Is That The Planets Shifting, Then?

        Last night was my first night ALONE since moving to Dar.  The Little One accompanied my mother on a trip out of town; I had to stay behind for rehearsals for the play.  I thought I would be anxious about it, but for the first time in forever, I feel safe....safe, for the first time in too long.  It's sad though, in her absence, my heart can only now feel the full expression of my love for my daughter.  


        They say time flies when you're having fun, I would argue the opposite and say time slips through your fingers when your struggling to hold on to your sanity.  When everything's falling apart, the clock seems to tick faster and faster, like sand through an hourglass. Joy actually freezes time, in my experience.  When I am so content with the moment that nothing else matters, no future, no past, no wants, no unfulfilled needs, in those moments time does not exist.


         March came and went like a roller coaster ride through anxiety and tension, with brief moments of holding it together.  There was too little joy in March, and the struggle to figure out what the fuck was going wrong sucked all the grains of time down until, suddenly, the month was over.  It is now April, my birthday month.


         I find myself here, now, as if finally coming out of a really bad hangover.  I am still amazed at the loss of time, still confused by how it happened, but feeling, at least, like I can breath.  The air is different, infused with a cleansing agent; the light is clearer, showing me things I did not see before. Is that the planets talking, then? Can this be explained with by a shift in the Cosmos, a change in the weather? Or is it just my Faith in these things that somehow survived the pressure of melancholy and the onslaught of worry so that with the shift in time and a new rising sun, like magic, the curse seems lifted? Is it so simple, then? Planets move and shift, time slips by, and suddenly even my trivial mortal circumstances have shed the weight of futility and regained the lightness of hope.


         My breath is slow and steady. And the small achievements that did occur now rise up into my consciousnesses having previously been suppressed and drowned in such heavy, damning, despair.  I have my health back, a good 20 lbs heavier unfortunately, but strong and vital and myself again.  


         My blood work confirmed no more anemia and all other organs are functioning (at least organically speaking) with full vitality.  While doing my check up, I managed to finally find a proficient dentist and go through the first of several stages of treatment to my damaged mouth. Having done it and survived, having found a doctor who actually understood how terrifying these procedures have become for me, and having had my mother go full on warrior by my side through the whole affair-all of this is still hard to believe, to internalize.  It has been this running commentary between my mother and I, "what are we going to do about your teeth??"; the frequent days of pulsing pain and the inability to chew properly have just become a part of my life. Now, just like that, it is all gone; I am healed.  


         A small, physical example symbolizing a much, much larger affair: The Stumble Out of the Path of Light and Peace. It always begins with a simple slip and fall, a wrong turn, a misplaced move; then the initial denial of trauma or danger, the attempt to ignore and the hope if you just keep moving all will be well; finally the awareness that you are in fact wounded, you are limping and scared that you have forever lost your way. And then one day, you are safe; you are healed; the process is over; those scary moments are gone. You will only ever understand only parts and pieces of how you were healed.  Some things you remember, others you will never know. Like did the planets quietly shift in your favor? Did the moon tilt to help you see a way you hadn't seen before?


         I shouldn't regret the loss of time, when so much of it was filled with hurt and worry; I am glad for the speed with which it seeped through me, though there are still residual aches.  I am not even looking forward yet.  I am here, now, on this day, and it feels safe.  Let the planets move me at their will, let the moments settle down and take on new shapes. I think I see my Path up ahead; it is there still, waiting for me.

        I will not look for the bliss and joy just yet, but I will not stop them from coming either. This is my silent day. I am alone (but full of love); I am MINDFUL; I am healing.  


        My breath is slow and steady.

Adopting Woes

         "But how?? How d-d-do you open your heart?"  She wails.


         I respond without hesitation; I respond instinctively from some place deep within; some steel center of Divine Force. I respond while having to convince every doubtful, broken, willful bit of my being that what I speak is Truth. I have to do this with such reflexive speed that the questioning, internal healing, and resulting response leaving my lips happen in a seamless transition. We step through a portal....


