Antilamentations, and thoughts on regret and pain

Antilamentation by Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

____________________________________________

My Antilamentation by Meredith Daniel

Those moments when you read something and can't get it out of your head.
Those moments when you read something and it trips a sensor, unlocks a door, knocks down a wall, removes a veil, triggers a memory
    a memory of pain
    or regret
    or a before-and-after image you're afraid to hang up on the wall because you like the end product         
    but not what it took to get you there

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE PROCESS?

WHAT'S WRONG 
with the pain in crying, screaming, punching a wall?
with the pain that leaves you so numb or paralyzed you can't do any of that at all?
    raw
    broken
    sore
    shattered
    numb
    doubtful
    jaded

WHAT'S WRONG 
with the pain that fills you with nothing true? 
with lies that feel closer than a brother but nothing like a friend?
    shame
    fear
    depravity
    loneliness

WHAT'S WRONG
with a pain that makes you retreat?
scared no one will understand
    wishing they would
         knowing deep down inside they will
         knowing deep down inside there is a commonality to our human experience 
         knowing deep down inside there is a commonality to our human experience it'd be a sin to deny.


____________________________________________

This is my antilamentation. 
This is my declaration that pain is not escapable until it's valuable. Pain is not something from God or of God, nor does it send him balking or shaking in a corner. 
God has conquered pain. And fear. 
If you think our God is afraid that pain has a deadly grasp on us, or that it might separate us from Him even further or possibly forever, you are mistaken.
God is not afraid of pain.
God is not afraid of doubt.
God is not afraid of questions or anger or apathy.
God stands up to scrutiny.

I'm going to say something bold.
God uses pain to love others. God uses my pain to love others. God uses my pain to love me.
In the moments we feel the most desperate, those are the moments we glimpse what we are missing; those moments are the ones that lend our lives eternal significance. If a shadow proves the sun shines, then pain proves there is a God.

Experience your pain. 
Do not run from it, or justify it, or brush it aside as something insignificant.
It is not.
You are not.
Go through the process and experience His promises.


You have authority, and agency, and hopes and desires. Don't let pain cloud them.
Make a choice, and make that choice surrender.
Surrender, and let God prove Himself to you.
Surrender, and let Him reach out to you in your shadow.
It doesn't have to be this way.
You are not a captive.
There is nothing wrong with the process.

there's a good post in the works, but as of now it's drafted on the pages in my mind.

just thought i'd put that out there.

when thoughts become words

today is sunday, the first sunday in august, and the first time i've had a moment to myself in months. i cozied up with that moment, wrapped myself in its floppy arms all awkward like a prom picture, and set about to putting away the laundry i'd done the day before.


to set the scene for the thoughts you're about to read, i should tell you i'm conflicted. not the Ohmygod I'm just so sad and my life is desolate because I'm not where I want to be and it's painful and I know where I should be but I can't get there and that's the worst part! kind of conflicted, but more of the What do I freaking DO with myself now that I'm exactly where I want to be, which is where God wants me to be? I've never felt so aligned and perfectly placed in my life and I almost feel like stepping out of bounds just to mess something up and feel human again! kind of conflicted.


you know, the conflict that comes from making peace in war, from finding purpose in pain, from knowing that there's nothing good in me but there's everything good in a God who orchestrates it all.


i've been traveling around a bit lately. i've been working at my part-time internship with this great organization called DC SCORES tuesdays through thursdays, but on the weekends i've been bookin' it. went to the Outerbanks with my mom and brothers and aunt and uncle (ok well i cheated and missed work for that); to Newport Folk Festival and Boston with friends, made a pit stop in Jersey along the way; headed to NYC just 2 nights ago to see the honorable Jon Foreman put on a show, contemplated life on the Brooklyn Bridge and drove back to DC through the night; awoke and went to West Virginia yesterday morning to meet up with friends from back home.


which leads me to today, this moment, on the 8th floor, on the carpet of the Rudeshack. thinking. 
i have a question for you. when traveling, do you ever find yourself thinking Oh yes, I could see myself living here! or Holy crap, WHY would I ever subject myself to living here?! 


well i think about these things all the time, so my recent travels have been no exception. here's what i've come up with:

• i've decided i want to live in New York sometime-- soon, preferably. every time i'm in that city it calls out to me and gives me a new reason for blessing it with my presence
• i definitely never want to live in the Outerbanks; i can think of many a beach on a better coast (cough the West Coast cough) that offer a much better vibe and raw beauty 
• West Virginia is great because life is simple and slow and open, but living there would leave me unstimulated and sad
• and as great as Newport and Boston are, Newport is just a bunch of Sperry-wearing sailors and Boston gets NASTO weather in the wintertime

and then there's DC.
and this apartment, the Rudeshack.
the Rudeshack and i are going on our 3rd year together, and it's feeling like home. DC is feeling like home. DC has felt like home. but each of those places i've just mentioned, albeit some of them places i'd NEVER want to inhabit, communicate some variation of that this is home feeling to me when i'm in them.


which leads me to ponder that perhaps home isn't a place; perhaps it's something more.


perhaps Jon Foreman has it right when he sings This is Home. maybe home isn't a place on a map, and maybe it's more a place within. a place of peace and aspiration, a place of purpose and action and dreams and reckoning.
a dwelling place, in which dwells a God more personal and real and loving than i know what to do with.
come to think of it, maybe Jon Foreman said it even MORE right when he sings House of God Forever. or maybe, just maybe, i should stop stalking Jon Foreman in both the literary and the literal sense, and point out that David said it right AND said it first, when he wrote Psalm 27.

