (Thanks Jes!)

This time the journey down was nice--I actually stopped to take a few pictures. Believe it or not I didn't take a single picture while I was on my boulder. I didn't feel like it was the right time to take self-portraits, nor avant-garde landscape shots. For some reason I just wasn't in the mood.

However, it wasn't long before the long grass started to rustle again. Only this time it was snakes. I don't know how many snakes I saw. The most interesting one actually flew. He was so scared when I pounded past him that he got air when he darted away. Turns out it was just an African version of our garter snake.
But, heck! I was on a damn safari!

Once I lost my tatenji, a traditional wrap/skirt that I had to wear at all times (90% Muslim population in Zomba), so had to backtrack about 10 minutes.
Made a toilet pit stop--uneventful but satisfying.
Then got lost for about, oooohh, maybe 30 minutes while I was trying to find the trail we took in. Unsuccessful.
So, because I took a wrong turn somewhere I ended up having to cross the river at a different spot; of course a wider spot with faster moving water and less rocks to jump on.
I wish someone had videotaped it. The internal anguish I was suffering through and the external problem solving my body was navigating through must have been hilarious as I studied the rocks available to use, then reconsidering, then wandering back up the path to see if I could go another way, then back to the river, then attempting a leap, psyching myself out, repeatedly hiking my tatenji up while muttering to myself "I have to do this. I have no choice. I just have to do this."

Maybe one day God can show me a play-back of that day. Just the river part.

Finally after making the leap of faith onto the first rock, COMPLETELY unsure if the rock was stable or WHAT, then zigzagging my way to the other side I made it to the other side, unscathed, and rather proud.

Maybe 20 minutes later I had no choice but to take the path I had chosen into a small village--mud walls, thatched roofs, naked children, the whole 9 yards really. With my pathetic Chichewa (Zomba language) and Chiow (Yao/Namwera language) (I'm so sorry to all you Malawians and missionaries for butchering your language SO much now in type and in person...) I somehow managed to find out where Namwera was, as well as the road that we originally took in. Of course I had a small following of, oh, 40 to 50 children running and screaming behind me.
"AZUNGU!!!!!!!!"
I managed to not majorly offend anyone--I think--which is just as important as finding my way back to the car in one piece.

So, exhausted, red-faced and sweaty I made it back to the car to wait for Naomi to pick me up. She arrived not too soon after and in my typical style I pretended to not be a mess. I was this close to a complete breakdown when she hugged me, and perhaps it would have been fine to, but at the moment I was more concerned about Tim who still hadn't returned.

A search party was sent out around dusk, and by the grace of God they were brought back home about 30 minutes later. They looked tired and hungry but ok. Tim's armed were literally shreaded from the brush and undergrowth they had to bushwack through, and the next day they complained of few sore muscles. They had hiked non-stop for 7 hours. So I shut my mouth about the bruise on my butt from falling off that boulder.

In so many ways it was a blessing I was left behind. Otherwise they would have had to carry me out of there. And I have this cool tale to tell for many many years to many people.

So, that's my story.

That night I couldn't fall asleep because I kept reliving he experience and I SWEAR I heard that heavy stalker-breathing in my room during the night. And I've heard SO MANY terrifying accounts of people lost in the bush, baboons attacking, wildlife, etc etc....but I'll save that for next time.

Death by Baboons?! PART TWO

The next two and half hours are a blur.

Now, I know what you're thinking, because I just reread my last post: Claire, take it easy. They're monkeys.
And yes, I can understand why you'd say this.

But imagine with me for a moment that you are on a mountain-side in Africa. Alone. A female like me (not especially adventurous OR experienced with wildlife). Separated from your group and surrounded by ferocious sounding animals. Not certain your group is coming back any time soon and starting to wonder if they're lost.
Yeah. Ok. Moderately scary.
Now add a VERY vivid imagination and romantic sensibilities (ie dying battling a baboon in Africa...romantic in the novel/literature kind of way).
(Here I am looking 'romantic').
Here is an excerpt from James' journal (he said I could write in it...) BEFORE the lion:
"Here I am, sitting on the side of a mountain--overlooking rural Malawi being harassed by giant blackflies and haunted by very scary-sounding baboons. Now, I don't know much about baboons per se, or monkeys in general, but I seem to have this deep seeded (seated?) fear of them. I believe it has something to do with the baboons from Disney's Tarzan...at the time the baboons chasing Janes was one of my favourite scenes. But now all I can think about it how ferocious they were and how much I wish Tarzan was real.
But the Lord keeps reminding me who He is "His thoughts for me are all good." That's so comforting to me when I'm sitting here imagining all the ways I could be killed by angry baboons."


