Mid-life Crisis And Beyond

Some days I wake up convinced I'm going to be the best travel writer Uganda ever had. I'm going to take striking pictures to re-coin the phrase "A picture is worth a thousand words". I'm going to write short stories that will have me sitting next to Alice Munro, Maya Angelou, Chimamanda Adiche, even Toni Morrison. Then I picture myself traveling the globe, taking notes as I quietly observe people.  I will sign autographs and accept awards. I'm not much of a talker so we will keep seminars and workshops to a minimum.
Just when I resolve to make this dream a reality, to commit every free moment to writing, I'm reminded of the poverty of a writer's life. One has to be exceptional at this art to make a decent living. I read articles that stop me cold at their excellent presentation. I couldn’t write half as well. My eyes nearly pop as I scan National Geographic photos  or this guys . My inadequacies stare me straight in the face. I’m not as good, I’m nearly 40 – God help me! 

I have responsibilities; a husband and kids to look after, college to save for, meanwhile loans and bills slip through the mail slot every month. So I collect my dreams, kiss each of them, tell them I love them, gently place them in a safe and lock it because you see “mama’s got to make some money”. May be later, when I’m old and grey and living on retirement funds, maybe then I will pull my dreams out and dust them off. But tomorrow is not promised. 

 I hold the shorter end of the stick at this point in life and one question consistently makes the loop in my head : “If I died today would I have fulfilled my purpose here on earth?” It’s a twist to the Evangelism Explosion question, “Have you come to a place in your spiritual life where you can say for certain that if you died today you would go to heaven?. It is well and good if I can say yes, but there is more. If I stand before God, how would I account for the opportunities, talents and abilities I was given? What about the relationships I'm committed to, the skills I've learned, the places He has allowed me?. 
My answer is no! I haven't lived out my purpose because I live safe. I’m afraid to venture, afraid to say, afraid to do, afraid to expose myself, because I wonder what people will say. Because I wonder what people will think. Because I wonder what people will do with the information. I live a half-life.

Nearly every experience in this country makes me want to write a post, to grab someone’s hand and say “did you see that? Kale if this was Uganda...”. More often than not there isn’t a hand to grab, the ones available may file for harassment, so I rush to my computer and hit the keys. Eh! Then I think of the monster called the Internet, I think Zuckerberg, Snowden, NSA, my manager all looking into my mind. I stand exposed. Big brother all around! I will choke, my fingers will cripple, my head will explode because I can’t share the thoughts and then I will stop breathing because … sigh!  I'm I being paranoid?
 Matthew 10:28 says “Don’t be bluffed into silence by the threats of bullies. There’s nothing they can do to your soul, your core being. Save your fear for God, who holds your entire life—body and soul—in his hands". 
So if God is for me, who can be against me? This knowledge inspires me to be bolder, more intentional even vulnerable.

My convictions center around the evolution of human relationships, babies and the value of life. Around people and their personal stories, cultural interactions, gay sex and the Christian. I would like to write essays and short stories on these topics; to represent these ideas in travel diaries and photography. I would like to share my experiences. Give people a glimpse into parts of the world they may never visit, expose different cultures and ways of life, inspire people to appreciate what they have and give them hope for better days.I hope that maybe my articles will brighten someone’s day, will inspire someone to pray or discover something new. Then I will stretch my legs, fold my hands behind my head and smile “yeah! I did something today”. I know it will not stop world hunger, or the war in Sudan but just maybe it would make a difference in one persons life. 

I was challenged by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's letter from Birmingham jail where he was imprisoned for inciting civil rights activities. His purpose and conviction rule over petty inconveniences such as criticism. He said: "WHILE confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling our present activities "unwise and untimely." Seldom, if ever, do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. If I sought to answer all of the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would be engaged in little else in the course of the day, and I would have no time for constructive work."
I need this boldness to react confidently and with purpose to issues that hop onto my desk, into my relationships and my life. How about you? Are you hung-up on criticisms or do you let them pass like water off a ducks back?

“What would you do if money were not an object?”

Psalm 144 for 2014

 My Prayer

Psalm 144 Of David.

