It was a hard week to be away. My sister gave birth to her third daughter on Tuesday—Jesse Grace. There I was, at a party at the Marine house behind the US embassy, drinking white wine and chatting with friends when my cell rang. How unbelievably different our lives have become. It’s moments such as these that I really question my decision to continue living so far away from my family, and if the void it creates can be filled by doing challenging work or living in beautiful and complicated countries. And maybe I’m cracking my own case…that for the simple fact that my life IS so different from my sister’s—no partner, no stability, no children…I continue to choose a path that doesn’t allow me to be even remotely settled or sedentary. I persist in the belief that there must be something more, something superior to my current reality, something more gratifying elsewhere that will slowly begin to fill that emptiness, eliminate that doubt. That as long as I’m doing work that drives me to regularly step outside my boundaries of comfort and work with populations that have greater needs than anything I will ever experience in my privileged life, it’s okay that I’m alone. It’s okay that I feel slightly disconnected from my family. It’s ok to change my address every two years. It’s okay to not know what’s next.
Some old colleagues from the Population Council were in Kigali this week for a UN workshop. It was such a wonderful treat to see them and get caught up. I had forgotten how wonderful that organization is, and how important and inspiring their work. Of course, within two days, Judith in all her amazingness had passed my email around to half the workshop, connecting me to projects and work consulting on adolescent girls programs. It made me question my decision to leave New York…wondering how different my life would have been if I had worked through some of the unhappiness and anxiety I felt there…where I would be if I had stayed at the Council and gone to Columbia part time and built a career for myself. Why do I allow my mind to go to these places? I don’t know. It’s a totally futile exercise and is only contributing to my mental instability…as if I need the additional fuel.
And what is it I’m searching for exactly? I’m not entirely clear. I’m pretty sure it’s nothing quite as simple as a light bulb going off in my head and begging me to stay put. Maybe I’m not meant to settle in or settle down anywhere. Perhaps I haven’t met the right person or the right job to convince me to do so. Maybe I never will. But I have to believe that it’s all part of my path that I’m intended to take. That my life wasn’t meant to turn out any other way.
I also don’t find it ironic that I finally received the go-ahead from my Country Director to stick around through December on the weekend of the 4th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Last year I had just arrived in Ethiopia. Now here I am in Rwanda. And the longer I’m away, the more I’m convinced that I am not ready to walk away from that city just yet. It feels like home in ways no other place has felt in years. There’s so much work I want to accomplish there. So many more things I need to experience and see and comprehend. It saddened me to be so far away from New Orleans on a weekend that stresses the resiliency of such a troubled yet proud community; remembering and paying respect to the tragedies of the storm; bringing people together to share in the struggles that continue. Reminding us that there is no strength in separation. That there is much work to be done. Ok, so good. Maybe I did answer that question about New York after all.
So, here I am. A new auntie. A semi-temporary, semi-permanent resident of Rwanda. A soon-to-be 31 year old single woman who is kind of employed. Not too shabby I guess. The journey continues…
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Cause I gotta have faith, faith, faith
Lila and I just returned from a four day excursion to Uganda. She’s leaving for the states tomorrow to finish up her degree at Tulane (enter stage left: Aims loses her entire social network and becomes a huge loser), so she convinced me to tag along for her final hoorah in East Africa. We left Kigali at 5am on Saturday morning in a horrible rain storm and the pitch dark to board the bus to Kampala, Uganda. It goes without mentioning that I was awake roughly 25 minutes of the 9 hour trip…long enough to gracefully accept a cookie from my Kenyan seat mates, watch two Michael Jackson videos on the bus TV, and get in an argument with a rude face (no cuts, no buts, no coconuts) at the Rwandan/Ugandan border.
We got to Kampala at around 6pm. I felt instantly at home…much more the African city scene I’m familiar with—oncoming traffic dodging the same monstrous potholes; people throwing litter out of bushtaxis; mud; men peeing on walls; streetfood chapatis; mud; oversized billboards promoting HIV testing (or cell phones); loud music; traffic, traffic, traffic; flip flops; mud. We were greeted by two very bubbly Ugandans named Julius and Michael. Julius is the nephew of our Tulane colleague who graciously hooked us up with a free place to stay. Evidently, they took their hospitality very seriously in showing Lila and I around town. We had a blast! Ugandans are incredibly lively, friendly folks. Loads of great restaurants, bars, clubs, music. We spent the evening shuttling around all the hot spots in town, meeting Julius and Michael’s friends from law school and dancing the night away. It was fantastic. Also, I just have to mention that Julius and Michael really restored my faith in men. Two well-educated, attractive, compassionate, thoughtful, hilariously funny men who were giving up their weekend to host Lila and me around town? Maybe there is hope for me after all.