So, as I'm sure you've all guessed, it wasn't a lion I was hearing, it was a big daddy baboon. And he wasn't mauling a human baby...just a baboon teenager. Still. Blood-curdling.
Right, so we left off as the lion/baboon was crashing through the tall grass towards me...

With knife drawn in my right hand, and mace ready in the left I was prepared for all possible scenarios:

a) in a blind-fury the baboon comes right at me so I stab with the knife and spray him with the pepper spray
b) pepper spray is clogged (and expired...eck!) so I stab him repeatedly in the face and blow the whistle attached to the pepper spray in hopes I wound and disorient him enough to escape
c) if he doesn't charge at me then I have the cell phone Mtulo gave me, the knife, mace and whistle packed on my person (don't tell Mtulo I tucked the phone in my bra so it wouldn't fall out of my pocket if I had to run) in case I had to make a run for it.
d) if he seems a more curious than aggressive, blow the whistle and see how easily he startles--then move onto standing up and yelling, then to throwing things.

Fortunately, by the grace of God, (who I was intermittently threatening, praying to, crying to, begging and swearing at) the daddy baboon never showed his face...although I heard him enough to know he was VERY close and checking me out.
I thought about it from his point of view--I was in his territory, hanging out under his fruit tree (poor choice of seating local on my part), and I, as far as he was concerned, was just another type of primate. IE: a threat.

Then I thought harder as to why I had this deep-seeded fear of baboons; nature shows. BAH! Why did I watch those so much as a child?!?!? An instinctual fear of baboons was about the same as an instinctual fear of hippos; creatures who are portrayed as cute little animals on children's shows, but who are, in fact, highly aggressive, dangerous creatures.

It's about this time I start to wonder what the F I'm doing alone in the mountains in Africa.

Time ticked away--the fear of baboons attacking is replaced with a fear I've been left behind.
Another expert from James' journal:
"I've now been here for 3 hours...and the fear I had for myself and the baboons has now turned into fear you're all lost or injured somewhere and I'll have to get out of here alone.
James, it is now your job to make sure I never go on another hike with you--ever."

Oh, you can't imagine the range of emotions I was feeling. Top of the list was fear. After that:
-anger
-helplessness
-sudden bursts of random wild-life knowledge
-aggression
-thankfulness
-abandonment
-hopelessness
-desperation
-flight and fight
-denial
-panic

Now, remember WHO we're talking about here: me. I know everyone wouldn't respond this way. So, take this with a grain of salt.

Sometime around the time the lion/baboon started stalking me I started trying to reach Tim via the cellphone. (Click on Tim's name to read his version of the day...) No luck. Bad reception. I must have tried a dozen times. Finally he called me. The reception was poor and I couldn't make sense of what he was saying.
"Claire...you...and we're....text?" Then the connection died.
There was no time for me to say "TIM! I'm surrounded by baboons who want my flesh! WHERE ARE YOU? and when are you coming back!??!"
Wondering if he had wanted me to text him I did so...pretending to be calm I wrote 'Hey, where are you'. Half an hour later, after I hadn't heard back I wrote 'Hey, where are you monkeys here freaky'.
Still no response.

Pseudo-rain clouds start to pile overhead and the crickets start to creak. Night is falling.

TO BE CONTINUED......Bwahahhahaha.....

The Love of a Good Chip

Just to keep you all on your toes--here's a good anecdote from a moment ago that a lot of you will understand:

I've mentioned to James a couple times now my immense love and respect for the potato chip. Sadly, in Malawi, chips aren't very common. I'm ok with that...but today mentioned to James I would DIE for some chips today.
He made some smart-ass comment about chips being called crisps here etc. Anyway, that was the end of it.

