Harar, Ethiopia, October 21, 2013

On my fifth day in Ethiopia, as we descended into the Rift Valley, I was (at last) content to be here. The lush green valley, speckled with banana, mango and papaya trees as well as maize and sorghum plants, gave me the impression of life well-lived. Indeed, this was a prosperous part of eastern Ethiopia--hosting the largest market in East Africa. 

The single lane highway was paved and precisely marked. The houses, set in small groups, were made of brightly painted concrete, red brick, mortar and stone, or eucalyptus framing with animal-dung "stucco". The laundry hung in ordinary lines, to dry. The roadside, and at times the road, was occupied by donkeys, goats, camels and cows, as well as the child-sized herdsmen that followed them with a stick. The brightly-clad women brought joy to the eye and the heart, even as they balanced impossibly large loads on their heads. 

We have spent four days in Dire Dawa and Harar visiting the family of Faven and Yohannes.  Our time with them has been a blessed gift - and a crucial time of healing (most apparently for the family here, who had to make the painful decision to place their beloved "children" in an orphanage--unsure if they would ever see them again). It has been an emotional journey. We have encountered the unexpected: one brother is currently in jail, and the other two siblings cannot find work and have sold everything in order to survive. Their life is very hard, and they live away from their extended family. It is a heartbreaking truth that so many people face here, and it is hard for our kids to understand the layers of complexity in their circumstances. For instance, Faven would like us to simply give them money. It is not so simple. With limited time here, we feel a certain helplessness to create a positive influence on their lives. Nonetheless, we will search for some way of helping. We have encountered joy, as our children have been reunited with their siblings, grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins- as well as a whole community of neighbors who knew them as babies. We have encountered truth, in the telling of the love story that was the beginnings of Faven and Yohannes' life here. We have encountered sadness at the recounting of the many losses.

Their family is large, and each day we are meeting more relatives--and the joy that they are experiencing in the presence of our family is both humbling and consuming. Aunt Mali places both of her hands on our cheeks repeatedly and says, "I like you. I love you". Her smile and her tears - both infectious. (She is in the background of the picture above of Yohannes and his grama.)

Our trip culminated in a family feast at the home of Bekela Aliyu - maternal grandmother. We gathered on the floor of her two-room mud hut, on thickly decorative carpets. Already set on the floor was injera, rice, salad, spicy meat, spicy lentils and potato chips! They served us tall bottles of cold pop. Women kept entering with more and more dishes of food, and placing them on the floor in front of us. The men and children were served first (with the exception of me); the women ate later. Once the children had finished eating, they went out into the courtyard and played with a ball that we had brought with us. In the courtyard with the kids were two goats, a chicken, a dog and a cat. 

We enjoyed a lazy afternoon visiting, drinking freshly roasted and hand-ground coffee, while many of our hosts chewed chat (an addictive, mind-numbing leaf that is prolific in this area). 

It was truly amazing!

Yohannes with his cousin Abee

Aunt Mali

Buziyay, Yohannes, Lauren, Faven, Dagim

Saying goodbye was hard. Watching the family members hug and kiss and squeeze all of our kids was tearful...and warmly satisfying. Our kids have roots here in Ethiopia; this is their beginning. When we came here in 2009, we closed a circle by letting the family know what had happened to their much-loved children; but this time, in the words of Aunt Mali, "Seeing you here is a new beginning". 

Finely Aged Whine

I didn’t think that it would ever hit me! I don’t know how the years crept up on me and then, like Jell-O in a catapult, hit me square in the face and oozed downwards. I look around, and everyone else pretty much looks the same. How could I alone be suffering this indignation? Could it be hereditary?

One day this spring, I put my underwear on, only to find out that the crack of my butt had literally dropped a few inches. My underwear, when viewed from behind (in one of those 3-way mirrors – yes, I have one) hung off of my cheeks as if it were grasping onto the edge of a cliff. My crack was revealed above the elastic band. I pulled it up, and it sagged down; I pulled it up again, and it sagged again. It seemed that the gravitational forces had increased overnight. Either that, or my clothes dryer was running hot, and shrinking my finery.

Gravity is exerting its’ force all over my body. These days, when I strike the pose of downward dog, the skin above my knees wrinkles, sags and dimples like a newborn bum. Now I understand why women wear those really expensive yoga pants! I thought it was a fashion thing—but now I realize it is to hold everything tightly in place giving the illusion of fit and formed. (Why do you think Yogis have to breathe so slowly? And move as if they are in slow motion? It is because their undergarments and yoga clothes are so tight!)