¹ Praise be to the Lord my Rock,
    who trains my hands for war,
    my fingers for battle.
² He is my loving God and my fortress,
    my stronghold and my deliverer,
my shield, in whom I take refuge,
    who subdues peoples under me.

³ Lord, what are human beings that you care for them,
    mere mortals that you think of them?
⁴ They are like a breath;
    their days are like a fleeting shadow.

⁵ Part your heavens, Lord, and come down;
    touch the mountains, so that they smoke.
⁶ Send forth lightning and scatter the enemy;
    shoot your arrows and rout them.
⁷ Reach down your hand from on high;
    deliver me and rescue me
from the mighty waters,
    from the hands of foreigners
⁸ whose mouths are full of lies,
    whose right hands are deceitful.

⁹ I will sing a new song to you, my God;
    on the ten-stringed lyre I will make music to you,
¹⁰ to the One who gives victory to kings,
    who delivers his servant David.

From the deadly sword ¹¹ deliver me;
    rescue me from the hands of foreigners
whose mouths are full of lies,
    whose right hands are deceitful.

¹² Then our sons in their youth
    will be like well-nurtured plants,
and our daughters will be like pillars
    carved to adorn a palace.
¹³ Our barns will be filled
    with every kind of provision.
Our sheep will increase by thousands,
    by tens of thousands in our fields;
¹⁴     our oxen will draw heavy loads.
There will be no breaching of walls,
    no going into captivity,
    no cry of distress in our streets.
¹⁵ Blessed is the people of whom this is true;
    blessed is the people whose God is the Lord.

Amen!

Justice, Rights And A Need To Belong

No recount of slavery: Roots, Amistad, Gone With The Wind moved me like Solomon Northup's 12 Years A Slave. Tears rolled down my cheeks as a read his story. The sincerity in his narration is hard to describe but it pulsates and is tangible on every page. His honesty and hard work under his master shine through, never mind that he was a freeman who happened to be tricked and sold into slavery. One would be bitter and vengeful but his only desire was to see his wife and children again. After reading the book, Martin Luther King Jr's motivation to fight for Civil rights comes afresh to me.

I admire Dr.Martin Luther King Jr.'s passion for justice because it was deeply rooted in his faith. Here is an excerpt from his letter from Birmingham jail.
"Beyond this, I am in Birmingham because injustice is here. Just as the eighth-century prophets left their little villages and carried their "thus saith the Lord" far beyond the boundaries of their hometowns; and just as the Apostle Paul left his little village of Tarsus and carried the gospel of Jesus Christ to practically every hamlet and city of the Greco-Roman world, I too am compelled to carry the gospel of freedom beyond my particular hometown. Like Paul, I must constantly respond to the Macedonian call for aid".

Even though slaves were African's like myself, it happened so long ago that none of my relatives (at least from the oral history past down) were slaves. My grandparents and their grandparents for at least 5 generations lived in Uganda. In America however, there is a flip of the coin. I meet black Americans who are still sore, the pain of centuries ago looms over their heads.They question who they are and where they came from, issues I don't grapple with because I know I'm a Ugandan, an Atesot originally from Usuk.

Demis Roussos and 80's memories

"Music is the short hand of emotion" Leo Tolstoy.

It happens often, a favorite song will spark off memories of people, places and events from my past. As if every song  starts a fresh note of history. It includes any thing from current events, relationships, a stage in life to the news on radio. The other day "The Prayer", a duet by Celine Deon and Josh Groban triggered a stream of memories over 20 years old.  Something about the passionate, sensitive orchestra and operatic voices of a lady and a young man led me back to the house I grew up in. I indulged.

I opened the gate, trotted down the steep drive way and rang the door bell. Aguti rushed to open the front door thinking I was a visitor and I was in some respects. I smiled, thanked her and locked the door behind me. While she returned to the kitchen, I rushed into the sitting room, dropped my bag and pulled out the maroon cassette briefcase that sat under the table, below the music system. I searched for a particular artist - the reason I'd traveled back in time. I scanned through from Lionel Richie, Kool and the Gang, Culture Club, Michael Jackson, Donna Summer to Wham!, when finally there it was, I’d found it! Demis Roussos. I opened the case and sighed with great relief, thankful that the tape was in its right jacket.
Demis, is a large bearded man whose shaky voice filled our house often.

