It rained all last night. Any time I woke up, I could hear
its steady drumming on the tin roof. I liked it and was happy that it was still
raining. We don’t get much rain in Tehachapi; sleeping during a rainstorm makes
me feel cozy and I nestle in deeper as if I’m inside a cocoon. Feels safe. I
have been sleeping soundly here. I end most of my days (sometimes until 8 or 9 p.m.) preparing for the next instruction
period, then typically write, as I am now. Then I read (finished It’s not Okay with Me and swapped it on
the bookshelf downstairs for Tess of D’Urbervilles,
which another volunteer left behind). Then I may listen to a podcast (Car Talk or Dave Ramsey or some such thing) or an audio book (I’m deep into
Eckhart Tolle). So I “wind down,” I guess, into a sleep that is heavy and deep.
And it’s chilly at night, which I like, so perhaps I dig even deeper like a
hibernating bear. Waking up has been different here as well … I wake up almost
every morning feeling “joyful” or at least almost joyful, something I rarely
feel at any time. I welcome it. I lie in bed, often before the sun has risen, and
wait for the birds to begin. Ethiopia is a bird watcher’s heaven; I’ve become a
bird “listener.” A couple start, then more join in, and before long there is a
thick chorus of chirps and squawks against the quiet stillness.
As Wednesday mornings start rather
slowly, I thought I might have my hair washed at a “beauty salon” just down the
street, but decided not to bother; I have a hotel to look forward to Friday and
I was torn about the need to feel clean knowing I was going to the feeding
center, where buckets of soup slosh hopelessly while being carried through the
crowd, injera sticks to fingers like Elmer’s glue, and hundreds of unwashed men
crowd under the corrugated tin roof with their blue plastic bowls anxious to be
served. There was no point in starting a Wednesday clean.
Instead, I gathered some laundry
together in hopes that Magadee, the Home’s bookkeeper, found a laundry service
for Robin and I to use. Robin has been hand washing her clothes since she
arrived April 1 and I am certainly capable of doing the same, but for the
couple of dollars I suspect it costs, I decided that’s not how I want to spend
my time. That said, as I tallied the shirts and pants I just couldn’t get
myself to put on again, I wondered if it would be the last time I’d see them. I
made note of the items and hung them on my bedroom doorknob in a plastic
grocery bag I’d brought from home. I left a note for Magadee and trusted that
if I didn’t see them again, whoever would have them certainly needed them more
than I.
Robin and I were off. In the short
walk down the dirt-and-stone lane to the main street, our shoes became caked
thick with red clay mud from the rainstorm. We scraped them off on the newly
formed concrete curbs down the center of the street that was under
construction. We dodged puddles and splashing vehicles, beggars and thick,
black exhaust fumes to make our way to the center of town.
As all trips to Addis Ababa from
the Mercy Ministry Home in Asko are an adventure, we leave plenty of time to
travel the 9 km (5.6 miles). We commit to being at the feeding center at noon;
today we left at 10:00 a.m. with
fingers crossed. Our intention is
always to walk the half-mile to the taxi area in Asko, pick up a mini van to Medhanialem
for pay 2.75 Birr (16¢). From Medhanialem, we look for another mini van to
carry us the rest of the way into Addis for another 2.75 Birr. We’re told that
it used to be common to be able to take one mini van all the way to the city,
but the drivers learned they can make more if they have shorter routes.
To find a mini van—or bus or badaj
or even a cab—is a feat in itself. A
typical cobblestone or packed-earth “sidewalk” runs along a fence or building;
at least half its width will be consumed with street vendors selling anything
from a shoe shine to a goat-skin-covered, 5-gallon gas or oil tin fashioned
into a drum to partial rolls of toilet paper to carved sticks people chew on to
clean their teeth. Or there may be a home there—a shanty made of sticks and
plastic bags or a sheet of vinyl if someone was lucky; the owner’s feet may be
sticking out one end or they may be away begging for money. What’s left of the
pedestrian way—perhaps another six feet—may include a stray dog, a naked
homeless person sleeping beneath a tattered blanket, trails of unidentified
liquid (public urination is acceptable so they must always be avoided),
beggars, or garbage, but it is undoubtedly teeming with others who will also be
looking for the correct mini van to take them to their destination.