Another area that gravity has remodeled is my bosom. We must, we must, we must increase our bust—the bigger the better, the tighter the sweater, the boys depend on us! What once rose firm and proud below my collarbones now hang lumpy, and stretched somewhere near my lower ribs. When I lie down, they fall right off my chest, landing softly in my armpit. When my kids were a bit younger, this provided many giggles. Settled into bed in our pajamas, they poked my flattened chest, like it was a xylophone and they were the percussionists. Then they gathered my drooping breasts into their scrubby little hands and pushed them back into position. They held them there fleetingly, and then pulled their hands away as if they were performing a magic trick. As my breasts slid over the edge of my ribcage, my kids shrieked with laughter. All fun and games in our house!

It doesn’t end there. Recently while out shopping, I saw a small package with a big promise. “Miracle Bra” it read. I had seen advertisements for this bra, and since gravity seemed to be dragging me down – I bought one and dashed home to try it on. Well, miracle indeed; it was a complete geographical makeover! My breasts, which used to hover over the western coast of South America and the eastern coast of Africa, were pulled and squeezed so that they landed tightly on The Bahamas and Morocco. (Look it up—I know you want to.)

It turns out that there is a whole line of gravity-defying undergarments. I was familiar with bikini panties, hip-huggers, boy briefs, boxer shorts, and underwire and sports bras; who knew that there was a whole line of “shape-shifters—to sculpt your curves and smooth your trouble spots” (Norstrom.com). There are bras, panties, bodysuits, camisoles and leggings to tone hips and thighs, backsides, midsections and of course, the ever-troublesome breasts. I bought a couple of articles and felt a guilty, sinful pleasure when I slipped them underneath my clothes. A lithe woman was reflected back from the mirror. But, I also felt a bit uncomfortable, like I was somehow cheating, (not to mention the difficulty I was having with simple acts, like breathing!)

Some places sag, others bulge. This year, a disc in my lower back bulged out of the space that it had happily occupied for many years. It was such an arduous injury; I don’t want to bore you with the details. Let me just say this—those were the heaviest shoes I have EVER bent over to pick up! My recovery has been slow and incomplete. I was stubbornly determined to return to the soccer field during the outdoor season. I had a fantastic physiotherapist, and together we started to re-build, layer by layer (month after agonizing month).

I did return to the field, stronger in many ways, but not as limber and fluid as I had once been. And I didn’t have a day without pain for several months. I was getting ready for soccer practice one evening this summer and my back and bum muscles were in complete spasm. I was unable to put on my ankle braces, shin pads, socks and cleats. I sat at the kitchen table and cried. My husband came over to me, and gently put my soccer gear on for me. As I got up to go to practice, he softly suggested, “Honey, maybe when you can no longer dress yourself for soccer, you shouldn’t go”. What does he know?

A month later, I came to the same conclusion, and hung up my cleats—from my rearview mirror.

Just days ago, I picked up my 11-year-old daughter from gymnastics. After training, they had to be fitted for their gym suits, so all of the girls were sitting on the beam, and all of the parents were gathered nearby. Laurèn’s friend Julienne looked over towards me with a look of shock on her face and yelled, “YOU”RE FOURTY-SEVEN?!” I looked left; I looked right; I brought my hand to my chest in the universal Me? gesture. “FOURTY-SEVEN!” she yelled again, just in case some of the latecomers hadn’t heard. I nodded, “Yup, fourty-seven”. I had always imagined being center-stage, in a “Sonny & Cher” kind of way, not with giggling children and awkward adults.

Aging—an ever-present train with no brakes. I am swiftly chugging towards fourty-eight; and by swiftly, I mean at a pace somewhere between the fastest human (9.58 seconds/100 m) and the slowest human (standing still). There are days when I can’t seem to put my underwear on, and other days when the possibilities are infinite. So if you think I look good “for my age”, now you know my secrets.

Life

Life is more than the moment and less than the view. It is more mystery than drama. What we don't know can bend us toward insanity. And what we do know is only a thought.

A wing and a prayer

It was a tough evening. I have been slowly recovering from an injury to my lower back, and sitting and driving continue to be uncomfortable (at best). Our kids were in activities at opposite ends of the city, and my husband was out of town, so I spent over two hours simply driving: back and forth, back and forth. When we arrived home, I was in agony, and headed straight for my anti-gravity lawn chair as if pulled by a magnetic force. I sunk back and sighed.

