It is both frightening and liberating to think about leaving everything behind except for whatever can be shoved into two 70 pound suitcases and a carry-on bag. The experience has totally changed how I prioritize the minutest of day to day activities. I come home and nearly every day burn my favorite candles. The ones I specifically requested for my birthday because I'm too cheap to buy the REALLY nice smelling ones for myself. I add copious amounts of my favorite liqueur in my coffee instead of the cheaper one I bought on sale. I wear my favorite and most comfortable jeans, even if I'm just lounging around my apartment. I've already nearly eaten all of Cadbury Cream Eggs that I usually have carefully stored in my freezer, rationed out to last until next Easter. And it's only June! And, oh, my car.
So, I'm a car girl. I think I owe to my dad. I spent every Wednesday for most of my adolescence at Portland International Roadway watching the drag races. He raced cars most of his life. I really love my car. The cozy leather seats hug me lovingly. The seat heaters on a chilly morning are analogous to a hot toddy as it warms you from the inside on a snowy winter evening. The sound of it as I tap the accelerator gives me chills. I just love that sound. Mostly I like the feeling of instant power and control as I hit the accelerator, easily taking over most other vehicles and knowing there is little they can do to thwart my approach as I gracefully advance and easily swerve and pass them. Good times.
Even though I know the car is a luxury, there is still something more visceral, more intensely meaningful about knowing that in a short period of time these material objects will no longer be in my possession. There is an odd, yet comforting, relationship between the challenging emotional intensity of this whole experience and the heightened appreciation for things once taken for granted. A certain symbiotic yin and yang exists that somehow, even in the throws of what often feels like total chaos, brings the cosmos into balance. I'm leaving it all behind, but there is an amazing beauty in experiencing things again for the first time.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The Emerald City
The decision to go to Africa makes even mundane activities significant. Even a daily drive feels different. Today, as most days, I drive northward into Seattle. This is a route I've taken at least a thousand times. And I am probably not exaggerating. And, honestly, I have cherished most of them. OK, many of them. Traffic, stress and the inability of some drivers to effectively navigate wet roads in a city that rains 150 days of the year (thank you Wikipedia!) has, on occasion, turned an otherwise beautiful drive into one that includes a mild degree of profanity, a few inappropriate gestures, and me wishing that my cute sports car could turn into one of those massive monster trucks. But, I digress. It is a fact that entering the city, in my case via the Alaskan Way viaduct, is a striking Seattle experience.
As I emerge onto the viaduct, which is several stories above ground level, I arrive next to the downtown cityscape. Qwest Field and Safeco Field are immediately to your left and each present themselves as imposing and magnificent structures in their own right. (I bring up Qwest Field first as props to all my friends who are avid football fans, because in reality Safeco Field is first.) Then the full breadth of downtown appears. The Columbia Center and the Washington Mutual Tower (which may have changed names since Washington Mutual was bankrupted in 2008) dominates the sky of dozens of other skyscraper buildings dating back to early twentieth century. Then the Space Needle appears; Seattle's iconic trademark.
I feel a special connection to the cityscape extends towards the sky on my right and the Puget Sound succumbs on my left. Jagged and protruding the Olympic Mountains frame the western-most landscape from the Seattle. Although they are not the highest mountains, they mark an important barrier between the Puget Sound and the Pacific Ocean. Passing the massive, historic and beautiful architecture on the right feels perfectly and harmoniously balanced with the natural landscape of Puget Sound and the far-off Olympic Mountains.
While vacationing in Belize, a couple from San Diego once asked: "doesn't the city of Seattle drop directly into the Pacific Ocean?” I thought it was a silly question, especially from somebody from the west coast. The couple came to vacation in Belize in part because they worked for the same organization and their inter-office romance was forbidden. The woman literally had hundreds of mosquito bites and I thought that perhaps the Calamine lotion that was white and crusted all over her body had distorted her ability to logic effectively. Regardless, the question they posed has entered my mind on several occasions since.
In many respects, the San Diego woman was correct. The imposing cityscape of Seattle does appear to lean on the edge of the Puget Sound, the surrounding mountains nestling them both in a caring embrace. The mountains and the landscape of sea water and islands is extraordinary. I can't think of any place in the world where one can experience the magnificence of industrial innovation and the wonderment of Mother Nature in one fell swoop. I've been to many cities in the world. But this city is really beautiful. The sea is sparkling, the mountains pristine and white-tipped with snow and the city a striking testimony to the wondrous achievements of humankind in the last century. The Emerald City is a sight to behold, and one that I’ll miss.