There is no bus schedule, not a
clear area (to me) where the transportation modes will gather, nor are most of
the vehicles marked in any way. I noticed that some of the biggest buses in the
city do have red LED numbers announcing their intention, but I don’t know the
relevance of those indicators nor how to learn them. Instead, we listen
intently to the “caller,” a man who opens the mini van door while it’s rolling
to a stop, who invariably has a fistful of birr in one hand and who calls out
the van’s destination to the waiting crowd. They make me think of auctioneers
trying to entice a crowd to go to a destination they hadn’t considered had the
caller not just suggested it. People rush the open door. It’s common for 12 or
more people to squeeze into a 7-seater van. Robin and I invariably get left
behind in the time it takes us to decipher the destination. We’ve gotten on the
wrong van before, too. Not much you can do about it once you’re on except get
to where they’re going and start again.
This morning we had rare luck: we
ran across a mini van that was going all the way to the city. This was a treat
that had only happened once before. Well … it almost happened twice before: the
second time on a “regular” bus, but that bus broke down just outside of Asko.
They didn’t charge us (12¢). We walked a half-mile to the next taxi area where
we attempted to board another bus, but they closed the road so the bus driver
had to bail on his mission. With the assistance of a young man named
“Benjamin,” we ultimately decided to pay 100 birr ($5.69) to take a private badaj
to Addis. Benjamin spoke pretty good English and, like many people, was eager
to talk with us to practice. In almost every conversation, Obama’s name is
mentioned.
This lucky, one-mini-van morning, we
paid 5 birr (28¢) each; we probably got on the van by 10:20 a.m. and it took an hour to arrive in
the Piazza in Addis. That’s typical—actually, that’s pretty good time, a result
of not having to catch a second cab in Medhanialem. Because we had a little
time to kill, we decided to check a couple of our other errands off the list: a
stop at the post office, copies for class, and an ink cartridge for the HP
printer Robin just purchased for the Home. Robin thought she remembered where a
post office was, so we headed in that direction from the Piazza. Rain had
started to fall again, making navigating the sidewalks more like an
interminable game of hopscotch. We picked up a “hitchhiker” on our journey—a
young man who attached himself to us Westerners like a lamprey on a shark. It’s
a tough call when that happens—I find myself torn between being polite and
being on guard. It’s been my experience so far that people (always men) seem to
just want to speak English and know where we’re from. Maybe I’m naïve. The
young man today was persistent in trying to engage us in conversation; when he
put his arm across my shoulder, Robin’s red alert went up and we immediately
changed directions, bailing on all errands, and headed toward the feeding
center. The man was apologetic, but the damage was done. We ducked into a
coffee shop and he continued on his way.
I don’t know what it’s like to be homeless, but I can’t only
assume that it’s worse when it’s raining. My shoes were soppy, the legs of my
pants drenched to the point of pulling my pants right off me, my hair was
plastered to my head, and still I was conscious of the fact that I was better
off than the men I passed walking through the tall green gate of the Hope
Feeding Center.
I like going to the feeding center,
I like the work. Some days, like today, Robin and I are the only ones there who
speak English, but that only just now occurred to me. The tasks are obvious.
The need is obvious. Takes no language. I tend to head straight to the tall
piles of injera that await us on the sagging wooden table: fold in half,
one-third, one-third. Fold in half, one-third, one-third. One of the paid
employees handed me an apron and I began my familiar task.
Before long, Eyob (Mercy Ministry’s
volunteer coordinator) appeared in the doorway. Eyob is tall and muscular, with
clear, dark skin and a sincere grin framed by dimples like parenthesis. He
carries a peaceful demeanor, dresses well—today in a bright red polo shirt—and
is courteous in his manners. And his English is excellent. He’s sort of a
bright spot on a dreary canvas, so when he does appear, he’s a sight for sore
eyes. We hugged hello.
“The man about the skateboards has
called me,” he said. “I said I would call him so you can talk to him. May we do
that now?”
Yes! Yes, of course. I had been
challenged connecting with the Ethiopian group about the boards. With a US
phone number, I was difficult to reach. Internet proved to be a challenge, too,
so Eyob agreed to act as a go-between for me. I spoke to Tom from Australia,
one of the directors of the Ethiopian Skateboard Park Project, and we
tentatively arranged for him and an Ethiopian friend, Dawit, to drive out to
Asko the next day to pick up the boards. Yay. Later in the week or in the weeks
to come, then, they would organize a session with the kids in which I could
participate.