The evening was nice, so despite the late hour, I let the kids play outside. As I gazed out the picture window at the front of our house, I saw our three kids and the neighbor’s three kids gathered in a closed circle, staring down intently at the ground. I watched. Suddenly Yohannes came sprinting back to the house, and flew through the front door. He told me that a baby bird had fallen out of its nest.

"Oh, sometimes that happens", I absently acknowledged. He left.

The neighbor’s kids went inside, leaving my kids in charge of the casualty. I still hadn’t actually seen the bird and assumed that it was a baby that had simply hopped out of the nest, almost ready to fly. I had seen it many times before. A speckled baby, almost full grown, hopping across the grass, enjoying its new found freedom, with a protective mother or father swooping overhead or perching nearby.

However, when I saw Faven gingerly carrying a plastic bag over to our front deck, I saw a small—seemingly lifeless—“being” cradled in the middle. All three of our kids gathered around; Faven was crying and stroking the little bird, Laurèn was pacing and plotting, and Yohannes was whittling a stick with a pocketknife. When I heard Laurèn say, "I am going to gather some worms, you keep it warm", I reluctantly climbed out of my resting place and went outside. All three kids looked up at me, expectantly.

“Guys…… come on, I want you to come in the house; it's time to get ready for bed” I said, unmoved and (even) irritated.

“What!” said Faven, “We can't leave it.”

“We have to, there's nothing we can do,” I replied.

“Please Mom, we have to help it,” Laurèn said, while tugging gently on my arm.

I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words, “Guys” I started, “Sometimes nature is just hard. I’m sorry that the little bird fell out of the tree. But, I don’t think there is anything that we can do, it’s simply too small.”

Faven’s eyes were misty as she trapped my gaze, “He didn't fall out of the tree. His mom pushed him out. We have to help him.”

“Well” I faltered, “sometimes the mom does that. But, we can’t look after a baby bird.”

“Please Mom,” begged Laurèn, “we have to give it a try”.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“I can get some worms and feed him,” she said.

“Oh” I mocked, “You are going to chew up the worms, swallow them, and then spit them up into the baby birds’ beak?” Her expression and withdrawal told me that I had gone too far.

“I don’t know what we can do to help,” I admitted. (Silently, I thought: It’s just one bird).

Laurèn rested her head against my shoulder looking up at me, while Faven pleaded, “He's so cute mom… please.”

I gazed at him lying awkwardly on the hard wooden deck with the thin plastic “bed” crumpled beneath him, his head angled upwards, his body resembled an over-sized scrotum—less the feathers. Cute? I thought not.

Laurèn continued, “Mom, we have to. Give me your phone; I will look up wildlife rescue. We have to try Mom”.

Yohannes whittled, and looked up at me with raised eyebrows as if to say, I think they have a point.

“Okay” I ruefully responded, “We’ll figure it out”.

Yohannes quietly said, “Thanks Mom”.

After about twenty minutes on the phone, with three different people, I finally got some information from the Calgary Wildlife Rehabilitation Society (CWRS).  The woman who answered the phone at CWRS asked me some questions about the bird: Is it hopping around? No, it’s lying on its side with its eyes closed. Does it have feathers? Well, it is mostly just fuzzy, but there are some things that resemble feathers on its wings. Is it moving? Yes, it’s breathing and occasionally moving.

She advised me to take it to the nearest Veterinary Hospital, and gave me the address. I walked into the house, and away from the kids and asked her, “Will they take the baby bird no matter what, because my kids are pretty distressed, and I don’t want to bring it home with me again?” She calmly told me that they would definitely take it, and try and keep it warm until the CWRS could come and pick it up in the morning. The way she said it made me (all of a sudden) believe that rescuing baby birds was a normal thing to do.

The kids packed up the bird and we headed off to the Calgary North Veterinary Hospital. Faven held the box on her lap, and Laurèn asked her every two minutes how the baby (who they named "Beak") was doing.  Reality TV really doesn't get any better than this.

We arrived in the deserted parking lot of the hospital - and headed in.  Yohannes was still carrying the stick and the pocketknife.  Laurèn now had the box. I sheepishly told the admission staff that the kids found a baby bird in our front yard. I still expected someone to say, “So what!” But, instead, they treated that baby bird as if it was a treasure. While I did the "admission" paperwork for Beak, the triage staff called on the overhead, "Steve, wildlife admission at the front." The kids were elated.  I was stunned – wildlife?? Steve came out, and looked into our box and said, "Wow, this one has feathers, he is a lot older than all the other ones that have come in. He's cute." (Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I guess). Steve thanked the kids directly, and just like that Beak was out of our care.