In the early 80's my brother Andrew obsessed with his music, played it consistently. After a while we all learned the choruses, memorized our favorites on side A and B of the cassette and hummed along effortlessly even singing sometimes; " Perdóname If I hurt you I am sorry, I´m just a stranger who came from nowhere one rainy day". .
I returned to 2014, sat at my computer and YouTube saved the day! I found ; "Good bye my love good bye", "Forever and ever", "We shall dance"...

I reminisced about a time and a place when children played more with each other and less with gadgets.  When we waited for UTV  to open at 6:00pm. When Simon and I hurried to finish homework so we could watch The Electric Company.
When Morgan Freeman and President Milton Obote still had big black Afros.

When President Milton Obote held political rallies in all 32 districts of Uganda:
Obote: "a yu! a yu!
People: "a UPC!"
Obote: " In Mba-ra-ra"
People: "a UPC"
Obote: "And in So-ro-ti"
People: "a UPC"
Obote: "What about Pakwach?" 
People: "a UPC"
Obote: "Everywhere"...
 

When Venancio Okello twirled his baton, raised his shoulders and matched ahead of the Uganda police band swaying to the song "eeeh ma-ma!, a UPC, the congress of the people". When scenes of determined black South Africans demonstrating against apartheid and being shot flashed across the TV screen. When Mrs. Ofungi run the best ice-cream store in Kisementi.When Ssebagala's Ugantico was the only Super Market in Kampala.
When we traveled to Serere for third term holidays with 6 children in the back seat of a Toyota Corolla.  Demis Roussos playing on the car radio. When paper bags filled with Hot-loaf bread, blue-band margarine, zesta jam, Tree-top juice and Maria biscuits were loaded into the car boot to be eaten on the journey and while in the village.

Saturday breakfast at Katonga road: Melting butter on crispy toast, milk tea and a lady bird book in hand preferably "Hansel and Gretel" spotted with the history of many previous breakfasts.
I remembered the hunger pangs at 3pm, when the fridge and the cupboards were empty. When the last raisins meant for baking had been nibbled and the honey licked clean off the saucer. 
"DRUM" magazines and cutouts of "Love is"strewn over a blue, white and red home-knitted table cloth. Rays of sunlight streaming into the living room, the heavy flowery curtains drawn and fastened in a knot. The sweet smell of homemade toffee on a shiny Saturday afternoon.

Relatives and family friends who dropped in for a visit unexpectedly. The fear that gripped me when tasked with fetching charcoal from the outside store at night. How I run, my heart throbbing like an incessant African drum beat during imbalu, imagining how "red-green" and other ghosts fabricated by older brothers Simon and Peter were going to catch me.

And so I leave you with my favorite song "My Friend The Wind",  and perhaps you will notice the similarities between Demis and Tevye my favorite character in "The Fidler On The Roof" :-). And yes Leo Tolstoy was right to say, "Music is the short hand of emotion.

"I'll hear her voice and the words that he brings from Helenimou
Sweet as a kiss are the songs of Aghapimou Soft as the dew is the touch of Manoulamou
Oh oh oh

We'll share a dream where I'm never away from Helenimou, Blue are the days like the eyes of Aghapimou Far from the world will I live with Manoulamou
Oh oh oh"

Apple Power

While reading in a Starbucks store, I looked up from my table and smiled when I saw these four strangers using their sleek Apple MacBooks while I, Well I lagged my 20 ton Dell :-)

Frozen tonight

We have been shipped to Wa-laska, that is Washington + Alaska.
Got on my jacket, my tights and 2 layers of socks, perhaps I should put on my gloves too and no I'm not outside, just getting ready for bed that's all.
To save energy and keep the bills low, the heat is set at a fixed temperature in this house - gives layering a whole new meaning.
The current temperature is 17 degrees Centigrade/1 degree Fahrenheit. My word! If this still doesn't make sense, try to recall the episode in Didi's comedy show where while conducting the orchestra he froze solid. Its cold like that except we don't have the snow. The wind is moving at a speed of 17 mph.The gushes are so strong it sounds like rain pelting the house. The thought that there are people on the street in these temperatures makes me want to cry. If this is the night the authorities choose to cut off electricity for non payment, plead for mercy.
And then NWS Boston tweets "Enjoy the mild temperatures, it goes down hill into tomorrow"
Ok!