Sunday, we headed out to Jinja in late afternoon…a small town about an hour outside of Kampala world-renowned for its rafting down the Nile River. We arrived after dark at the Nile River Explorers hostel. I always love getting thrown back into the backpacker’s scene…gritty, adventurous, adrenaline junkies seeking out their next thrill and global wanderers hoping to experience Uganda in an authentic, down-to-earth sort of way. Within moments, I questioned my decision to pursue two Master’s degrees and amass an ungodly amount of debt when I could essentially be an extreme sports fanatic with ripped arms, a great tan, and cheap beers at my disposal. Damn.
Rafting was ridiculously fun. The most extreme sporting activity I’ve participated in in recent adult years was learning how to simultaneously hold a can of Bud Light while playing beach volleyball. I had forgotten how exhilarating it is! Our raft consisted of three Brits and a South African, Lila and I, and our Australian guide, Jesse. Obviously, Jesse informed us within moments that Americans complained the most and when Lila suggested we come up with a team name, Joel from the rural UK muttered, “How bloody American of you.” Totally weak sauce. We had some serious moments of extreme sports, I am proud to say. Although we dubbed our raft the “super sloths” (for obvious reasons), we actually did quite an impressive job of battling the raging rapids. We flipped the raft twice. Not only did I miraculously manage to hold on both times, but managed to keep both my contact lenses and come out unscathed (minus the loss of a perfectly manicured pedicure and almost my bathing suit bottoms). It was five hours of hilarious conversation, beautiful scenery, and swimming. With the small exception of the torrential downpour which clearly resulted in an outbreak of hives and Jesse yelling for our sloth asses to paddle harder, it was a perfect day. Totally extreme. Totally awesome.
We really lucked out with our raft mates (I’m not entirely sure they feel the same about us). The two couples were both on an overland journey from London to Capetown…Angela and Andrew in a Land Rover, and Joel and Hannah on a motorbike. Not only was I unbelievably envious of this voyage, but was almost instantly pummeled with questions challenging my current place in life. My self-esteem plummeted by the sheer fact that I could not conjure up one soul that I could take such a trip with and not want to murder after 3 days, not to mention how the hell would I ever be able to afford such a thing? Additionally, my three chronic health afflictions: being allergic to the cold, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and travel narcolepsy, would essentially make me the worst travel partner in the universe. I have to say, it was unbelievably refreshing to be around them and listen to their experiences and stories up to this point of their journey…and even more inspiring to see how affectionate, loving, sweet, and playful they still were. Ahhh, the perfect partner. The flexibility and freedom (and money!) to travel through the continent of my dreams! Why oh why is my life so hard?
All in all, the weekend recharged the batteries (as Vince Vaughan so aptly states in Wedding Crashers) in numerous ways. It was a break from the stresses of work and Kigali. It reminded me of the goodness and joy in meeting new people. It reinforced that being 30 is not, in fact, the beginning of the end as I sometimes think it is…and most of all, encouraged me to continue to believe in living my life with intention and purpose…and from this, only good things can come.
We got to Kampala at around 6pm. I felt instantly at home…much more the African city scene I’m familiar with—oncoming traffic dodging the same monstrous potholes; people throwing litter out of bushtaxis; mud; men peeing on walls; streetfood chapatis; mud; oversized billboards promoting HIV testing (or cell phones); loud music; traffic, traffic, traffic; flip flops; mud. We were greeted by two very bubbly Ugandans named Julius and Michael. Julius is the nephew of our Tulane colleague who graciously hooked us up with a free place to stay. Evidently, they took their hospitality very seriously in showing Lila and I around town. We had a blast! Ugandans are incredibly lively, friendly folks. Loads of great restaurants, bars, clubs, music. We spent the evening shuttling around all the hot spots in town, meeting Julius and Michael’s friends from law school and dancing the night away. It was fantastic. Also, I just have to mention that Julius and Michael really restored my faith in men. Two well-educated, attractive, compassionate, thoughtful, hilariously funny men who were giving up their weekend to host Lila and me around town? Maybe there is hope for me after all.