While speaking on the phone with
Tom beneath the meal shelter, I dodged waterfalls that found their way down the
metal roof and into the dining area. Men and boys were filing in; Eyob was on
the other side of the facility ladling soup from his orange bucket, so I stuck
his phone in my back pocket, careful to cover it with my shirt so not to be
pick-pocketed, and watched my footing on the slippery concrete floor so not to
fall on my butt and crush his phone. As I’d lost my place in the injera-folding
line, I grabbed a bucket of soup from the kitchen floor and headed to the
dining area.
A young man named Daniel had been
at the feeding center every time I’d gone. Today was no exception. He, too, was
dressed in a bright red polo shirt, which swallowed his thin frame. Tall and
always smiling, Daniel takes it upon himself to keep the men organized as they
file in, demanding that they slide to the farthest end of the concrete bench to
make room for more. He shows patience with the blind, guiding an elbow when
necessary, but he’s very efficient in his task, recognizing the need for people
to “eat and get out” to let the next hungry group in. His bright white eyes
caught mine and, always eager to speak English, he rushed my way: “Hello! How
are you? I forget your name, I sorry.”
“Debbie,” I reminded him with a
smile. “Deb-bie.” I annunciated more distinctly in response to his quizzical
look.
“What this mean, ‘Debbie,’” he
asked.
“Nothing, really,” I told him. “In
Hindu, ‘devi’ means goddess, I think.” I remembered when I was in India that
people told me that almost every time I was introduced. “In America it only
means that I was born in the ’60s,” I said, knowing the joke was lost on him.
We got to work. Daniel and I
“click” on the floor, anticipating one another’s needs. I nod acknowledgement
to his hand motions from across the room; allow him to teasingly scold me when
my eagerness to start pouring soup before he’s finished seating people
interferes with his efficiency; and tell him “that’s why I’m here” when he
apologetically hands me a broom at the end of the meal. He’s a good kid. But
his role here has confounded me. Is he paid? No, Eyob explained; Daniel gets to
eat in exchange for his work here every day.
Sigh. Him, too.
When the sweeping was done, I
untied my apron, returned Eyob’s phone to its owner, and Robin, Eyob and I
headed back into the streets in the continuing drizzle. Robin needed some cash
from the ATM at the Churchill Hotel across the street; while she ducked into
the enclosed ATM area, I went to the front desk to inquire about a room for
Friday and Saturday night for Robin and I. Robin said she’d paid US$70/night
there before I arrived for a single room. We’d paid US$60/night in the Embilta,
a couple miles outside the city, but we couldn't get Internet in our room.
Further, we’d hoped to go to the Merkato (market) on Saturday, and now possibly
a skateboard gig on Friday, so having a room in the city would be handy. “One
hundred, sixty” the desk attended responded when I asked how much for a double
room.
“US?!?” I asked, shocked. Yes.
Okay. No way. We’ll stay at the Embilta again.
Eyob escorted me to the post
office, while Robin ducked into a copy center to duplicate some worksheets for
class. She handed Eyob her umbrella and together he and I skipped over puddles
and ignored the eager calls of street vendors we passed who encouraged the
white girl to “Look! Look! Come in!” We crossed a busy street and passed
through a tall, open gate into the postal area. I had to leave my laptop with
three security guards who were squeezed into a little booth like birds in a
nest. The post office was cavernous; we passed rows and row of post boxes to
get to the main lobby where uninterested tellers waited for patrons behind a
tall glass enclosure. Eyob instructed me to pass my two letters through the
opening to the teller; I’d found some hand-made cards crafted from banana
leaves that were thick and rough and interesting to look at and feel so I
bought them to send to a couple friends at home, half doubting they’d ever even
make it to the U.S. The bumpy texture that made them interesting, however, raised
the suspicion of the jaded teller and she sparked life for a moment: “What does
this contain,” she barked importantly to Eyob in Ahmaric. “They’re just
notecards,” I assured him, digging through my money belt to identify the bills
I knew I’d be handing over shortly. She was satisfied. I paid 13 birr (74¢) and
4 stamps were slid under the window along with my letters. I licked them. My
mind glanced to the Seinfeld episode
that killed off George’s fiancé Susan from licking postage stamps for their
wedding invitations. I pressed the stamp onto the handmade paper but struggled
to get it to stick; with patience and effort, they were good to go, so we
walked across the lobby and dropped them in a metal box marked “International.”