One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to seek Him in His temple. For in the day of trouble He will keep me safe in His dwelling; He will hide me in the shelter of His sacred tent and set me high upon a rock. (new int'l version, verses 4-5)

maybe home isn't a place, not yet at least, that i can find. maybe home is wherever God takes me in life, because He's with me and in me as He takes me. maybe home is wherever He is. which is a pretty beautiful thought.


i'll leave you with one final thing i created. (see below.)
i wrote it just a few minutes ago, when i couldn't stand the hum of the three air conditioning units any longer. as grateful as i am for air conditioning in this DC heat, i sure did damn those things under my breath. or maybe it was aloud; i'm not really certain, as i am home alone and i can say anything i want because no one is here to hear me!


ps.
just kidding, air conditioners. you're great! and appreciated! and loved!!!1!1


anyways. here you go. enjoy.










title: a poem, a cry


i've forgotten what silence sounds like.


HELP! CAN'T ANYONE HEAR ME!
don't leave me alone with my thoughts


but worst of all,
don't leave me alone with the souuundds


ah! why are they so amplified!


why could i never before hear the jangling of my bracelets?
why is the air conditioning unit SCREAMING at me?


I WANT TO SCREAM BACK.
i want to make a sound, ensure this isn't a dream, that i'm real, that i matter.


GET AWAY YOU DAMN THING. STOP CHASING ME INTO MYSELF.


the water faucet makes a sound?
who knew a spicket could sing.
sounds more like the screeching of a crow than a chorus of angels...
maybe i should start some music.
it will slow things down, reduce the jitters, ease the tension, provide an escape


an escape
from the sound of silence
that attacks me randomly, repeatedly, acutely
sharp and short like a blood sugar test
heavy and raw like an undercooked steak hitting an empty stomach: unchewed, hard to swallow, impossible to digest.


silence quick and relentless like an infantry on battlefield, led by cavalry and weapons and flags,
each one waving and poking and pushing at me as he passes.


I HEAR YOU GOD
I AM LISTENING


You haven't given me much of a choice have You?
okay, well.
what do You want to do? ...can You say something please? because all i hear is this pen against the paper and the creaking of the walls and the traffic down below and the wind as it rushes up against the panes, and all the while the stupid air conditioner marks time with its steady hum, making me wish i knew what key ihwe89128795#$!@5l2gye21 was in, because that's what it sounds like. making me wish i had an ear for telling what key things were in at all.


is this what You had planned?
for me to be alone,
plagued by the sound of silence and the constant Simon and Garfunkel references that phrase brings to my mind?


maybe it is.
maybe You're saying:
I AM HERE
CAN'T YOU HEAR ME?
can't you feel Me poking and prodding you to get off your sorry ass, kneel down before me, and worship me simply because 
I WAS
I AM
and I WILL ALWAYS BE?


okay, God.
ok ok ok.
i get it.
no more going through the motions, no more being surprised when you "show up."
i get it. you're shown up. you're here.
in the mundane.
full of glory and mercy, power and humility, the sweet and the savory, finality and temporality.
painfully tangible yet soothingly ubiquitous.
you're here.
i get it.
count me in.

a blog is for blogging

i am the Queen of Unfinished Projects. 
crown me, put me on the face of a coin, but whatever you do-- do not dethrone me.


today, however, i did finish one project: belated spring cleaning. i went through bags and boxes of belongings in my apartment and pared them down to three boxes (plus clothes). impressed? i know, don't make me blush any more than i already am. i rewarded my new Minimalist self with a pat on the back, some peach caffeine-free diet coke (who knew that existed, right?), a black bean burger (yum) and a viewing of His Girl Friday, a 1940s flick with Cary Grant in it. he's so classy.


most peoples' to-do lists probably consist of time-sensitive items: check-offable, contained, and quickly completed. my to-do lists are more abstract than concrete, more long-standing projects than quick checks. overarching, really. books i need to read. art projects i want to construct. letters i want to write. conversations to have. places to frolic. to some, this way of prioritizing may seem irresponsible, naive, fruitless. and maybe it is.


so, you see, all this makes me Queen.


a slight concession:
at this point in a post, my counterintuitive gushing usually propels me to make sense of the mess in my head, or else i risk staying still and never getting over the hump. sometimes that's why i blog: it helps me process things. historically, i'd feel it incumbent upon me at this "tipping point" moment to break out a killer quote by a super intelligent thinker, one that lends logic to my ridiculous verbiage and lays out a solid plan for rectification and action. after all, that's what the tipping point, any tipping point, requires--- does it not? you know, the conclusion: that ribbon on the package, the neat and tidy argument, the words that wrap it all up nice and pretty and make a series of inconsequential events important. 


but i can't do that, not this time. 
i can't quote another thinker, and i can't go any further.


but the thing is, i'm not stuck.
or down.
or out.


i'm ready.


i'm ready for adventure. you know, that adventure on the horizon. the one that's getting closer and closer though still all i can see is a shadow of a figure.


i'm ready for the hands of Time to tick right and tick left; counter clockwise, or not. either way they go they have no hold. life moves along, as it always has and always will. to-do's will fall into place. they'll find their way onto my calendar, and i'll find my way in a world i've come to love so dearly. all the while, i'll walk on-- knowing that now, i'm living just a prelude, an introductory movement, an overture. i'll walk on, smiling throughout the glorious prelude and into a life yet to come.


for now, i'll rejoice in the Unfinished Projects, because i'm learning i am just that: 

i am an unfinished project.

beautifully unrefined, originally crafted, and in due course, completed after years and years of pressure and shaping and molding. 