Sunday, we headed out to Jinja in late afternoon…a small town about an hour outside of Kampala world-renowned for its rafting down the Nile River. We arrived after dark at the Nile River Explorers hostel. I always love getting thrown back into the backpacker’s scene…gritty, adventurous, adrenaline junkies seeking out their next thrill and global wanderers hoping to experience Uganda in an authentic, down-to-earth sort of way. Within moments, I questioned my decision to pursue two Master’s degrees and amass an ungodly amount of debt when I could essentially be an extreme sports fanatic with ripped arms, a great tan, and cheap beers at my disposal. Damn.
Rafting was ridiculously fun. The most extreme sporting activity I’ve participated in in recent adult years was learning how to simultaneously hold a can of Bud Light while playing beach volleyball. I had forgotten how exhilarating it is! Our raft consisted of three Brits and a South African, Lila and I, and our Australian guide, Jesse. Obviously, Jesse informed us within moments that Americans complained the most and when Lila suggested we come up with a team name, Joel from the rural UK muttered, “How bloody American of you.” Totally weak sauce. We had some serious moments of extreme sports, I am proud to say. Although we dubbed our raft the “super sloths” (for obvious reasons), we actually did quite an impressive job of battling the raging rapids. We flipped the raft twice. Not only did I miraculously manage to hold on both times, but managed to keep both my contact lenses and come out unscathed (minus the loss of a perfectly manicured pedicure and almost my bathing suit bottoms). It was five hours of hilarious conversation, beautiful scenery, and swimming. With the small exception of the torrential downpour which clearly resulted in an outbreak of hives and Jesse yelling for our sloth asses to paddle harder, it was a perfect day. Totally extreme. Totally awesome.
We really lucked out with our raft mates (I’m not entirely sure they feel the same about us). The two couples were both on an overland journey from London to Capetown…Angela and Andrew in a Land Rover, and Joel and Hannah on a motorbike. Not only was I unbelievably envious of this voyage, but was almost instantly pummeled with questions challenging my current place in life. My self-esteem plummeted by the sheer fact that I could not conjure up one soul that I could take such a trip with and not want to murder after 3 days, not to mention how the hell would I ever be able to afford such a thing? Additionally, my three chronic health afflictions: being allergic to the cold, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and travel narcolepsy, would essentially make me the worst travel partner in the universe. I have to say, it was unbelievably refreshing to be around them and listen to their experiences and stories up to this point of their journey…and even more inspiring to see how affectionate, loving, sweet, and playful they still were. Ahhh, the perfect partner. The flexibility and freedom (and money!) to travel through the continent of my dreams! Why oh why is my life so hard?
All in all, the weekend recharged the batteries (as Vince Vaughan so aptly states in Wedding Crashers) in numerous ways. It was a break from the stresses of work and Kigali. It reminded me of the goodness and joy in meeting new people. It reinforced that being 30 is not, in fact, the beginning of the end as I sometimes think it is…and most of all, encouraged me to continue to believe in living my life with intention and purpose…and from this, only good things can come.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
I don't limbo at parties
You know, I’m the first to admit. I don’t “limbo” well. I’m an incredibly OCD-type personality who spends countless hours making lists and thinking too far ahead about endless possibilities impacting my existence on this planet—what some like to refer to as an “over-thinker”. I have attempted many times before to be more mindful; awaken to the present; open myself to the universe and allow things to happen. It’s incredibly difficult for someone like me. And the irony is that “people like me” are often self-aware enough to recognize that the mental gymnastics are nothing more than a futile exercise that never truly gets us anywhere, nor do we gain much by exhausting all the possibilities our little brain can conjure up. Does it present some sense of calm in a very delusional way? Dare I say peace of mind? Not in my wildest dreams.