The kids were so excited by the turn-of-events that they chattered and chirped like a flock of birds, all the way home. We got home just before 10:00 pm, and I tried to will them to settle down and go to bed. Eventually, they did. However, even after they were settled, I couldn’t stop thinking about the helpless bird. Why had it fallen into our care? Didn’t I have enough to look after—teaching my own “fallen” birds to stand on their own, and one day fly?

I felt a cold, detachment to this living creature that my children had immediately embraced. Initially, I was “put-out” by the fact that something was required of me. I was not grateful for this opportunity; I simply felt bone-tired. And then, when it felt like the kids and I were at an impasse, I had the briefest moment of clarity. Parenting is unpredictable and inconvenient at its best. Because of unexpected events, our heads are turned in a different direction, and our minds are opened to something otherwise hidden. The life or death of the baby bird was inconsequential to the experience—this was about supporting my children as they faced life. So, I turned towards them and their charge, and found the foot steps right alongside of them. I know that they were changed because of it, and (perhaps) so was I.

Homeless

This morning I woke up even earlier than the previous two, on this long-weekend sojourn to Vancouver. The air was crisp, despite the blue sky and waking sun. I lazily walked the thirty feet that separated the hotel from the Starbucks. I sat, invisibly tethered to my computer, watching and waiting, as words sporadically appeared on the screen. Situated at the corner of Denman and Davie, I could gaze out the window and see the ocean. The cars passing by, along with walkers and joggers provided a rhythmic backdrop to my morning. 

Suddenly, I noticed a man standing on the other side of the window, in front of me, but slightly off to the right. Though I didn’t look up immediately, I could see that he was gesturing. With an uneasy feeling, I took off my glasses, and looked up. He touched his heart with his hand and then pointed it toward me, palm open. My initial thought was that this was a “pick up” gesture. I smirked uncomfortably and looked away. He did not leave. And then, in my mind’s eye, I visualized his face and realized that he was familiar to me. 

Yesterday, my daughter Faven and I got a late start to the day.  Well, truly, she got a late start. I had been up early and writing at Starbucks for a couple of hours when she joined me around 9:30. I got her some breakfast, and we returned to the hotel room to gather our things for the day. By the time we set off, I was hungry for lunch. We left the hotel and headed north on Davie, toward the ocean. We turned right at Denman, knowing that there was a plethora of food vendors on that street. As I rounded the corner, I was passing by a large, curbside tree, and was momentarily spooked when something large moved, right next to my planted foot. I realized it was a man huddled there; I kept walking, taking occasional glances over my shoulder. 

Within the next block, we stopped to enjoy a shwarma, while sitting outside.  I continued to glance down the street to see if the person by the tree was—perhaps just an apparition. He wasn’t. I felt an inner tug to do some small thing to make his day a bit better. After we had eaten, we went back inside and ordered another shwarma; I chose a bottle of juice from the cooler to complete the lunch. We walked back the half-block and I bent down and simply said, “We brought you some lunch”. The man held my hand, and said “Thank you.” He had a vague expression in his eyes that stayed with me for most of the day. 

Faven was moved by the experience, and as she linked her arm through mine, she said, “Thank you Mom”. I thought I could hear tears hanging on her voice, but I could not be certain. I told her that we could not feed everyone in the world who is hungry, but we can feed one person at a time.

This morning, as the man at the window lingered, I realized that it was our lunch guest from yesterday. I looked up again, he pointed to the tree around the corner and then placed his hands in prayer position and bowed ever so gently forward. I sat in awe and humility. He walked on, and so did I; I think we were both standing a little bit taller.

Bent But Not Broken

I recently injured my back.  It turns out to be a fairly significant injury to my disc at L4-5 (low back).  I am not supposed to do any lifting, bending, or twisting and I need to minimize the time that I stand, sit and drive.  I do not care what your job is—these restrictions would make any job difficult.  Mine has come to a grinding halt.

I was setting up some in-house help, so that things wouldn’t completely fall apart, and the woman who I called was very sympathetic to my plight.  During our conversation, she said, “Well, at least you have children.” (pause) I also have pets, but I would hardly call them an asset at this particular juncture.  I had a sneaking suspicion that she did not have any children, so I could hardly fault her for making the assumption that anyone would make. 