when i forget that i'm unfinished, i get caught up in the to-do's. i find myself believing satan's lies that i'm not productive enough, not solid enough, not focused enough. the worst days i have are the ones when i forget that the purpose of life is not in the living, but the dying. it's ironic, right? Christ died for me, and i live in Him only because i die to self. remembering that integral component of His holiness brings me more liberation than i ever could have imagined. 


i've hidden behind needless productivity, behind emotional stress or final papers or powerplays and pursuits. i've hidden behind those trivial to-do's.
ah, so pasé. 


modified to-do list, in no particular order and subject to change, for the new Minimalist in me:  


hike Old Rag, Half Dome
make redred
sleep under the stars
go to the moon
get a job
Bob Ross day
get pilot's license 
graduate
climb a tree
call mom




yours sincerely,
meredith

part I

In the last sixteen days, I have seen two oceans. Flown in four planes. Lived in two countries and three separate time zones. I have ridden, a blissful passenger, through five different states in a menagerie of cars: a Pontiac, a Honda Civic. A Chevy Suburban. A Volkswagen Jetta, Volkswagen Jetta convertible, and yellow Volkswagen bug. A Toyota Camry, an Acura, and a really old Saturn. I've stayed the night in D.C. twice, gone home to West Virginia, slept at my sister's Beverly Hills apartment, and crashed at Brooke's La Cañada abode. I've walked among the eclectic shops at Venice Beach, smuggled 8 whole Tilapia fish through U.S. customs, long-boarded, enjoyed wine and cooked good food, gone hiking in the beautiful California coastal mountains, read my first Dan Brown book, dog-shopped, road-tripped to San Diego and Santa Ana, gotten in a tiny fender-bender (don't fret; we're all alive), been introduced to Monty Python and the Holy Grail, consumed more coffee than is physician recommended, talked about Ghana to anyone who'll listen, rocked out to more Needtobreathe than I can bear (almost), watched all three Lord of the Rings, gotten sunburned, eaten even more delicious food, listened to Johnny Cash while drinking Diet Raspberry Snapple, and become a Pinterest addict. More has transpired, but I surely can't continue boring you with it. I will say that while I should be exhausted, I'm more rested, refueled, and inspired than ever.

So rest easy, because this post is about to get more interesting. Let's get to the meat of it. Or, seeing as I'm a pescatarian again, I might say: I've got bigger fish to fry.

The bigger fish, you ask?

I am going to try my hand at fiction.

This is a big step for me, and I can't believe I'm taking it. I guess you could say this is my maiden voyage. I will in no way guarantee its splendor; I could certainly sink it, as I have no idea what I'll write about. I haven't written fiction since… well I honestly don't know the last time I wrote something fictitious. I'll eat my hat if this turns out remotely enjoyable to you, the reader. As it were, just today I decided I was past-due for a new post; but a blog post about what, I did not know. So I asked my other half, Emma, for ideas. She suggested fiction, a post on Returns, or a post on the glorious West.

For some reason, fiction beckons.

Enjoy.

__________________________________________________

"You don't smoke, do you? Like, cigarettes?"

Spence wheeled around on the heel of her worn flats, searching her mother's sun-kissed face and wrinkled brow for any sign of jest, clearly caught off guard by the direction the conversation just took. Five minutes together, and already her mom was peppering her with questions.

"Mom, I don't smoke. I have asthma, remember?" Ha, smoking. Of all things. I've been gone a couple of years, but there's no way she could forget that fun time in my life…

Spence temporarily checked out, her mind wandering back to all those years her mom sat on the edge of her bed night after night administering repetitive Nebulizer treatments; fetched her Canada Dry ginger-ale from the kitchen downstairs to soothe her burning throat; scratched her back until Spence, subjugated by exhaustion, dozed off. She felt a rush of gratitude, mixed with that proverbial twinge of guilt, at the memory and quickly pushed the thoughts into the recesses of her mind.

The only thing that mattered now was that mother and daughter were together, in New York, united, again.

"Mom, let me take your bag. That's it, okie, to the right, this way," Spence said as she extended her arm, gently sliding it over her mom's petite and bony frame. She guided her through the revolving doors of her apartment complex The Jetty, an unassumingly tall structure, complete with gaudy foyer and unusually friendly front-desk assistants. Spence appreciated how The Jetty employed friendly people, because that way her mom couldn't argue that all of New York was too rude, fast-paced, and impersonal a place to live.

"Is that your sister?" asked the assistant on duty as the two women walked up to the desk. "Oh how nice, she's come to visit!" she exclaimed at the sight of the the small yet eye-catching fuschia suitcase.

"Actually, Ms. Pammy, she's my mom," Spence replied matter-of-factly, trying real hard to keep her thin lips from breaking into a smile. She always did like shocking other people with this little diddy. She glanced over at her mother: short, slender, sure of herself. Just like Spence, only with sandy-blonde hair-- and a few greys, if you looked hard enough. Her mom wore a black dress cut just low enough in the front to reveal the slightest bit of cleavage. Scandalous. She called it her "city dress." Said she couldn't wear it back at home because the small town folk judged her for it.

Spence laughed to herself while her mom chatted up Ms. Pammy. Her mom did look rather young, especially in the face. She had laughing eyes, and good skin. Spence hoped to goodness she'd inherited the same skin and, hence, the same good fortune. 'Cause she sure as hell wanted also to be mistaken for a 23-year-old's sister once she began nearing the 50-year 'Over the Hill' mark.