The source of all this newfound anxiety you ask? A potential extension of my time in Rwanda. Oh god, the mental energy I’ve expended. Abandoning the geriatric poodle and imposing on friends; missing the birth of my third niece (or first nephew =); missing family, missing friends, missing out on life in the Big Sleeze. It’s exhausting. Honestly. My guilt is a full-time job. I won’t bore you with details, but in a nutshell, I have been offered a research position through December here in Kigali. It’s a great opportunity, one I really shouldn’t pass up. When it comes down to it, it’s really kind of a no-brainer…once I clear out all the clutter and guilt and loneliness.
So, here I am again-the dreaded limbiosis. (Please acknowledge that I’m completely aware that this is a made up word, yet somehow perfectly articulates my current state). No matter how much I persuade myself that the transient lifestyle is totally my bag, I’m not entirely convinced that I’m very good at the actual act. Ironically, I’m pretty sure this is stemming from my deep-rooted fear of permanence. I am uncompromising in my state of dissatisfaction. There’s too much to see, explore, experience. The thought of sticking around any place for too long gives me the heeby-jeebies. This is most likely why at the ripe old age of 30, I still don’t have a couch, a car, or a matching set of dinner plates to call my own. That’s just too much stuff. It is also a reflection of my guttural response to becoming a parent. Dang. Now THAT’s permanent. I can’t even date someone longer than a month.
So, I’ve come to terms with sticking around a bit longer…I think. It feels good to have some clarity and make a decision. I think the hardest thing to accept is that while my life is in a constant state of change, the people surrounding me are, too. My best friend leaves NOLA this Thursday. Never crossed my mind when saying goodbye in June that I would come home to an Eddie-less New Orleans. Not even an option. Or meeting amazing people in Rwanda that are just as transient as I am, leaving just as I am getting used to having them in my life. It’s painful. It’s expected. And yet there I am again—finding new ways to transition out of one life into another. Adjusting. Adapting. Recreating a life for myself in a city I love or redefining myself in a new country altogether. I guess it’s part of the impermanence I cling to so strongly. I guess it’s simply just life. And that IS something I can be mindful of.
Now…if only I can convince the next Tulane interns coming this fall to bring a 12 year old poodle as their carry-on?
The source of all this newfound anxiety you ask? A potential extension of my time in Rwanda. Oh god, the mental energy I’ve expended. Abandoning the geriatric poodle and imposing on friends; missing the birth of my third niece (or first nephew =); missing family, missing friends, missing out on life in the Big Sleeze. It’s exhausting. Honestly. My guilt is a full-time job. I won’t bore you with details, but in a nutshell, I have been offered a research position through December here in Kigali. It’s a great opportunity, one I really shouldn’t pass up. When it comes down to it, it’s really kind of a no-brainer…once I clear out all the clutter and guilt and loneliness.
So, here I am again-the dreaded limbiosis. (Please acknowledge that I’m completely aware that this is a made up word, yet somehow perfectly articulates my current state). No matter how much I persuade myself that the transient lifestyle is totally my bag, I’m not entirely convinced that I’m very good at the actual act. Ironically, I’m pretty sure this is stemming from my deep-rooted fear of permanence. I am uncompromising in my state of dissatisfaction. There’s too much to see, explore, experience. The thought of sticking around any place for too long gives me the heeby-jeebies. This is most likely why at the ripe old age of 30, I still don’t have a couch, a car, or a matching set of dinner plates to call my own. That’s just too much stuff. It is also a reflection of my guttural response to becoming a parent. Dang. Now THAT’s permanent. I can’t even date someone longer than a month.
So, I’ve come to terms with sticking around a bit longer…I think. It feels good to have some clarity and make a decision. I think the hardest thing to accept is that while my life is in a constant state of change, the people surrounding me are, too. My best friend leaves NOLA this Thursday. Never crossed my mind when saying goodbye in June that I would come home to an Eddie-less New Orleans. Not even an option. Or meeting amazing people in Rwanda that are just as transient as I am, leaving just as I am getting used to having them in my life. It’s painful. It’s expected. And yet there I am again—finding new ways to transition out of one life into another. Adjusting. Adapting. Recreating a life for myself in a city I love or redefining myself in a new country altogether. I guess it’s part of the impermanence I cling to so strongly. I guess it’s simply just life. And that IS something I can be mindful of.
Now…if only I can convince the next Tulane interns coming this fall to bring a 12 year old poodle as their carry-on?
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