We collected my laptop from the
guards and echoed our footsteps back up Churchill Street to collect Robin. “Did
you go to private school?” I asked Eyob. We’d passed a French international
school on our way to the post; it stood importantly behind a foreboding steel
gate. Well-dressed, obviously important Ethiopians passed importantly through
the gate on their way to and from important business. This struck me as a
noticeable locus of tension in Addis; a kernel of sharpness and clarity that
contrasted with the ease and blitheness I’d come to know here. I assumed Eyob
went to such a school; his manners; his interest in his appearance—not
self-conscious nor overly Western, but respectful and conservative; my
knowledge that his mother had been a nurse and his father worked in some honest
profession I couldn’t recall; that his two siblings lived in the U.S.; his
compassion for his Ethiopian brethren and their hopeless children; his
excellent English … education must have been a priority in his family, who must
be wealthy enough to have sent him to private school.
“No, no,” Eyob said, shaking a hand
vehemently in a manner that implied I’d asked him if he’d come from an
untouchable royalty. “I went to the public school. It was very bad,” he
laughed. “The teachers were very bad.” We wound our way through the maze of
people on the street, Eyob maneuvering the umbrella above everyone’s head. “One
teacher, if we asked her too many questions, she would scold us: ‘No more
questions today! You ask too many questions!’” he recalled, chuckling. “My math
teacher was a very good story teller. When he became tired, he would say, ‘I am
tired. I will tell you a story now,’ and he would tell us a story and we liked
it very much, but I am very bad at math,” he grinned.
“How is it that your English is so
good, then?” I asked, puzzled.
“My parents were very strict,” he
said. “My brother and sister and I were not allowed to go out. When we
complained that we were bored, they bought us a VCR machine.” He laughed. “You
must understand, it was very old, a very old kind,” he interjected
apologetically. Why do people feel compelled to do that? I wondered. Why do
people feel compelled to apologize if they think something might be below my
standard or expectation as an American? I didn’t say anything.
“We watched movies and heard
English that way and at night we would ask my father, ‘What does this mean,’
‘What does that mean.’ And so that’s how I learned English.”
We approached Robin, whose height, white
skin, and blond hair drew our attention like a lighted buoy on the open sea.
“Their copier isn’t working,” she chirped in her Australian accent, amused, as
she always was at the patience required to accomplish anything in Africa. Our
odd group continued up the street.
“Isn’t this the grocery store?” I
asked, pointing to an open doorway. The chaos of the storefronts made them
non-descript to me and it took studying for me to distinguish an internet café
from a junk gypsy. Eyob confirmed and noted that there was a restaurant
upstairs, where we decided to have a late lunch. We’d told Buza that morning
that she needn’t stay to make us dinner, knowing that we wouldn’t get out of
the feeding center until about 2 and would be famished at that late hour. To
keep Buza on until 6 or 7 to hand us a bowl of rice, hot water for tea, and 2
rolls would be senseless.
We sat at a table along a balcony
banister that overlooked the grocery cashiers. Eyob spoke Ahmaric to the
waitress, who handed us plastic-covered menus many pages thick. They had a
broad selection that covered the globe from Ethiopian shira to “Mixican
fagitas” to American fried chicken to Italian pasta dishes. Order Ethiopian, I thought. Be in the experience. Order a traditional
dish. The waitress approached me: “Grilled cheese, please.” Blah. I tried
but my desire for comfort and familiarity on a dark, soggy day won another
battle.
We sat comfortably for a long time
and enjoyed being out of the rain. Eyob told us stories of previous volunteers,
one who agreed to come on the condition that he be allowed to bring his cat,
who would require “yogurt and fresh meat” every day, and a woman who had begun
her service and woke up one morning not long after her arrival and insisted
that all communication with her be in writing. We laughed. I wondered what
stories Eyob would tell about us.
Eyob got a call that demanded his
attention and he politely excused himself from our little bee, setting 60 birr
($3.41) on the table for his share. Robin and I checked the time—almost 4
o’clock—and strategized the remainder of our day: toilet paper, photocopies,
Internet. We paid our bill and were off.
Downstairs of the restaurant was a
decent-sized grocery store, which is to say that it had several aisles, a meat
counter, and a wide variety of products. We needed toilet paper at the Home (which
was our own responsibility) and went to a section that had 5 or 6 varieties
from which to choose, each individually wrapped. We picked them up and began to
inspect each for number of sheets, potential softness, price (~39¢ a roll) …
“We’re quibbling over fractions of a penny,” I chuckled and picked one.