The pair left the foyer, turned the corner, and made their way up the back stairwell. Along the way, her mother-- being the type of lady who appreciates the luxury of an elevator more than the simplicity of a stair-- berated her daughter with the usual remarks, which Spence endured with practiced patience:

"Tell me again why don't you get a place with an elevator? God knows you can afford it, with that hoity-toity magazine job of yours."

and

"Are you still on that no-meat kick? What do you even eat? And how much do you spend on groceries? You look too skinny."

or, her favorite:

"Move back home, honey. You can get twice or three times the square footage for the same price! Plus a washer and dryer. A place down the street from me just opened up. And besides, Adam Cooley-- you remember him, he played quarterback when you were in high school? Well he just moved back to the area. Saw him in the pew in front of me at church the other day, looking good as ever. And, he's single again!"

Smile and nod, Spence repeated to herself. Smile and nod. She was very good at the smile and nod.

Her mom could talk on and on and on until she was blue in the face-- Plausible, Spence mused, since mother often strikes up lengthy conversations with the dullest of characters-- about how a change of scenery or occupation might be good for her daughter, but Spence had already made up her mind. Though she didn't like to admit it, certain circumstances presented an exception to the 'Mother Knows Best' rule of thumb she'd always followed. Because, the thing was, Mother didn't know at all; she was in the dark, completely and totally. As much as Spence loved her mom, and as guilty as she felt for keeping her secret, Spence couldn't tell her the truth. It was for her own good; the less she knew about what Spence really did for a living, the better.

Because lately, even Spence had to admit things had gotten a little too risky.

...To Be Continued...

suitcases and storms

Dark storm clouds are moving in. 

I have been watching them for the past fifteen minutes from the window behind the desk at which I sit, the fifteen minutes I set aside to write this post. They are moving very fast, and I fear I will be caught in rain on the walk back to my hostel. As beautiful as the rainy season is, maybe its inconvenient timing is Ghana's way of making my exodus in two weeks' time to the motherland less bitter and more sweet.

I've been thinking about suitcases lately, mainly because I'm wondering how the hell I'm going to fit everything I've accrued this semester into mine on the way home. I will be leaving several things here, but I've also bought heavy stuff and I'm taking a Kente garment to my Ghanaian roommate's mom who lives in Alexandria, VA. Kente is really heavy and expensive stuff; it's Ghana's premier fabric, the stuff chiefs (or sometimes Bill Clinton) wear on special occasions. 

Suitcases are funny things. They make our lives easier, but only on international flights. Fly domestically with one of these suckas and they'll charge you $25 USD before you can bat a pretty eyelash and say "boo." 

So this is a poem about my suitcase, and how it can't carry everything.

Which I am okay with.

See you in two weeks, America.

movementONE.

precious contents bound by nylon, lock and key

bulky

wheels for toting,

handles for lugging

it lags behind me, clutched in the grip of my curled fingers

i look ahead

movementTWO.

security checkpoints, x-rays,

herded through, as cattle

destinations and printed labels

i release my grasp, let it go;

whirrs past on a conveyor belt

out of sight

see you there

freedom

movementTHREE.

step one: disembark

step two: show passport; prove identity

step three: claim what is rightfully mine

movementFOUR.

we step out together through automatic doors

it lags behind me, clutched in the grip of my curled fingers

did i forget any thing?

rather, could that thing be stuffed in a suitcase?

wooden trinkets, Kente fabric, ticket stubs and red dusty clothes: 

altars of a land i used to tread

substitutes for a life i cannot pack away

we're off to new lands, so hold on to my hands: it's easter time in GHANA

Out of Ghana's 24+ million people, 68% are Christians.


It's impossible for me to escape God in Ghana, or at least, impossible to escape mention of God. I've been preached to by screaming self-ordained reverends on 5-hour bus rides, sung to by gospel choirs in the courtyard of my dormitory. Pictures of Jesus or the Virgin Mary are everywhere: on tro-tros (large vans for public transportation), in shop windows-- I even met one man who wore a suit made out of fabric with Jesus's face all over it.


I have never seen so much Jesus at one time.


That said, knowing what I know about the typical Ghanaian's dedication to all things Christian, I figured Easter ain't no joke in Ghana.


Now, two days post-Easter, I can say with certainty that Easter is HUGE here.
It's a public holiday. All public/private universities get four days off. Everyone celebrates. Those who have the ability travel to one place: the Eastern region, arguably the most luxurious region in the country. There are mountains, oh so many mountains! The air is cool, the mosquitoes few, the roads paved and free of trash. The streets turn into one big party, causing traffic backups. The alcohol flows freely (well, not literally.. you still have to pay for it), no one works, and every one lets go of all responsibility for the occasion. Azonto (the preferred dance of my Ghanaian peers) finds its way into the streets as well, any time, anywhere. Big bandstands even hold Azonto Dance Competitions for all who think they are just THAT good at Azonto-ing. Fights break out, sometimes about trivial things, other times due to family drama. People stay up late, eat a lot of fufu and goat meat, dress up to the nines.


You know, just your typical Easter.


I spent Easter weekend at my friend Ruth's family's home in Kwahu-Pepease, a small rural town in the Eastern region, with some friends from school and Ruth's Auntie Amma-- aka the best Ghanaian cook known to man.


Timeline of events:

• FRIday: travelled to Pepease. An all day affair, on horrible roads in a big orange bus. I swear one time we hit a pot hole that sent me flying three feet up from my seat. Three feet, I tell you. It was so much fun. Held a woman's baby when she got out of the bus to pee on the side of the road. For the first time, I wasn't nervous to hold someone else's child. Victory.
• SATurday: happily ate DELICIOUS food, met lots of people and saw great sights in the mountains, went to the Paragliding Festival. Crashed a party that night. Attended Azonto competition. Took a bucket shower.
• SUNday: Easter Sunday. Awoke early, perched precariously between two options: go to church or go hiking? For those of you who know me well and know my restless tendencies even better, I think you know what I'm going to say...