Then this evening I randomly had a craving for this pineapple drink, Sobo, and as I went for it in the cupboard the shimmer of a chip bag caught my eye. I turned to Tim "How long have these been here...?"
Tim smiled and didn't really know what to say. James sighed and said they were supposed to be a surprise.
Aw.
I laughed at myself for finding the chips less than 5 minutes after the entered the house and James corrected me 'More like 5 seconds.'
"Yeah, it was like you have radar, or something." Tim said.

Minutes later James found me pacing in the living room, clapping my hands.
"What?" He asked me.
Shamefully but full of glee I told him I'd just been thinking about the chips.

Ah. I can't help who I am.

Death by baboon?! PART ONE

Today was a day that deserves words like 'harrowing', 'traumatizing', 'frightening', etc...

It started out just like any day...(prepare yourselves for a LONG but craaaazy story)
Tim, James and I planned on hiking to an old fort, Mang*ochi Fort, early this morning; it was a hike that was supposed to last a few hours. It turned into one of the most memorable days of my life. (And not memorable in GOOD way--memorable in a 'I'm-going-to-need-counselling' kind of way).

Tim, James, and I plus the boy next door, Mtulo all headed out, well fed, well rested and ready for a good long hike, planning to return sometime after lunch. On the way to the mountain base Tim asked me 'Did you bring your camera?'
"Psh! Did I ever!" I replied.

(Crossing a dam...early in the journey)

A few kilometers to the mountain base and we started up the mountain. The fort is located in a basin, surrounded by a few mountains. Sounds pretty cool, eh?
But soon into the hike, the nausea I'd been experiencing came back--with a vengeance. Here I was again; hiking a mountain with three young, fit guys. Shit.

(The path plateaued for a moment...for now I can keep up.)

I told the guys to take it down a notch, but the slower pace didn't help. Tim said 'We're half way to the top.' I wish.

Somewhere around half-way, I said "I have to stop. You guys go on." I was equipped with my trusty mace and whistle and Tim gave me his Leatherman, and James gave me his watch and journal for reading material.
(Oh....this is long....sorry...)

The guys literally start RUNNING up the mountain and I thank GOD I chose to wait for them there. I perch myself on a big boulder--about 12 feet above the ground--with a glorious view of the farming area below in front of me and the rest of the mountain behind me.
I read through most of James' journal (good reading...I'm mentioned twice. Nothing fancy...just mentioned). Next thing I know there's a louder-than-leaves-falling rustling behind me. I turn around and something is moving in the long grass...my heart stops...is it the folk-lore little men Tim warned me about before he left? Yitopotopos, the little men with long beards, best described as trolls?

Then the face of a baboon appeared through the baboon-coloured grass. My heart still pounded but I felt a little better when my movement scared him off.
He scampered off but I heard him calling or something a little while later.

Mace out.

Then a while later two more baboon appeared. These ones were a little frisky and unfortunately true to their monkey-character: curious.

Leatherman out and poised.

On high alert I start to wonder why I have this instinctual fear of baboons. I decide it's from the Disney's Tarzan when the baboons attack Jane and steal her boot. "Daddy! They stole my boot!"

Then perhaps the most terrifying sound I've ever had the displeasure, nay, horror of hearing was an animal making a low growl. The growl grew into a roar and then another unfortunate creature started to squeal and scream--much like a baby.
Ah. Shit. A lion is mauling a baby. Fantastic.

The sound grew closer, the long grass rustled, the roaring did not cease. My heart stopped. I understood why some people wet their pants when they're frightened.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Facts and figures that make you sick:

Of course we all know that James is a perv and likes to read things that aren't meant for him to read, yet here we are; James is reading over my shoulder and I'm LOVING EVERY SECOND OF IT!
Stop reading James. Stop it.
Thank you.

Anywho---we all know that HIV/AIDS is a huge problem in Africa. We all KNOW this, but I don't think we all fully grasp it. It's an epidemic. Literally.