As I emerge onto the viaduct, which is several stories above ground level, I arrive next to the downtown cityscape. Qwest Field and Safeco Field are immediately to your left and each present themselves as imposing and magnificent structures in their own right. (I bring up Qwest Field first as props to all my friends who are avid football fans, because in reality Safeco Field is first.) Then the full breadth of downtown appears. The Columbia Center and the Washington Mutual Tower (which may have changed names since Washington Mutual was bankrupted in 2008) dominates the sky of dozens of other skyscraper buildings dating back to early twentieth century. Then the Space Needle appears; Seattle's iconic trademark.
I feel a special connection to the cityscape extends towards the sky on my right and the Puget Sound succumbs on my left. Jagged and protruding the Olympic Mountains frame the western-most landscape from the Seattle. Although they are not the highest mountains, they mark an important barrier between the Puget Sound and the Pacific Ocean. Passing the massive, historic and beautiful architecture on the right feels perfectly and harmoniously balanced with the natural landscape of Puget Sound and the far-off Olympic Mountains.
While vacationing in Belize, a couple from San Diego once asked: "doesn't the city of Seattle drop directly into the Pacific Ocean?” I thought it was a silly question, especially from somebody from the west coast. The couple came to vacation in Belize in part because they worked for the same organization and their inter-office romance was forbidden. The woman literally had hundreds of mosquito bites and I thought that perhaps the Calamine lotion that was white and crusted all over her body had distorted her ability to logic effectively. Regardless, the question they posed has entered my mind on several occasions since.
In many respects, the San Diego woman was correct. The imposing cityscape of Seattle does appear to lean on the edge of the Puget Sound, the surrounding mountains nestling them both in a caring embrace. The mountains and the landscape of sea water and islands is extraordinary. I can't think of any place in the world where one can experience the magnificence of industrial innovation and the wonderment of Mother Nature in one fell swoop. I've been to many cities in the world. But this city is really beautiful. The sea is sparkling, the mountains pristine and white-tipped with snow and the city a striking testimony to the wondrous achievements of humankind in the last century. The Emerald City is a sight to behold, and one that I’ll miss.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Freedoms
It's funny how a term can mean so many different things. How its historical and cultural context can shape its meaning. The Xhosa language has a variety of ways of expressing freedom. Freedom is translated as inkululeko, but to be free or feel free is khululeka. It is a beautiful word, really. The pronunciation is like most other Xhosa words so that it dances off the tongue as the inflection rises and lowers, shortens and lengthens. I've often thought about this word. Not because of its English equivalent, but because of the myriad of ways this word's meaning differs.
Once in New Brighton, a township on the outskirts of Port Elizabeth, I was with friends at a popular watering hole, Jeya's. I like this place and we often go there. It has a certain feeling of welcomeness, playfulness and diversity, yet I am often the only white person there. I would consider it a bar rather than a shebeen. Immediately as I walk through the heavy door bordered with thick brick there are large round plastic tables surrounded by plastic chairs, the kind one would often find on the back porch of a house in the Unites states. On the far left there are two pool tables. Most of the rear is a large bar area. The bar is an "L" shape and is large enough for at least six or eight barstools on each leg. But tonight is Saturday and it is too jam-packed for people to sit leisurely at the bar. Tonight bodies fill the area and press tightly together as the crowd ungulates towards the shelves of lively libations.
Sometimes they play sports on a very large screen and sometimes there are live performances. Tonight dance music is pumping through the gigantic speakers poised in each corner of the room. Some of the songs I recognize, many I don't. On more than one occasion several of my friends will break out into an audible acknowledgement of a song long forgotten. This is always followed by reminiscent dancing. They are all very good dancers. At the end of the song I may get an explanation from one of them about the song. It is usually difficult for me to know what the song is about. Songs are usually not sung in English. Often singers will mix a variety of languages. So even if I can pick up on some of the Xhosa words, it isn't unusual for words or phrases in Tswana, Zulu, Venda, Pedi or a whole slew of languages to be thrown in. Few, if any, songs would be recognizable outside of Africa or the African Diaspora. So I always appreciate background information as additional cultural education.
When people dance here the energy fills the room and every cell in my body. My friends dance with reckless abandon. They sing and move their bodies in sexy African rhythms. Then they laugh with large, vibrant smiles. And then find another groove and dance some more. For some reason on this particular day I just wasn't feeling the mood. This is not typical. Usually I easily slip into those African grooves and find myself dancing to the atypical beats before my mind even realizes that I don't know the words or have never heard the song before. But today I stood there sipping a large Black Label beer we were all sharing. I was enjoying myself. I really enjoy watching the guys dance and listening to them reminisce about old times. Apparently, my lack of participation was noticed and on several occasions my friends would ask me why I wasn't dancing. Or they'd take me by the hand and lead me into some dancing action that I clumsily attempted to follow. I still wasn't feeling it. Finally, almost in desperation, my friend demands that I be free.