I went hiking.


The way I saw it, I could either: go to church which is something I've 1) already done in Ghana and 2) done for the past 20 years of my life on Easter Sunday *OR* go find this awesome trail I learned about from a Peace Corps volunteer. In the spirit of the Ghanaian Easter, which I perceive as "anything goes," I chose hiking. (An aside-- afterward, I didn't feel bad for choosing the hike because I learned church was officiated all in local language, and it lasted like 5 or 6 hours.)


The adventure started out well enough. We caught a cab to Mpraeso, a junction the Peace Corps guy had told us to catch a ride at. But from there on, the plan failed. No one knew about this town or hike I was talking about, and the phone number we had gotten from the Peace Corps guy for directions was disconnected. We were lost. But, this one taxi driver mentioned the town of Obo and I had a good feeling about it, so we got in a taxi anyhow and to Obo we went.


We were in the taxi, driving on winding roads for a LONG time in the middle of nowhere. Though there were mountains all around and they seemed to call out to me, "Meredith, come hike me! Choose me!" there was also bush-- aka scraggly vegetation not suitable for hiking-- and Ghana doesn't exactly have parks with designated trails as America does. Thus, we were at the mercy of the cab driver and a girl in the front seat named Ludeis. Ludeis invited us to her home; she said knew of a hike near by. With no other better option and no where to be, we ended up on her front porch and met her whole family. She asked us if we wanted to go party (it was 10 A.M. haha) but we said no, we really wanted to hike...

Another aside---
This is Ghana in a nutshell. Well, this is MY experience in Ghana, in a nutshell:
NOTHING EVER ENDS UP AS PLANNED. In fact, IT ENDS UP BETTER THAN PLANNED.

Ludeis led us to none other than the Ghana Hiking Festival, a festival on top of a mountain, with a hike into a cave, that only happens once a year on Easter. I got to wear a headlamp (!!! I was sooo happy.) and hike up this huge hill using a rope. The cave was awesome and cold and so large; it was used by one thousand Ashanti warriors in the 1700s to hide from Kwahu warriors during their war for territory. After the hike, we ended up dancing tribal dances to drums, and then Azonto-ing, with random Ghanaians in the middle of a forest.
Random, you say? Such is my life.

In Ghana, there are three phrases I've picked up (among others) which I'll probably never stop saying:

1. It is finished: means something is gone, no more. Instead of saying, "We're out of beans," or "There are no more seats left in this cab," Ghanaians say, "The beans are finished," or, "This cab is finished." 
2. I am coming: used to reassure or express delay; replaces the American English phrases, "Gimme a minute," or "Wait, hold on a sec."
3. You're invited: means, "You're welcome to join" or "Help yourself." Especially used at meal times, since people customarily invite one each other to their meals. I.e., my roommate literally invites me to her meals of rice and sardines every day, even if I'm just getting out of bed and haven't opened my eyes or brushed my teeth. "Meredithhhhh, you're invited!!" is something I hear quite often. Sharing food has become normal. ..Hoorah sanitation!

The bottom line:

It is finished. Christ died for us, and rose again, offering to us undeserved grace and a reason to hope. But beyond that, He is coming. He is walking before us, and will return to this earth to bring it full-circle. And not only that, but you're invited to get in on the action; to pick up your cross, lay down your burdens, and walk confidently in the incomprehensible love of the Father. After he rose again, Jesus promised in Matthew 27.18-20:

"All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth. Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age."

Where are you walking? Take the first step, even if you don't have a specific destination in mind-- 'cause I assure you, He does. The Bible says we may plan our ways, but that He directs our steps. We have freedom, authority, and responsibility to walk boldly and make disciples, wherever we are.

The crazy thing is that I deserve death. You deserve death. We all do. I deserve to be six feet under. I am the chief priest, the elder, the scribe-- the one who mocked Jesus and told him to climb down off the Cross and save Himself, if he was indeed the Son of God as he claimed. I deserve death, and I always will.

But He gives me life. 

Grace is an invitation to be beautiful. We are covered by His blood, and invited to a beautiful story. I never would've thought my steps would have led me to Ghana, but here I am. Here I was, on Easter, in a cave, learning more and laughing more and loving more than I ever thought possible. 

Where is your story? He walks before us, He's established it to be. So, go.

I've learned so much while abroad that I often can't articulate it, hence the reason for not blogging since February. But if anything, Ghana has taught me that things work out. They just do. It's not luck, or coincidence, or chance. It's providence. There may be pain or confusion or miscommunication along the way, but God's walking ahead of us and there's nothing any power of this world can do to stop Him. He walks before us, constantly switching things up in His perfect way, tangling us up in a beautiful mess of dependency on Him and purpose in him and relationship through him.  

Wherever you are, celebrate. Celebrate the death and resurrection of Christ. Celebrate the new life He's given us sinners, at the cost of God's only son. Whether the Ghanaian way, the American way, the Polish Dyngus Day way, celebrate.