          I'm beginning to understand all the horror stories I've read in adoption blogs and forums. Parents safely claim, "it only gets worse". Bitches. I understand the need for them to make this claim; having become conditioned to that first version of the child they bring home (specifically if the child is above the age of 6). What they-we-fail to comprehend is that, that first version is just a shell, a protective layer made of head-nodding obedience, and intuitive, survival-bred manipualtion  (actually, they say babies are biologically designed the same way: with large eyes and reflexive smiles, they are made to seduce us into nurturing them).  It is US who make the mistake in believing that their instinct for survival, their adaptation is some special secret saved for those that have suffered and is thus a permanent gift of theirs, a skill, a magic weapon, that they will use without guidance or teaching forever and ever as they see fit. I understand it, but I do not approve.  Having read the horror stories, and commiserating woes found in many of these forums, I am left feeling disgusted.  The laments are always the same, "she/he was so great when we brought him/her home, but now we don't know what to do?!?"  How foolish they all are when the creature grows so comfortable it lets its guard down and bites, because biting is all it knows...
         How dare we-they-be so shocked that when that loving shell cracks, inside there is a vulnerable little thing, perhaps malformed from lack of exposure to the Light. A scared, broken being, perhaps vicious from fear that you will now see it and turn away in disgust or fear-"this isn't what we were expecting".....


       Watching my child collapse in anguish has that cliche, slow motion, car crash feeling.  It is actually happening.  This is happening and everything I say to her will cement, now and forever, my emotional bond with her. Yes, it IS now and forever, because I can remember wailing out my anguish at her age, my mother holding me, and me knowing she had no FUCKING clue how to help me; she had no FUCKING clue how much of my pain was rooted in her careless behavior; she was so busy being frightened.  And that has never changed.

        
         This thought only adds to the secret fear that what I am seeing in the face of my wailing, agonizing, child is the results of a few months under my influence.  As if this fear is not damned-full enough, beneath or alongside it is the thought, "also, she does come from your blood, maybe she is just revealing the same innate flaws you daily fight with; after-all, we all know how her mother was....


         All this while, we smugly pondered at how easily the Little One has been left seemingly un-affected by her tragic circumstance.  It was easy to get used to someone who seemed to reject the natural damage of a tragic circumstance [maybe it's just as easy to get used to a daughter who has always steeped herself in mourning.  So used that you never think to pull her out of it].  It was easy to feel arrogant (even though we only lucked out) that this poor, innocent thing-innocent of her poverty-should fall into our care; as if, by her natural ability to adapt, we have proven ourselves capable.  It's been easy, and the hard part is just beginning....


          I scramble to retard the momentum of despair that is building fast; I sing the pop song* I've written her.  Even in emotional upheaval, she has time to pause, listen, and smile at me with sincere enjoyment. (I knew it was a hit) but it doesn't last for long.  As soon as the song is over her eyes go large and black again; her shoulders squeeze together while her body shudders and shakes with her cries. 
           So....I speak French;  the bits and pieces of inaccurate phrases tumble from my lips while I stroke her controrted face: "Ne pleus pas mon fils-ma fille (ma fils...damn that's not right, but it sounds a lot better-whatever she don't know); "c'est pas grave"....


       [Unless it is, unless its you crying because you want to go live with my sister and not moody, silly, me.  Unless it's you crying because the genes in your body just kicked in and this is only the tip of the iceberg. Then, I'm afraid, it might be a bit more serious- Or not? Am I so regretful of who I am, I fear the idea you might be like me someday? Hmmmm....I can't say that I am my Love.] 


       "Life is sooooo HARD!!". She is mourning for the FIRST time since the day I watched her across the grave where her mother lay while dirt was thrown on top. My sister clung to me, and even through my own tears, I could not help but notice how she cried and sniveled like a broken, little girl-except there was the little girl whose mother was disappearing, looking on, calm and serene.  


         "Well it's about fucking time isn't it", the deep steel center of me throbs this feeling out through my bones,  "Bare witness Lady: THIS. Is. Your. Job."