It sounded more like "phrrrri", in part because in his fervor he really stretched it out and took time to properly roll the r's. Free? (Of course, I chuckle quietly to myself thinking that telling a woman that she should be "free" in America would immediately imply payment for some discretionary behavior and would be likely be followed by swift slap across the face.) But I know that is not what he means. He means I should be kululekile. A different kind of free. One that is unbound to material or monetary possessions. One that is more esoteric that the freedom's mentioned in the United States Constitution. This is a freedom of spirit and of self expression.
Its English equivalent is “free”, but it has an entirely different meaning. It means free to be one’s own unique self and fully express that self at any and all moments. I was being supported to find my groove and dance to the music. But what they wanted was for me to feel free to be. And to be to its fullest and truest extent. And to see me holding back, even though it wasn’t on purpose, was really painful for my friends. Khululeka is not about having legislative or legal framework to protect individual’s rights from being abused by other individuals. Kululekile is about having the right and the space to fully be who each of us are and not holding back… because this fragile and precious life deserves it.
Once in New Brighton, a township on the outskirts of Port Elizabeth, I was with friends at a popular watering hole, Jeya's. I like this place and we often go there. It has a certain feeling of welcomeness, playfulness and diversity, yet I am often the only white person there. I would consider it a bar rather than a shebeen. Immediately as I walk through the heavy door bordered with thick brick there are large round plastic tables surrounded by plastic chairs, the kind one would often find on the back porch of a house in the Unites states. On the far left there are two pool tables. Most of the rear is a large bar area. The bar is an "L" shape and is large enough for at least six or eight barstools on each leg. But tonight is Saturday and it is too jam-packed for people to sit leisurely at the bar. Tonight bodies fill the area and press tightly together as the crowd ungulates towards the shelves of lively libations.
Sometimes they play sports on a very large screen and sometimes there are live performances. Tonight dance music is pumping through the gigantic speakers poised in each corner of the room. Some of the songs I recognize, many I don't. On more than one occasion several of my friends will break out into an audible acknowledgement of a song long forgotten. This is always followed by reminiscent dancing. They are all very good dancers. At the end of the song I may get an explanation from one of them about the song. It is usually difficult for me to know what the song is about. Songs are usually not sung in English. Often singers will mix a variety of languages. So even if I can pick up on some of the Xhosa words, it isn't unusual for words or phrases in Tswana, Zulu, Venda, Pedi or a whole slew of languages to be thrown in. Few, if any, songs would be recognizable outside of Africa or the African Diaspora. So I always appreciate background information as additional cultural education.
When people dance here the energy fills the room and every cell in my body. My friends dance with reckless abandon. They sing and move their bodies in sexy African rhythms. Then they laugh with large, vibrant smiles. And then find another groove and dance some more. For some reason on this particular day I just wasn't feeling the mood. This is not typical. Usually I easily slip into those African grooves and find myself dancing to the atypical beats before my mind even realizes that I don't know the words or have never heard the song before. But today I stood there sipping a large Black Label beer we were all sharing. I was enjoying myself. I really enjoy watching the guys dance and listening to them reminisce about old times. Apparently, my lack of participation was noticed and on several occasions my friends would ask me why I wasn't dancing. Or they'd take me by the hand and lead me into some dancing action that I clumsily attempted to follow. I still wasn't feeling it. Finally, almost in desperation, my friend demands that I be free.
It sounded more like "phrrrri", in part because in his fervor he really stretched it out and took time to properly roll the r's. Free? (Of course, I chuckle quietly to myself thinking that telling a woman that she should be "free" in America would immediately imply payment for some discretionary behavior and would be likely be followed by swift slap across the face.) But I know that is not what he means. He means I should be kululekile. A different kind of free. One that is unbound to material or monetary possessions. One that is more esoteric that the freedom's mentioned in the United States Constitution. This is a freedom of spirit and of self expression.
Its English equivalent is “free”, but it has an entirely different meaning. It means free to be one’s own unique self and fully express that self at any and all moments. I was being supported to find my groove and dance to the music. But what they wanted was for me to feel free to be. And to be to its fullest and truest extent. And to see me holding back, even though it wasn’t on purpose, was really painful for my friends. Khululeka is not about having legislative or legal framework to protect individual’s rights from being abused by other individuals. Kululekile is about having the right and the space to fully be who each of us are and not holding back… because this fragile and precious life deserves it.
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