That is what I've learned this Easter.

co incidents.

one of my friends recently told me he admired how i clearly communicate my thoughts in my blog posts. i'm not sure my thoughts are always that clear. on the contrary, i feel like i babble on and on incoherently most of the time, which is why i made a label for my posts called "nonsensical verbiage." which is what i feel is about to happen as i start this post...


i'll begin with a favorite anecdote my parents love to tell of my childhood. they packed up our chevy suburban, complete with car topper and three small children, and headed out of beckley, west virginia, bound for mississippi. the journey was 12 hours long, the road was hard, but hey there ain't no rest for the weary. anyhow as the story goes, we got to the stop light at the bottom of the hill about a mile from our house and my little 4 year old self squealed out from the back seat, "are we THERE yet?"


sometimes i live my life like that. am i there yet? is it time? when will i arrive at point x?


when i first got to ghana, i didn't fall in love with the place. i still don't think i have. the city of accra is not beautiful or charming. it's dirty. and the way it operates boggles my mind; i don't know how it holds itself together... from my naive outsider's perspective, there is hardly any infrastructure or structure to begin with. everyone just kind of does their own thing but at the same time looks out for each other more than any average joe in america would ever consider doing. it's like when you put water in a bucket and spin it around and the water doesn't fall out because of the physics of it all-- accra is like that. it's spinning around, running around like a chicken with its head cut off, but nothing ever goes terribly wrong.
so these are my thoughts five weeks into my time here in accra.


this week i realized that i could see myself staying here for a long time. for the first time ever, i wasn't opposed to putting down roots. i had stopped asking, "are we there yet?" without even knowing it. i'm not sure what brought this change. perhaps it was tuesday, when i listened to country music while it rained, and my worlds collided in a burst of nostalgia. or perhaps it was that evening when i went on a run through a residential area and could have easily convinced myself i was running on yellowbrick road at my uncle's house in mississippi. the red clay, the old men gardening, the kids getting home from school, the humid heavy air-- my second burst of nostalgia.
but none of this was the bad kind of nostalgia. have you ever read up on nostalgia? it can bring feelings of joy or sadness. this nostalgia was pure joy. joy that i can appreciate the past, the good ol' days, at the same time as i enjoy this new adventure. my story is being written, the pages are being filled up faster than i can comprehend. day by day they fill, creating a chapter of life unique specifically to this place and this time.


wednesday i went to Mokola Market, the largest outdoor market in west africa. FREAKING HUGE and CRAZY place. you can buy everything from soap to cow skin from a cow killed 2 days ago to cloth to pots and pans to alcohol to clothespins to straws from Subway to meat pies to prada knock-off purses. i'd seen it featured in the episode of Amazing Race when the cast went to ghana and made fools of themselves, but this was my first time experiencing the place in the flesh. (actually, and sadly, come to think of it, that episode of Amazing Race was the only thing i'd really seen about ghana upon arrival here 5 weeks ago. it all came about because hannah young made me watch it while hanging out at her apartment before i left in december. we made fun of the show as the cast members tried to sell sunglasses in the market and got laughed at and ripped off by locals haha.)


ok so back to the point:


who- me and a friend
what- buying sunglasses
when- wednesday
where- mokola market
why- to explore
how- arrived by tro-tro, traveled on foot


did you catch that? buying sunglasses. i was with my friend harrison and he bought sunglasses. and i was like, man, this is crazy. hannah and i were JUST watching this a coupla months ago. and it just happened. at that moment i couldn't get over the coincidence of it all. but really, is anything coincidence? 


i told hannah about it later (hi hannah, i know you're reading this and i love you) and she sent me this quote by her favorite theologian, Frederick Buechner:

...People laugh at coincidence as a way of relegating it to the realm of the absurd and of therefore not having to take seriously the possibility that there is a lot more going on in our lives than we either know or care to know. Who can say what it is that's going on? But I suspect that part of it, anyway, is that every once and so often we hear a whisper from the wings that goes something like this:

"You've turned up in the right place at the right time. You're doing fine. Don't ever think that you've been forgotten."

so stop asking if you're there yet. and i'll do the same. let's look around us and find beauty in the mundane. in the unexpected. know that you have a purpose wherever you are; embrace it. similarly to what sarah mchaney said in her XA blogpost, doubt is normal-- and more than that, it is the questioning that makes us grow. but it's what we do with it that matters.

a post on listening right and speaking well, and what to make of it all

a haiku4u:

we'll play it by ear

in one ear, out the other

that's how it works right?

i'm not writing any long blog posts on observations like i did the last two times. writing those posts was, for me, actually quite a laborious process. i'm not really into detailed observations and notes. 

i did, however, take some notes in my Twi language class today…notes on what i wanted to say in this blog post. hahaha. oops, i should have paid more attention to the lecture right? i couldn't help it! as my professor continued talking and writing on the board, it was hot and i the heat encouraged distraction and i started doodling, and thinking about how language and interactions shape the culture i've thus far experienced here. and then i started thinking about how that ties in with what i've been reading in Donald Miller's "Blue Like Jazz."

so stay with me.

hurrrrrr we go….

1. social barriers and taboos aren't the same. 

i learn fast about others, and others learn fast about me. common questions or explanations in many blossoming (and by blossoming i mean we JUST met) friendships include, "do you have a boyfriend?" or "do you want a boyfriend?" there is also, "are you christian?" and "you are beautiful!" and "what's your phone number? what's your room number?"

in America we don't move that fast. the difference in social cues makes me laugh. i'm totally comfortable with opening up this fast, it just amuses me to think about what would happen if i asked some rando on the DC metro all these questions during a morning commute.