My sweet tooth had been suffering
since I arrived in Ethiopia for lack of chocolate. I had in mind to find
something to satisfy my nightly cravings, thinking dried fruit might serve the
need. As we wandered down an aisle, curiously surveying products foreign to us,
an Ethiopian gentleman in a suit approached us. He picked up a box of hibiscus
tea bags: “This is very good,” he insisted, handing me the box.
“Yes,” I agreed, “I had some
yesterday.” Coincidentally, a few bags with the same logo were at the Home and
I sampled one the previous morning, as there was no more regular tea. “It’s
very red,” I said, remembering that I was careful not to spill any on myself,
thinking its rich color would no doubt stain whatever it touched. I returned
the box to the shelf.
“Are you the manager?” I asked,
noting his disappointment when I returned the tea to its display; any good
manager would be trying to make the sale, I thought.
“Yes, yes,” he replied
respectfully.
“Nice.” I shook his hand. “Do you
have any dried fruit?” His face twisted. “Like bananas or papaya with all the
moisture removed.” He thought.
“No, no,” he replied. “But we have
many cereals.” He swung his arm wide, in Vanna White fashion to acknowledge the
several varieties of breakfast cereal. “We have corn and rice cereals.”
“Yes. Very nice.” I debated
the cereals … a couple handfuls of cereal might serve as a decent snack. A
variety of muesli caught my eye; I picked up the bag to examine its contents and
was pleased to see dried fruit and nuts through the plastic wrapping. “This
might do,” I said optimistically. “How much is this?” The manager took the
500-gram (1.1 pound) bag to examine the small sticker:
“Eighty birr, eighty-three cents,”
he said, seeming disappointed. Four dollars and sixty cents … very expensive by
Ethiopian standards and not exactly cheap in American. I gave it some thought
while re-examining the contents:
“Yes, I’ll take this.” He smiled.
“Thank you,” I said and started to walk toward the front of the store; the
manager barked something in Ahmaric to a female employee (come to think of it,
everyone who worked in the store except the butcher was a woman), who briskly
picked up a hand basket from a stack and gestured it toward me.
“Please,” the manager said, “take a
basket.” He smiled widely. We understood one another:
“So I can buy more!” I said
playfully.
“Yes, yes,” he agreed. “It is business.
Employees, they need to learn. Make it easy for the customer.” I smiled in
agreement and said goodbye. There was a cookie section that I wanted to
consider before checking out, but couldn’t find anything that I believed would
satisfy my chocolate-deprived taste buds so added nothing to the basket hanging
on my arm before hitting the cashier.
Outside, Robin and I braced
ourselves once more against the rain, determined to get our copies and the
printer cartridge, then treat ourselves to our Internet refuge in the lobby of
the Embilta for a few hours where we could enjoy a reasonably comfortable seat,
a reasonable chance to connect to the world, and possibly a macchiato or juice,
neither of which they seemed to have on a regular basis. We plodded straight up
Churchill without so much as a glance toward the inevitable cries of “Miss!”
and, with effort among the many alleys that branched off the Piazza, we found
the copy center where we paid 60¢ birr (3¢) each for copies for our class. We
tucked the streaked and toner-deprived copies into our bags to protect them
from the rain and headed straight to the taxi area, where in reasonable time we
located a mini bus heading toward Medhanialem, which was the town past the
Embilta. We actually didn’t know—or, more accurately, couldn’t learn—the name of the town that housed
the Embilta; we knew it’s translation meant “Egg Factory,” but neither of us
could get our tongues to catch up to the multi-syllabic rollercoaster in
Ahameric to either pronounce it nor even spell it phonetically. But we knew
that the mini vans and buses on their way to Medhanialem, at least, had to go
through Egg Factory, and with alert attention, we could request the driver to
stop near the Embilta. This method worked for us again and we peeled ourselves
our of the packed mini bus, happy to be at our oasis this late Wednesday
afternoon.
By now, the hotel staff recognized
us—not difficult as we’re the only Westerners I’ve ever even seen there—and I
made a reservation for us for that weekend, which consisted of several attempts
at me telling the front desk receptionist my first name, which she scribbled on
a piece of paper. That’s it: Debbie, Friday, 2 [nights]; reservation apparently
made.