Even though the official percentage of people suffering from HIV/AIDS (in Malawi) is between 15-18%, Tim and Naomi say it's more between 30-40%. 30-40%!

And you know what makes it even worse! Promiscuity for young people just reaching puberty is ENCOURAGED by parents. Why? So that they can practice for their husbands/wives.

Isn't it disgusting how well Satan has put this little charade together?

Not to mention the impact of some of the laws of Islam--the predominant religion around here:
-no sex during the 9 months a woman is pregnant and no sex for 6 months after (what husband wouldn't find someone else to fulfill his needs during that time?)
-polygamy is accepted
-a wedding lasting a few hours to a few years is acceptable so that a couple can have sex within marriage, thereby not committing any kind of sin
-divorce is a reasonable move

Sex, and lust, and unfaithfulness, and promiscuity, and betrayal, and divorce are the epidemic and HIV/AIDS is the symptom.

Gah, and men make me sick. If I didn't know any better I'd seriously consider becoming a lesbian.

Just the other day, Naomi and I took a young mother of two, only two months pregnant to the hospital because of severe dehydration and malnourishment. Naomi explained to me that this poor woman's pregnancies were all like this. That her husband, who is married with another family in a village over, came home after being away for a long time, instantly got his wife pregnant and then took off again to let her suffer through these horrible pregnancies while trying to care and provide for her other two children alone.

Bastards! All of them!

Ah, good-ol' Tim just walked in and James is sitting across from me playing the guitar...that was a mean generalization. I'm sorry. You're not all bastards--but you can see why it upsets me so much.
Sure, women aren't perfect by a LONG shot, but you just don't see them abandoning each other the way men seem to.

Anyway--before I start a holy war, I'm going to stop here.
I just wanted to make you aware of what's happening out here---how incredibly serious and UNREAL it is, because like I said earlier, I KNEW all this before, but seeing it....well that's just another story.

We should all take a moment and thank the maker that we were born into a life of privilege and relative health and safety that we were.

Bloody diarrhea is kinda fun....touche....

Favourite moments since arriving here in Nam_wera to stay with Naomi and Tim Cowl*ey:

On the way to Nam_wera, Gabe, the Cowl*ey's 5 1/2 son, took a rare pause in his soliloquy to turn to me and say in a cheery, but reflective tone "When I'm awake I don't stop talking."

This is Gabe here with his friend...who's name I can't pronounce.

James and I are both suffering from different forms illness; James, a bad cold with a fever, and me, nausea and LBM for four days. Today we paused for a breather in the market while Tim was buying his fresh, unpasteurized milk. I commented to James that the only thing that could make this trip better was if I got cholera. "That'd really round the trip off nicely," I said.
"I want bloody diarrhea." James said quite matter-of-factly. When I looked at him questioningly he replied "so I can try out the bloody diarrhea medication my doctor gave me." We nodded in agreement that, yes, bloody diarrhea would be awesome to have.

When we stopped at some one's home to check out a propane powered refrigerator, Tim needed a 'torch' to see the back of the fridge, so the mother ran off to get us a 'torch'. As she ran by the Cowl*ey's oldest daughter, Mika said in her bright, uber intelligent and therefore sometimes intimidating tone "Hm. I've never seen a woman run here."
To which I replied "Oh yeah. Me neither."
Mika looked away from the woman running, cocked her head to the side and said with bright eyes and a big smile "Well, that's because you've only been here 2 days."

Ah. Touche. Shut down by a 9 year old.

But on a serious note, if you could all pray for me--my tummy is upset a lot. Not eating is the only thing that seems to help, whiiiiiich, clearly isn't the best method.

(Sunset view from Cowl*ey's driveway)
I'm leaving here in 8 days. Kinda excited. (Hey, do some of you remember how I refused to date that guy who wrote the word 'kinda' on a postcard he sent me? Yeah. Look at me now. I would never date me.)
I'm just really looking forward to getting home and debriefing, driving in my car, eating chips. HECK! When do I not get 'kinda excited' about eating chips?