Catching the sun in pictures

First afternoon sun of 2014

From a different angle

First setting sun in 2014

Snow on 2nd day of 2014

Interestingly bright for 8:30pm

Thoughts From A Mothers Heart

"Don’t you see that children are God’s best gift? the fruit of the womb his generous legacy?
Like a warrior’s fistful of arrow are the children of a vigorous youth.
Oh, how blessed are you parents, with your quivers full of children!
Your enemies don’t stand a chance against you; you’ll sweep them right off your doorstep". 
Ps 127:3-5

Where did the years vanish?. Not too long ago  I chased him round the table, changed his diapers and gave him a bath. Now he is all so grown up he doesn't see what mum could possibly teach him. 9 going on 10 but my! what a big ego we've got.
Alternating between the microscopic and birds eye view, two different pictures present themselves as indeed they should, never the less I'm surprised each time.

Every morning and evening, just like clock work, we have the same dialogue:
 "Have you washed your face ?"
"No!"
"Have you brushed your teeth?"
"I don't want to"
"You hair is not combed"
(Visibly upset) "But mummy!".
 Water rolling over your skin doesn't qualify. "But mummy, I have bathed". Mummy develops super powers when she finds cracks in his story leaving him in awe. Puzzled he asks " how did you know?". I hesitate to tell him for he is bound to use the information to improve future tales but I tell him anyway. The tub was wet alright but his sponge was dry, the soap was untouched (there was no scent in the air). His tooth brush is dry and so is the sink. What I assumed was a teenage boys conflict, has clearly set in early.

Obtaining a run down of his school day is like doing 50 crunches; voices rise, tears flow and there is a whole lot of misery. I remain wide eyed perplexed at which part of the question "how was your day?" triggered off this world war. Eventually there will be the usual answer "Nothing. It was a normal day" until an email or note comes in from his teacher about how he was disruptive in class and didn't turn in his homework. I'm slowly convinced I need to see a psychiatrist.

A pencil or pen is magical in his hand. He will draw Greg Heffley, the little boy in Diary of a wimpy kid, in a breath. Just don't ask him to do it, it has to be his own initiative.

He will write a most interesting story for his assignment that Mrs. Schultz asks him to read it to his class.
His curiosity and philosophical questions leave me amazed at his intelligence. In the same breath, he will be down right mean to his sister who lives in awe of him and the next moment read her a story, carry her on his back or teach her letters of the alphabet. Then he will insist on watching the scariest program leaving the little girl shaking in her socks. It is almost impossible to find programs they can watch together. I forget how wide a 6 year age gap is, never mind the differences in gender. He trips her, plays rough with her but she picks herself up and soldiers on.

In heated moments he will talk back, he will argue, never yielding or being respectful of authority. Even in calm moments yielding is not his modus operandi. Then one day he will compliment my dress or appreciate my affection. He will insist on being consulted on weekend plans because informing him on the day of that visitors are coming over cramps him style and ruins his plans.

I love him to bits. Some days he cracks me up and other days he cracks me down. Pieces of myself roll broken and crushed all over the floor; reflections of myself, some good, some not so good. Lessons I need to learn, habits I need to drop, character traits I need to work on but mostly he is a reminder that I need to spend more time in prayer. I feel inadequate especially in these United States where everything goes. Children are exposed to adult themes in their formative years. His dad and I can only do our best and leave the rest to God. I miss the community influence from extended family and good friends who input good values in these sprouting shoots.
At the moment it evolves around 2 sets of influences: Parents and teachers and sometimes TV.

Stooping to look at life from his point of view would make a difference to the way I react. Half the time I look at his behavior from my corrupted adult perspective and not with the curiosity and innocence of his lens. I blow up situations that leave him perplexed. "I just wanted to know what happens when I put foil in the microwave"
When I open the freezer and a can of coke has exploded. "Er, I wanted to see what a frozen can of coke looks like" with a heart rate that would necessitate ER, I try to breath and count to 20.

The show must go on! My prayer today and everyday is "God help me to capture his heart for you".