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Once Upon a Sand-Dune

Nancy — Fri, 06 May 2022 22:42:28 +0000

I haven’t posted for a while and life has certainly intervened. Most of it has not been particularly note-worthy, but this was such a weird event, I thought I’d share. For those of you not in my “backyard,” or family ,you may not know I broke my ankle – three fractures and a dislocation requiring 29 pieces of hardware to pull it back together again. Having never broken a bone in my life, and having enjoyed an existence characterized by excellent health and independence, this was a glimpse into my own personal hell. But mostly, it’s offered a deep dive into a new awareness of how life can change in an instant, an appreciation of community, and the realization that I have taken for granted how much effort goes into performing the most basic of daily activities when the body is not operating on all cylinders – shall we say on both feet.

I have renewed sympathy for Humpty Dumpty, and huge appreciation for the fact that there was an ankle specialist in the practice that gave me a new hip two years ago.

It started out innocently enough…

I’d thought with the end of the proceeding event of a lumpectomy and five weeks of very targeted radiation therapy for a fairly benign form of breast cancer, I was over the hump. So off on a lovely family trip to the coast, as we say here. If I’d gone to the coast in Texas, Louisiana, Florida – or any number of other places I’ve lived, we’d say we went to the beach. I think on the Atlantic side, it’s called going to the shore. Here it’s going to the coast.

Within half an hour of arrival, we set off on a trail that took us over the dunes and that’s where the mischief started – mischief that ended up putting me totally out of commission for two months. No walking. No driving. No nuthin’. I’m just beginning to walk again, and feel like a clumsy, oversized toddler. This, too, is humbling.

But… I’m getting ahead of myself…

As luck would have it, after a nauseating couple of hours round-trip in the back seat of the car, and a few hours in the ER, I returned with what Colton, my grandson, called a huge bandaid. Splinted and wrapped in enough layers to keep it safe in an atomic blast, it remained thus until surgery a week later. The next morning, a balloon-tire wheelchair was commandeered from the Visitors’ Bureau and these two hunky sons, got me on the beach.

Killin’ Time

During the endless down-time, someone suggested I fill my time with poetry. So – with Dr. Suess as my muse – I did. Here’s a sample. Please don’t throw tomatoes at me. Turns out I wrote it without realizing the form actually has a name: Narrative Poetry! Who knew. Well – now you do, too.

Have a chuckle – and know that this is just what transpired!

Once Upon a Sand Dune

Once upon a sand-dune slope
The kids below were waiting.
The sea ahead, its spume afloat
The dune, its secret waiting.
One way down was straight and steep,
The other mildly sloping.
She stood upon the mighty heap,
And did her best at coping.
Don't be a weenie, said she to self,
Never one for slopes.
Just slide on down that sandy shelf!
She screwed up all her hopes.
She scanned the dune for flatter ground,
But none was there in view.
How hard could it be - she looked around
Then planted her stance askew.
And then it happened, left foot down,
The slide, it did unfold...
The uphill foot did twist around,
And thus began the roll!
Legs and arms akimbo,
with Colton down below...
The two began to roll as one
Wound up like a bow.
Laughter all around was heard.
As a pratfall it was perfect!
But then there was a cracking sound,
Kim's the one that heard it!
Her ankle was a lovely hue
And move it she could not.
Purple, red, and slightly blue -
Move it she WOULD not!
How to get her off the beach!
Discussions did ensue.
Airlift, coach, or ambulance?
Were options to review.

The cavalry came on wheels of four -
Two firemen, they were conjured.
How best to get her through the door
Of the chariot, just yonder?
They settled upon the life-and-hop
and jostled her to the jeep.
Th ride to town was bumpety-bump,
The language was bleepety-bleep.
Off the beach the bumbled,
Bouncing all the way.
And to the house they rumbled,
Where a chairlift saved the day.
Three big cracks and dislocation -
The ankle was a mess!
Colton noticed the big band-aid-tion
And said it was the best!
But wait! The drama is not finished!
Once at home, she kept it up.
Her balance much diminished...
she fell and landed on her butt-
Then broke her hand to finish.
The surgeons, they did fix their dates.
Urgent, it was hailed.
Then COVID reared its ugly face.
What fuckery doth prevail!
Still, we had the best of times,
Played games and ate a pile.
Found a balloon-tire wheelchair
And rolled to the beach in style
The laughs we had were just sublime!
I wouldn't change a thing.
And though I have run out of rhyme,
I can't wait to go again.