A big 'Oh, it's you again.' goes out to Crystal from Antipolo! I miss you and your family...thanks for checking in on my mum!
Love to you all (except to those I don't love but perhaps just like a lot, and those who are blog creepers.)

Like a mountrain goat...

People have actually been complaining that I haven't posted in a while (just Mum and she wasn't 'complaining' per se) and the success of my last post makes this next post a little daunting and most likely a let down for most of you as this is more of a day-to-day post, less prose.

Anywho, as the title suggests I am the mountain goat. A few of us climbed a mountain behind our house yesterday--much to my initial delight for being asked to go, the following feelings of dread as the boys started to RUN up the mountain, next my feelings of vomiting, and lastly, feelings of triumph as we traversed THREE mountain tops to reach our goal: a hotel bar.

The mountain we climbed is more of a hill, really. But we like to think it's a mountain because we LIVE in the mountains. (For those of you who know, telling a story about mountains is very difficult for me as I type 'mountrains' every f-ing time. Be patient..unlike me.)
Anywho!
Ben, James, Christian and I took off with lofty goals of reaching the top of just one mountain. Suddenly, only 30 minutes later we found ourselves at the top of the first mountain. Satisfied at my brush with mountain-climbing I agreed that we 'check-out' the next peak to prepare for it another day.

This terrain, by the way, is not ideal. (What mountain-side terrain is, Claire?) If the dry grass isn't as slippery as ice, then it's the jagged rocks, or perhaps the grass twice as tall as a man that I became VERY intimate with after it became tangled in between my legs and around my feet. AND, without knowing much about snakes, or the habitat of said reptiles, I knew in my gut we were hiking through prime snake territory. I think besides being physically unfit for climbing mountains, it was the fear of a snake encounter that slowed me down the most. Oh, I failed to mention WHAT kind of snakes: black mombas, the single most poisonous snake in the world (minus coral snakes). Apparently this area is ripe with them.

Before we left James reassured me that we'd have to meet a lot of criteria in order to be bitten by a black momba.
1) Be in their territory (check)
2) Actually FIND one (probable)
3) Piss it off (likely)
4) Be within striking range

Having successfully accomplished the first criteria, and certain that numbers 2, 3 and 4 were sure to succinctly follow, I was lagging behind most of the time. And because I had agreed to Christian's terms that I wouldn't complain I said little about poisonous snakes. If I was going to die it might as well be from the most deadly snake in the world while climbing a mountain.

Ok, I didn't mean to write that much about the mountain, but, I'm pretty proud of myself. And since Christian didn't specify how long the 'no complaining' agreement was enacted for I resisted complaining, or rather commenting, on the extreme pain I found my body to be upon waking this morning. At least twice my knees have buckled, I want to cry out each time I have to use my quads, and the pieces of mountain and mountain brush that are slivered into my flesh still sting. Yet! I remain complainless. (Strong, stubborn, or prideful? It's a toss up.)

In other new I'm off to another town in Malawi to stay with a missionary family. The lady, Naomi, was a student of Mercy In Action, yet is not a practicing midwife. However, her and her husband Tim have been so kind in letting me come and arranging (I hope!) for me to meet some medial people, NGOs, and a couple midwives!
Oh, and they're really close to Mozambique so I think I might check that out for a couple days.

I'm not sure what God has in mind, but I agreed to go after I discovered the lady we're staying with here, Hellen Jones, happened to be driving to Tim and Naomi's town tomorrow! The Lord better be up to something. Ohhhhh you'd better, mister!
And unrelated, but a factor in my decision, was meeting a fellow named Ernest (Grace house guy for those of you who know). Something he said in his non-chalant, but wonderful way really struck me. He said 'All of the Lord's thoughts for me are good.' It's another one of those things we 'know' but rarely believe to be true FOR US, someone else, totally! But not for me. His thoughts for me are ones of disgust, disappointment, anger, occasional amusement, etc. But no! Even the man who can't afford to marry his fiance of 7 years because he doesn't have the money to agrees 'all of the Lord's thoughts for me are good.'