I caught up with Robin, who had
already settled into our favorite sitting area: three low cushioned chairs
surrounding a low, round wooden table next to an outlet, as Robin’s computer
wouldn’t hold a charge since she arrived in Ethiopia, although the connection
between geography and lithium batteries escaped both our logic. I nestled into
my chair: flat, soggy hair, heavy wet jeans, smells from the feeding center no
matter … Internet. Ahhhhh. I quickly posted a blog entry, ensnared April Scimio
on iChat for a few exchanges, caught a couple of moments of Pam Velasquez’s
time as well—BOOM. The hotel went dark. Blahhhhhhhhhhhh. I knew it … it was
over. I don’t think I’ve ever been to the Embilta when power wasn’t lost at
some point in my stay and no matter how briefly the electricity ceased, the
Internet would be down indefinitely. I stared at my half-baked response to Pam
on IM disheartened; I knew it was over for the day—until the weekend.
I felt myself slip into a little
gloom as my awareness of wet jeans and wet hair returned. I scolded myself: Just
accept that my precious Internet connection through my thousand-dollar computer
was lost. Big deal. Why couldn’t I buck up just because my feet were wet and my
pants hung off me? So what if when I went to use the restroom and looked in the
mirror, I wondered if I were presentable enough to Skype with even my closest
friend? Just find some gratitude, dammit, that this whole scene is temporary
for you when people who have nothing surrounded me day and night.
We packed up again and found a bus
back to Asko. We were surprised to be asked for only 1 birr (6¢) each, but
construction and the rain turned the 3-mile trip into an hour endurance, which
only gave my mind too time to fester in useless thought. I stood forlorn,
jammed tightly in the aisle between bus seats and countless equally soggy
Ethiopians that buttressed me along the bumps and jerks of the bus. I began to
sense a weird claustrophobia come over me, but it wasn’t from the packed bus …
what was it … some odd feeling of being trapped here, in Ethiopia, in this experience.
A hint of panic tickled me deep inside and I felt a darkness begin to crush me.
I focused my full attention on one deep breath in an attempt to smother the
feeling, but my nose was jammed with smells of sweat and wetness and exhaust. “What
am I doing here?” I wondered. “Why did I come? Why am I doing this … really.” I
didn’t have an answer for myself any more than I had an answer for the dozens
of people who naturally asked me since February when I decided to embark on
this journey. Because I didn’t have a profound answer, people seemed to fill in
the blanks to satisfy their need with words like “selfless” and “noble” and
“generous,” all of which made me grimace for their myth-like profoundness. The
platitudes didn’t resonate with me. I’d had no mystical calling, no deep-rooted
need to save the world, no plot to sneak a starving child home in my luggage …
heck, I could barely get myself to hug some of these waifs for their dripping
noses and fly-pestered eyes. What if people knew that? What if people knew that
I wasn’t Julie Andrews merrily singing through the streets, colleting children Pied
Piper-style to adorn them with familial love and tenderness? Would they still
apply all those theatrical monikers? I taught kids in a classroom. I fed men
food. The End. Nothing mystical about any of that. There are probably plenty of
education-starved kids and hungry men in America who would benefit just as much
from someone’s time; the cloak of downtrodden Africa only made it appear noble.
We got back to the Home. No power.
No signal on my cell phone … that was a first. “What the heck is this test,” I
wondered. I walked sullenly up the stone stairs and felt my way down the dark
hallway to my room. I turned the key against the heavy “click-click” of the
lock. Something nudged inside me … relief. I felt a little trickle of relief to
be somewhere familiar. A week ago I bemoaned the lack of running water, the
fleas, the coldness … but I definitely felt a quiet hug despite the hollowness
of the place. How strange. I stroked a match to light a candle to in turn find
my Unite-To-Light solar light. I pulled off my heavy jeans without having to
unbutton them … something lifted from me. I felt lighter, not in the sense of
weight from the aborted jeans but in the sense of lightness as in not darkness.
I “felt” light. Strange. I smelled. No electricity meant no hot water, meant no
bath from a 2-gallon pot on the floor. I resigned myself to go to bed; Robin
brought me an extra blanket. I heard the dogs outside light up a yip-fest over
some pseudo crisis. Huh. I was back. How did that happen? I heard the dogs. I
sensed the door unlocking. I “felt” light. I welcomed my return to this place.
The struggling had passed somewhere; somewhere I’d surrendered. I’d stopped
questioning why I was there … I just was.
Home. I was home.