         Whatever is yet to heal in me has to be left for another day, my daughter is flailing herself into a pit of despair, and that isn't going to happen on my watch.  I am not going to stand back in fear.  I know, in that moment, it is up to us to decide, once and for all, how we are gonna live our lives, or else our pains/fears will decide for us:


       "No! Enough now, Vannesa! Come on, this isn't you!! Enough crying, NO! Life IS BEAUTIFUL!! Yes it is hard sometimes, okay, and yes you can cry, but then you have to stop and say ENOUGH.  It's beautiful even when it is hard, my Little One.  And sometimes we have bad days and the sad thoughts shout at us, but then you just have to shout back, with your heart (I place my hand on her thin chest and INVOKE the Will of God that what I speak be a Blessing) You have to SHOUT back with all the wonderful blessings you've had in your life, all the good memories and stories.  Come on now-"


        Her wailing has stopped, but I think-I know-it is only paused, "But how?? How d-d-do you open your heart?"


        I speak quietly now, but with feverish force-["yes, I know this is Truth-give it to her and tell your fears to shut the fuck up about it." my heart reminds me]:
        "By Loving someone; by being kind to someone who needs it (her thin arms snake their way around my neck and pull me close to her face so I have to whisper); or by being Loved or having someone be kind to you; by those moments when you let yourself feel total Peace (Relaxed Body, Easy Mind*); by seeing something beautiful-like the sunlight in your eyes, or the clouds or the trees, or a baby smiling; by laughing with a -"


      "You know what?" she whispers, "I need a book.  I have to write down everything you've ever told me.  I have to not forget."  
      "You're going to write down what I say, like I write down what you say to me?" (she nods) "Okay, that seems fair; good idea, baby."


      There is a brief stillness, "I will NEVER forget my mother." Her eyes well up again, she sounds so damn desperate.  [No, My Love, I have you now, I won't let you fall again.]  
       "Of course you won't!! No, of course not. Baby, sometimes we can open our hearts through sadness too! Through the mourning of someone we loved who is gone, through feeling the pain of someone else's loss, or the pain in the world, but only when we let that sadness teach us, and in the end we find Peace again....  And you know what?  I will never forget her either. I have learned so much about life from your stories of your mother.  I think about her everyday. Every. Single. Day.  So of course we won't forget her. Both of us.... Actually, why don't we write down in a book all the stories of your mummy also, so that we won't forget?"
       "Okay...."


        Our bond perhaps exists in our screwed up genes, or in our broken hearts-perhaps.  No matter; it will, definitely exist now in the way we choose to remember, in the stories we choose to tell, in the words we use to tell them.


         Our hands are dirty; her mother is buried; she is in my arms now; we will walk away now, and we will write our stories, because Our. Life. Is. Beautiful....


       

Is this Matha Nay-Cha?

   
        It actually began two Sunday's back when Z had a lovely, magical post that led me to have a magical date with the Little One. She had triumphed over her new Lego-like building set to create these gorgeous little boxes we turned into secret gift boxes, a nice little arts and crafts project, no? 


           We decided to exchange our gifts at bedtime and dashed off to the pier for one of the best sunsets in paradise I've had yet. Vannesa played in a supervised play ground with the most attentive clowns I had ever seen on the job and a scattering of children in all the shades of the rainbow conversing through merriment in lieu of language.  I didn't mind that, as I am an anomaly of sorts, I sat singularly excluded among the couples and sisterhoods of nursing mothers with infants, a stones throw away from singletons enjoying stimulating cocktails and romantic tête-à-têtes. No, I didn't mind at all, because Z's post hand left a feeling of fantastical possibility in me and I smirked as if I knew something no one around me knew, as if all of them were living ordinary lives and I was dancing with fairies they couldn't see (maybe it was the lamppost or her partnership with the Sage). 
           The sun drooped down lower and lower, it's light having a romantic tête-à-tête with the Ocean and the dhows, and sailboats, and fishermen canoes scattered in the water like the multi-colored children, floating with merriment.   I thought of Z's friend Kenny and wondered if he might soon have a chance to meet my grandparents since passed and if they would have a laugh at the oddity of how he has come to be connected to my spirit (because in that moment it strangely felt he was.....connected) and I sent a prayer that they may comfort him for they know the pain of transitioning without your dear Beloved by your side.  Then the sun set and I made a secret wish....