As I type this there is an Africycle meeting happening behind my back--things seem to be going well. But Ben just referred to my mad typing skillz as 'Fingers of Fury'. He makes me laugh. Frig, introduce me to a Ben that doesn't make me laugh and I'll do....something drastic.

There is internet in Namwera (Tim and Naomi's) so I'm hoping blogging won't be such a chore while I'm there, but then again I might be on the road a lot yada yada...but I'm home in 12 days and I've already composed that slide show displayed to the tunes of Louis Armstrong, U2, and something in Tagalog in my mind. We'll see.

Picture downloaded...buuuuuut here's another one bc it rocks my world.
AHHHaHahahhaha...I just checked out that first picture I downloaded and it's the WRONG ONE! Believe it or not, I did NOT want to post the picture of the guys being pervy behind my back. But, because it took so long, it's staying. And it's pretty funny, so that helps.
Anywho--the other picture is of James with a big stick-bug on his arm. Christian spotted this crazy creature in the grass and James proceeded to pick him up and then drop him about four times, causing the poor bug to loose a leg. Here is James trying to make up...make out? No, make up.
Ok...uh an hour later and the pic hasn't uploaded. That is my breaking point. Sorry.

Over-romantic prose.

I resist the urge to put my iPod on so that I can fully soak in the sounds of rural Malawi. Like most developing countries (that have extensive history nonetheless)there's the rhythmic scrape, scrape, scrape of a twig-broom scratching against the packed down earth--only here the earth is a rusty red.

A diesel truck pulls out of a driveway onto a dirt road--it's potholes filled with broken bits of red brick. Once the truck is gone I can hear computers and battery packs beeping on and off as power from 3 different power centers in Malawi decide who's going to be providing the power (if any) this morning.

Again, as if I can ever escape it, the pre and postmature crowing of the rooster curdles the gentle din of rural sounds.

Children in a valley play something with rocks and sticks--a mix between hockey and soccer but without the competitiveness associated with those sports. No, they are laughing, oo-ing and ah-ing, cheering and bemoaning all in time with the dull crack of the rocks hitting sticks.

Because we're in the mountains there's lots of wildlife--invisible birds with distinctive voices communicating something we'll never understand. I wish I could fly. A bird's eye view of Malawi.

I'm sitting rather regally on a high-wall that surrounds our property, straddling it's double-brick width expanse about 20' from the hard ground below. Somewhere down there I hear the soft, deep voices of 2 Malawian men--by the sounds of it discussing the tales of someone very amusing. I like listening to them talk and I like it even more when they laugh--in the deep, hearty, open-mouthed, head-back kind of way that reminds me of their North American counterparts.

A people can travel so far and for so long and walk through so much incredible history yet generations later they still share the same laugh with their ancestors. I guess the same could be said for their crying--but I've yet to hear or see that. There's always so much laughter here, and I think the sorrows are too great for many tears. A losing battle really.

I can still hear the children in the valley--laughing tiredly.
A cool, mountain breeze laced with smoke from rubbish fires blows through the leathery leaves on the trees as it blows past my face. I don't have my Jumbo 16 Hatari fan here--yet the universal smell of burning garden waste still haunts me.

The feeling like people dislike me still haunts me too--no matter how far away from my home town, my high school, or my demons I fly. Because demons pack light and are rarely caught by airport security.

Someone starts to play the piano and it's out-of-tune melody drifts typically over the lawn and to me straddling the wall. It's one azungu intrusion I appreciate.
My stomach is on the verge of adding it's voice to this Malawian cacophony--but the power is still off and all I want is tea. Oh, the dilemma!

A woman walks by with a baby strapped to her back with a bright-yellow acrylic shawl and I can't help but smile. She's carrying a huge aluminum bucket of water on her head while the baby pinned on her back looks anxiously up at the pail of water perhaps antisipating getting a little wet. But despite her load as a woman--she looks up at me and smiles, practically glowing. I laugh at myself because I know how ridiculous I look on this wall. She laughs back--and we have an understanding that I look like an idiot but that's ok. I also get the feeling that we both wish we could communicate with each other. Smiles and awkward laughter will have to do for now. And surprisingly, for me, it is sufficient.