Well, it is true, I do have kids!  I am blessed! It is also true that I would not be in this situation IF I did not have kids.  For the injury that I have is a bending-over-and-picking-up-my-kids-crap, kind of injury!! It is a strain of parenting that you cannot anticipate.  And truly, it can be something like a shoe or a sock that “takes you down”. My kids shed their garments like a snake sheds it’s skin—but with greater frequency!  Our floor is looking like the grounds after a day at the Calgary Stampede.  The best I can do is to kick the wayward articles into one heaping pile.  If I can pile it high enough, I can ju-ust reach it without bending over.

In the initial days after the injury, I carried on and did the best that I could given the circumstances.  That only made things worse for me.  I broke the news to the kids that they would now have to pitch in and do the lion’s share of my job – you can imagine their elation.  The one child, who you think would be the most helpful and understanding, began a sulk that has rivaled Ghandi’s hunger strike!  Another child follows me around as if I am no longer able to perform the most basic tasks, like going to the bathroom – “Mom, are you okay in there?  Do you need any help? Remember not to bend down.” And thank goodness for the third child, as that one is blessed with the characteristic of being a natural helper.  When he was in pre-school, he used to help all the “little” kids with their buttons and zippers in the coatroom. (That has sure come in handy, as he can now help me!)

However, it has not been smooth; the first morning that the kids were “on-duty”, I told them of the chores that needed to be done before school.  If this were stand-up comedy, it would have been hilarious.  One child was asked to wash the few dishes soaking in the sink.  Another one was asked to scoop the kitty litter.  Awhile later, they asked me to drive them to school.  I asked them how the chores went (while convalescing in an anti-gravity lawn chair, in the front room).  One of them said, “Oh, I forgot, and I don’t have time to do it now”, and the other one said, “You wanted me to do that now?”  I reminded them through gritted teeth that these daily chores were NOT optional!

I would be remiss if I did not mention my husband, who goes into over-drive during these kinds of circumstances.  That is a blessing indeed! It is unfortunate that he has also had to manage being on-call at the hospital.  Our community has also been a great support in taking kids to and from soccer.

We all know that we are more than our physical symptoms.  My life has been stressful (by times), and I have no doubt that this has played into the injury, even if only because my muscles were so tight.  According to author Louise Hay,  “Ignoring your body just makes it try harder to get your attention—your body is asking for your help.” Further, she says, the back “represents the support of life”; so what better way for me to heal than to ask my family members to be the support in my life.  

Flummoxed

“Hey guys, I would personally like to thank the member of my family who knocked over the jar of olives in the fridge, and left it to ooze over three shelves of food and containers.”

“Oh, what was that?.... You didn’t mean to do it. Unh huh, I see.  Oh, well then, never mind.  I was just wondering what I was going to do with all my free time today– between the laundry, pumping up your bike tires, fixing your rear brakes, gathering the garbage from the van, cleaning the house, feeding the pets, picking up groceries, mowing the lawn, walking the dog, cooking, planning your summer camps and checking into the hospital for a lobotomy!”

Do you ever have one of those days?  The kind that is overwhelming from the minute you get up?  The kind where you are so flummoxed that you water the near-dead plants, and then a minute later – while talking to the dentist on the phone, opening a can of beans to pour in the crock pot, and taking your sick child’s temperature – you water the same plants again, and water pours through as if the plant is a mirage?

Do you ever want to run, full steam ahead, into a brick wall – thinking that you can actually run right through it? Imagine how good that would feel.  Bricks and mortar flying in all directions, a hole the size of… of an elephant, and you standing on the other side, victorious (and free)!  Or, quite possibly, lying on the ground amidst the rubble, with broken wrists, shoulders and collar bones, with blood gushing down your forehead as if you are the centre piece in an elaborate water fountain.  

Okay, I'm not going to do that!

But truly, I don’t know what I AM going to do. I am running a three-ring circus without a safety net.  I am training circus animals who would rather not eat than perform.  I am a juggler incapable of keeping the balls in the air – and the moment I bend down to pick one ball up, several more fly in from all directions; I feel like I have tripped a trap in a paintball battle field.  The bruises are beyond the depth of my skin. 

There is only one thing left to do…… 

Better a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. :)

Enjoy the audio version here:  http://snd.sc/12LpWxF