2. conversations when it's all a sham.

so there's times when friendships move fast and it's genuine. but there's also those times when this thing called dishonesty dirties the waters of conversation. 

there are two ways this happens.

first, sometimes the locals i talk with are putting on a show all along, just for kicks and giggles. this doesn't happen all that much but it's amusing when it does. examples include times when a guy comes up to me and says, "i want to marry you. i love you. you are the best girl and you DESERVE the best, girl. i am professing my love to you right here and now. will you marry me?" 

in this instance, i know that he isn't serious. (some girls in my program really freak out when this happens because they don't realize it's like the ghanaian version of a pick-up line and NOT a legitimate proposition.) i don't freak out, but i've adopted the position of looking at him like he's the biggest idiot in the world and either walking away or changing the topic. i think next time i'll jump up and down and exclaim, "OMG YES! I'LL MARRY YOU! i thought you'd never ask! smooches! g2g to call my mom and tell her the news!!" and see what he says. he's just joking anyway, i might as well give him some of his own medicine.

along those lines, there are also times when i get my own chance to joke around. some of my friends and i have started telling people we're from Slovenia, or Norway, or Serbia. it's really fun, because we can put on weird accents and do a lot of improv. i know you might be judging me right now, because you might be thinking this is really rude slash deceitful of me. but i only do it when i'm meeting someone i'll literally never see again, usually someone hassling me for money. and usually it's a Rastafarian on the beach. the beaches here have hoards and hoards of Rastas just chillin, doing their own thing and trying to sell stuff. lots of stuff. telling them my real name just wouldn't be as fun. and besides, humor is universal. most of them aren't fooled by my stunning improv skills.

3. language as etiquette: saying "please" twice

if you're one of those people who like to beg and weasel your way into getting what you want, or if you're one of those people who often pulls the "please sir, i want some more" (in a british accent) line, then Twi is the language for you. saying "please" here is just expected, pretty much all the time. especially when a younger person speaks to an elder. but saying please is also expected in interactions with merchants, taxi cab drivers, etc. 

there are two different words for "please," one that you use at the beginning of the sentence and one that you can use at the end. some parts of ghana even use "please" before they insult some one.. i.e. "Please, you look like a fat cow." 

so, if you want to say please like a ghanaian, here's how you say it:

mepaakyew (pronounced meh-pach-oo) is the please you'd use to preface your sentence.

wae (why-ay) is what you'd use (and possibly repeat, for emphasis) at the end of your sentence.

4. a lingusitic anecdote for your enjoyment

i am learning not to assume i know the meaning of certain phrases in Twi until i see them written down. why, do you ask? well because i'm usually flat out wrong. sadly cognates do not exist between Twi and English, as they do for English and Spanish. 

you know the term "mamasita" in spanish? well i thought people were calling me a mamasita left and right when i first got here, and i was like, "hmmm that's a weird Spanish phrase to be in ghana.. all i've heard so far here is 'adios.'" that was until i saw it written down and saw that what they were really saying was "ma me sika" which means "give me money." hahahahahaha i laughed at myself really hard. all along i was flattered, but what was really happening was they were asking me for money. oh, how the mighty fall.

5. and finally, what Twi is teaching me about community and family.

ghana prizes its community and family relations. i learned yesterday that a word for aunt or uncle doesn't exist in Twi. there's a similar word, one used for your parents' friends or for people around your parents' age. but, for that legitimate aunt/uncle relation (your mom and dad's siblings) you'd just refer to them as your 2nd, 3rd, or 4th, mother or father. 

as i thought about it, that's a huge statement: that we are to care for our extended family just like our parents. that concept is something i really value; it resonates with me, i guess because it aligns so well with how much i value family and community in general. it also challenges me. like, what am i going to do with this, to make what i'm learning mean something?

...and then there's donald miller. i'm finally half way through Blue Like Jazz, and now i see why everyone raves about it. i borrowed it from hayley elliott years ago and never got past the first 10 pages, but now i can't put it down. at this season in my life i'm just eating up miller's words. anyhow i've been reading the impressions of christianity he formed before he became a christian, and about his impressions even after becoming a christ follower. he talked about how he used to judge Christ by the way he heard the idea delivered-- not by the merit of the idea itself. it's giving me a lot to think about in my own walk with Christ, and it's also giving me a new way of looking at the importance of listening and speaking well in my interactions here.

as i'm in the process of learning new social cues and new culturally ingrained ways of interacting, both of which are wrapped into and defined by this new language, i'm seeing that the WAY things are delivered is not what i should focus on. it's important to note, so that i can respond back appropriately. but ultimately, i should focus on the message BEHIND the delivery, the person behind the delivery, the idea behind the delivery. i should discover, seek to understand, and be understood. i should be myself, and free others to be themselves. when in ghana, do as the ghanaians do-- but ultimately remember that i'm here for a reason.

a haiku for you... then, adieu. 

we'll play it by ear?

that won't cut it anymore

be intentional

ps.
happy birthday uncle steve!
or should i say papa steve. bahhaah

where you lead, i will follow

yesterday i talked with my mom on the phone.

moms make everything better.

or at least, mine does. 

she's like the lorelai gilmore of the real-life dimension.

as soon as i started talking with her, i started processing all the changes and challenges i'm facing right now-- things i didn't, before now, let myself think much about. until now, i've been taking in everything and it's gone in one ear and out the other, in my eyes but not to my heart. i don't yet know if i'll fall in love with ghana like i'm in love with washington, dc, or south africa, or even west virginia. but i do know that i'm going to take it one day at a time, and i'm going to be a critical observer and participator of all i experience. 

so, i'll begin by taking you on an abbreviated (hopefully) tour of my last few days here:

last week.