           It was not until the next night, at bedtime, when I was stressed and tired and desperate to put Ms. V to bed (now I know the cause of my stress-it was after all a Monday!!!) that she found one last way to stay up just a little longer, having made a repeat performance of our gift boxes; though this time I did not participate, she still wanted to give me what she had made. I barked something about "for God's sake we'll do it tomorrow!" and immediately felt like SUCH a tool and called her back. 
           She knelt at my feet while I sat on the edge of my bed (kneeling is a sign of respect for elders in my culture but I have never expected it of the Little One, and she has never attempted it before. This seemed a subconscious act) there in the box was a small square children's drawing, with the word MOTHER scrawled across the top.  And I did that thing where you say you're going to cry just to show how touched you are, but don't really mean to: "Awwwww, this is going to make me cryyyyy" and promptly started bawling uncontrollably with heaving and hawing. I could see her big eyes staring up at me with a blank look of....shock? Pleasure? Fear??? I don't know, but I do know that only with the thought that this could very well be utterly traumatizing to her, was I able to pull my sobbing self together.  

MOTHER 

           Since then, the notes have continued (so I guess it wasn't traumatizing after all) as have the unexpected, and frank discussions on which version of the word to use for me.  Since she already had a Mummy, I have proposed Mama (which is what I'd always wanted to be called anyhow).  I never mentioned it here, but the words "I love you" have also, up to this momentous occasion, been used rarely and with great trepidation and only by myself; they often elicited that same blank stare, and I couldn't figure out if it was triggering a past memory, pressuring her to respond with something she didn't feel herself, or scaring her because she didn't believe it was true.  It has quietly weighed on my heart, not being able to freely express this phrase, but I've felt determined to be patient and gentle about it, to not over think it.  Well among the notes, this phrase has taken on official proclamation status and is now being tossed with such frequency (and SUCH sincerity) between us that I wonder how she has held back using it for so long (She is a sentimental wonder that One, and I feel like an awkward doff to her explicit and often public outpouring of affection). All this while, she remained mostly silent, still, and loaded with unspoken thoughts and feelings; it seems, my Little One is fluent in the language of Love.

           If the same can be said for E-N-G-L-I-S-H, that remains to be seen......

Spell "Constipated"

         My child is Pollyanna  incarnate: her glass is always half-full, even when it's empty; she usually answers my scoldings/reminders with a "Ooops!" followed by a "O-Kayyy" and there tends to be skipping involved; this is the girl who has turned my impromptu relaxation technique for night-fears (Relaxed Body, Easy Mind) into a meditative ritual which includes angelic improvised signing, praying for the "Europeans who are suffering" (during the cold snap some weeks back), and, of course, her storytelling* that reminds me this Pollyanna comes with her own lessons; this is also a girl who will begin most mornings with a gentle request, "Can you please help me to not suck my finger today, please?"   

         To say she has an amazing propensity for adaptation is an understatement given all she's been through since I've met her. She has adopted the cultural norms of our quirky family with enthusiasm "Ohhhh, today our plates are verrry colorful!" Yet has retained the most endearing lessons and habits of her past as seen this past Christmas when she single handedly swept and rearranged my father's bachelor-pad house, even sweeping cobwebs out of the corners, all the while affirming, "I'm cleaning because it's CHRIST-MAS!!" as if this was the natural inclination of all eight year old kids.  

         I will admit, though, her spirited embrace of the new and the old is less....open-minded when it comes to academics.  And it has slowly dawned on me that the inexplicable pattern of radically mood shifts I've come to notice are in fact associated with a particular kind of learning: ESL. Reading and Spelling make my Pretty Little Pollyanna turn into the dreaded Mute Zombie Child (making Mondays and Wednesdays kind of.....horrific).

         The Mute Zombie Child is a girl whose gravitational pull leaves her spending hours lying in a fetal position on the living room rug, her finger thrust deeply in her mouth, and her eyes dilated with apathy staring off into nothingness; this girl responds to any and all external stimuli with just further eye dilation; this girl is mute and will shudder with such ferocity when forced to speak on threat of punishment; this girl forces me to get up, get a glass of water and literally spoon feed her, her eye medication pills (she is supposed to have some freaky medicine fetish so you can see how this would be worrisome); her only exceptions to her apathy are during mealtimes, when, for the brief period required to chew and swallow, she will once again take on the form of an active, engaged human being.