-i learned to dance. 

dances of west africa are so much fun! i first learned a dance choreographed by my friend Atsu, a dance and performance graduate from the University of Ghana. he graciously toned down the difficulty for us, since most of us do not know how to dance. also i think he wanted us to look good because we have to perform it at a welcome gala this weekend. 

the second dance session consisted of a dance workshop held by the head of the dance department, and it was amazing. i'll be taking his dance class this semester, and i honestly can't wait. the professor talked about the significance of dance in this culture, and how ghanaians are raised dancing. even as infants, he pointed out, they're fastened around their mothers' backs and bounced up and down with the rhythm of work and commute. coming from a mother who doesn't dance except when she wants to embarrass me, and a father who prides himself in his two signature moves (the moonwalk and a motion that resembles something like hula hooping), i know you're eager to see how this whole dance thing works out for me. so am i, so am i.

-i cheered on the Black Stars.

football here is a world of its own. i mentioned in my last post that sundays are the only time life stops here, but i stand corrected. ghana shuts down for two things: church and football. i had the privilege of experiencing two games last week, against Botswana and Mali. a bunch of us made our way to TymeOut, a bar in one of the hostels here, to watch the games.  i'm trying to figure out how to adequately convey how soccer spectatorship works here. in short, know this: there's lots of dancing. what a surprise. 

my friend emma (not you, emma uebele) said it well when she called it "a ghanaian musical." it really is. you know how in musicals, life is just goin' along-- and all a sudden, people burst into song to express emotion or events in a way like no other, and then BAM! the music stops and before you know it all is back to normal and it's like nothing ever happened? yeh, it's kind of like that. when ghana scores, Azonto (see U Media Films - Azonto - Fuse ODG Feat. Tiffany (OFFICIAL) ), aka pretty much ghana's unofficial anthem, blasts over the sound system for five or ten minutes. the room erupts into mayhem: everyone jumps up, guys rip off their shirts, and go to town on some Azonto. it's impossible to avoid the madness; complete strangers dedicated at least 5 minutes of their precious celebration time to dance with me and teach me Azonto. 

so, in conclusion, this is what happens: goal. people cheer. music turns on. dancing starts. the game continues. everyone still dances. the bartender finally decides it's time to turn the music off. people sit down. silence falls. life resumes.

Azonto.

-i toured the city of Accra: 

its downtown district, its urban poor areas. saw the Atlantic. 

i can't wait to explore the city and get a feel for it, since i've spent most of my time thus far in the ghanian version of suburbs. as we were touring the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial, it began raining HARD: a dry-season rarity! i haven't taken many pictures thus far, but i did take some of the storm clouds around that time. they were breathtaking; it was so good to see something besides dust in the air.

yesterday.

….and then yesterday was a day of its own. it proved another lesson in nothing-ever-goes-as-planned in ghana. i went to church at 8am with a friend and a French-speaking international student to Legon Interdenominational Church. it lasted a VERY long time. on top of the pre-church bible study, there was a baby dedication, a meet-and-greet for first time visitors, several performances, and at least a half hour of announcements. i thought the announcements portion was funny because all the announcements were listed in the bulletin, yet they were announced over the microphone anyhow. the preacher gave a message on the church as Christ's bride, and talked about how we can't discount our past and present selves as we place our faith in what's to come. 

i planned to walk home from church, but this guy that lives in my hostel gave me a ride. we listened to the radio and let me tell you the radio stations here are so weird. they play The Carpenters, random US hits, r&b, traditional African, soul, and gospel. it doesn't matter; come one come all. the exception to the rule: on sundays, they play country music. well, this station does at least. so on the way home from church i sang along to rascal flatts. in ghana. and it didn't feel as weird as it probably should have.

after church i'd planned on going to the beach, because i STILL haven't been and cannot wait to grace the atlantic ocean with my presence, but my friend slash neighbor Rachel fell ill and thought she had malaria. it was just a false alarm (she got antibiotics for her fever/chills/aches anyhow), but we went to the university hospital and spent the afternoon there. it was no beach, still a great experience seeing the inner workings of a ghanaian hospital. the doctor didn't show up for 3 hours, which was apparently better than how it usually works. and it's all open-air, one level. i could pretty much walk anywhere and go in any room i wanted, even though i didn't have clearance. people were laying around in hospital beds, and there were extra beds chillin' outside on the sidewalk. one of our orientation leaders went with us, thank God, because he knew what to do and where to go.

other rando tid-bits of information:

-i did my laundry today for the first time and i think i failed. it's all hand-wash, put outside to dry kind of thing. i think i didn't actually wash it enough though because the stains are still there. in case you were wondering.

-i had two skirts made! and a dress. two ladies camp out in the hostel in the evenings with fabric and measuring tape, and they make amazing pieces of clothing. i picked out some bright and crazy patterns, and i can't wait to have new clothes. i packed rather light, so any new garment is a joy.

and finally, class. ..the reason i'm here. or so they tell me.

well, class starts today. in about two hours. at least, i think it does. there was a huge strike today on campus, the second since i've been here. i don't think it was the teachers though, i think it was the administrators, so we're good.. class should still be a go. people make demonstrations here a lot about salaries and such, since they're government paid (or underpaid) and employed.

my roommate is still not here, but i think i'll have one eventually. apparently she could arrive as late as a week or two from now, since a lot of people just don't show up for class the first week or so. 

here's my schedule, subject to edits/additions/etc. i think i'll have to drop a class, unfortunately.

Poverty and Rural Development (sociology308)

Sociology of Deviant Behavior (sociology314)

Twi Language

Human Osteology and Forensic Anthropology (archaeology312)

Contemporary Ethical and Moral Issues (religion356)

dance class

music (drums)

oh and i might add in an internship/volunteer experience. cause i really want to get involved with a non-profit here.

alright, well the quality of my writing has declined and i have nothing left to say. if you've read this far, bless your soul. i hope this update finds you well in Amurrica, or wherever you happen to be.

sending my love,

meredith