         Well Monday, I awoke to the sound of rain! Real, clickity-clack against the roof, rushing down the gutter, fills the air with a crisp chill RAIN!! I have never lived in a coastal city (oh wait-Miami...L.A...New York-never mind) my point is this: in Dar it never rains, like, NEVER. And people seem to think this is pretty normal.  Well, I haven't done a survey or anything, but no one's making any offerings to the Gods in supplication, no rain dances are happening that I can see, no dismal shrieks of DROUGHT, no locusts swarming in clouds, you get? It seems that no rain = business as usual here. For the Little One and I, this is beyond weird.  We come from a country where the clouds are like Powerful Gods, morphing themselves into shapes and creations that defy simple physics, and to walk below them is to walk in understanding that at any moment they can choose to unleash a deluge that will make you and your fellow countrymen rush for the nearest overhang and stand there stupefied at the wondrousness of falling water.  

          Rain, in Uganda, is a legitimate reason to not show up to your destination, and should you attempt to brave this phenomenon people will reflexively assume you are mad and shout abusive things at you believing you do not understand them anyhow.  Rain is a frequent occurrence that holds the extraordinary weight of a volcanic eruption in Polynesia, a tornado in Utah, and so forth.  We miss the rain! Don't get us wrong, blue, grey skies and hot, sandy beaches are cool and such, but it is a bit......stifling to not have the heavens shout at us and unify us in bowed heads of humility and surrender. It is a relief to have ones thoughts drowned out by Mother Nature every now and again (this is a new term for Ms V and her favorite question of late is to point to something and say, "Is this Motha Nay-chah?".....sweet).

         Despite my mother having not turned up when she was supposed to and the rain having already stopped leaving behind bulging grey clouds (both of which put us in that awkward limbo of suspense), we managed a relatively normal breakfast in which there seemed to be all signs of normal life coming from the Little One, including voluntary speech. I then set myself up in the living room trying to get my mind clear and ready for some creative flow. Not soon after I caught Ms. V, out of the corner of my eye, quietly slip from her chair, finger in mouth, and glide herself down to the floor, as her eyes grew large and empty ("Ah, God!! It's not even 11am!” I mentally hollered). Sometimes this is just from boredom so I said casually, "you have English today so why don't you go over your homework and your spelling?".....several silent minutes passed with no recognition that I even existed let alone had spoken, finally she crawled to her bedroom, her finger still protruding from her lips. This began what would ultimately be an excruciating morning trying to get Vannesa to read and practice spelling all of 8 vocab words, with total failure.   Meanwhile I desperately struggled to pierce the fog in my own brain while sending dagger looks at the fat, grey, lazy clouds outside which mocked the futility of my attempts (even the Sun was failing to find a clear path, why should I think I would have better luck).  

         Some days, no matter how hard you long for flow, resistance is all you get and on Monday, Ms V, the Sun, and I had no good luck trying to overcome our individual stagnancies.  My relief when she was finally whisked away to class was tempered by the fact that I still found my brain incapable of any clear, original thought, though it was exhausted from trying to pull any sort of active response from Ms. V.  Meanwhile, the Sun continued to fart moist streams of heat into the atmosphere, an embarrassment to its usual, direct and unabashed rays.

         When she returned from class, V was revived enough for me to confirm it was the class itself, hanging over her head like those fat, grey, lazy clouds, that put her in such a foul mood in the first place.  She was not her old self, exactly, but the evening did move by with a little more ease for both of us.  The hidden sun finally surrendered its fight as evening approached and gave me reason enough to do the same. All three of us went to bed happily rejecting any further claims to the day.

         Yesterday, the rain repeated itself but with much more vigor. It actually seeped the ground and the air in a crisp freshness that still lingers today and will likely surprise the sun by the need for a little more effort on its part to make the ground hard and dry and dusty again. It was a soothing sight to watch the rain do what we couldn't do the day before: flow. It was inspiring, if for no other reason as it was a reminder of how natural and effortless flow is supposed to be (Relaxed Body, Easy Mind).  It helped that my mother had finally shown up the night before and the morning was filled with the distraction of her offerings scattered here and there, treats and trinkets from a far off world.  My mother is a tornado, all by herself, and for once, her invasion into the home was not a disruption to peace but a clearing away of the dust and static fog.  

         And once that fog was cleared, a gem of triumph re-merged that had been forgotten in the previous day's miasmic mood: 

         She calls me Mama now.