Almost without exception, my mystical friends have asked, “Why do you think this happened?” And while I can give a million different possible symbolic reasons – or admit that stuff just happens – I can say that being totally dependent on others for the most basic needs, is humbling. It’s also an opportunity to ask for help (not an easy task for a stubbornly independent woman), receive help with grace, gratitude, and humor and enjoy (yes, enjoy) the down time to visit, form deeper friendships, explore new aspects of self, and just develop a greater appreciation for basic freedoms like driving, walking to the bathroom, making your own coffee, and getting outside.

So once again, here’s to celebrating good health, mobility, freedom in all its forms, and doing so in deep gratitude.

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Nancy — Sat, 20 Jun 2020 23:19:00 +0000

It’s been a while, and world of COVID-19 continues to deliver unexpected challenges and opportunities. My family and I are fortunate in that we live rural lives, and those have remained relatively unchanged, with minor adjustments. But others have not been so fortunate, and the pandemic has had a devastating impact on many in our own communities and around the world.

Peter in 2013

During this time, I’ve found myself more reconnected with Uganda than I have been for a while, largely because of Peter, a young man some of you may remember from my time in Peace Corps and a blog I wrote about him on this site in March of 2013. When I met Peter, it was in the context of his trying to help the street kids, and only later did I discover that Peter himself was living on the streets. His desire to help others, even as he, himself, needed help, was what drew me into Peter’s realm and prompted me to help fund his return to school. Some of you reading this contributed to that effort and Peter and I both remain very grateful for the extra years of education that has afforded.

As we’ve stayed in contact through the years, I’ve witnessed Peter’s continued commitment to helping “his” kids through a charity he founded, M-Power Gulu (aka Edu-Power Gulu). Peter’s focus has been getting kids back to school, receiving vocational training, and when appropriate, helping kids reconnect with their families and villages. There are 800-some-odd homeless kids in Gulu, and Peter’s organization serves about 70 of them. They are homeless for many reasons, but most are related directly or indirectly to the twenty-year war waged in the north, ending in 2005/6.

When COVID-19 arrived, we all know it has hit the most vulnerable hardest, regardless of their country or status. The homeless children in Gulu were no exception.

Some of Peter’s Kids

When the street-children lost their access to food sources with the closing of businesses, loss of tourism, etc. the usual food-scarcity became a full-scale crisis. As they scavenged for food, many were savagely beaten and/or raped. As the situation worsened, I made the decision to start a GoFundMe campaign to help feed the children and, when appropriate, re-connect kids with their families and villages. If you’re interested in learning more about that, or contributing, click Feeding Homeless Children in Uganda.

This blog is simply to bring you up to speed on what that campaign has made possible, thus far, and share what some others in the world are facing as a result of the pandemic.

Peter now, with some of the homeless he is helping

The campaign is twofold in its goals: feed the kids and re-home as many as possible. The re-homing is really important, because it accomplishes a number of worthy goals, one of which is to reduce the number of at-risk children on the streets of Gulu. That in turn reduces the number of children who need to compete for food in an already strained system. More importantly, it reunites kids with family.

I know what you might be thinking; I’ve thought it, too. If they wanted to be with their families or could be, why are they on the streets, and it is really healthy for them to return home, depending on the causes for their being homeless. This is a complicated question, because we all know there are many reasons kids end up on the streets: finances, abuse, adolescent rebellion, and stubbornness… There’s a long list. But in Uganda, there is another cause, and it goes back three decades to the war years. Kony’s war.

To this day, many of the homeless can trace their situation to some family member being a victim of that war, either directly or indirectly: grandparents killed thereby orphaning their children, who went on to have children, who, themselves were orphaned. The war lasted twenty years and spanned three generations, resulting in unimaginable cruelty, loss, HIV/Aids, and crushing poverty. The list is endless, so Peter’s kids and hundreds of others are left dealing with the fallout.

Your funds are helping!

Travel is daunting

Here’s what your funds have helped accomplish thus far and it’s just the beginning: in the past 24 hours four children have been reconnected with parents in villages as far as a day’s drive away. Just getting there is a challenge, as you can see from the picture on the left. A trip that might take an hour in the states, can take most of a day in the bush and more, if it’s rainy season.

In Peter’s words:

Peter with Okello and David

“Okello and David were so please yesterday to meet their elder brother and his wife Aber and their ground father (grandfather) Onen Patrick, when we reached there, they welcome us in very special way that I can’t explain the joy they felt to see their Sons again after a long times and they even thought that they will never see them again.

The Father said that we send his greeting to YOU and he glad for the pray and donated to support this program which has made his family back together, he said his family started separated after when the rebels took his Son who was the father of Okello and David and killed them, ever since their father was arrested and killed by rebel, his family has been going through a lot of problems and he is glad that God is fixing now, he added by requesting that if some help could be offer to build some small house for his two ground sons who had returned home he will be glad for that since they will still to borrow a place to sleep, David and Okello also added that they will work hard to make sure that they settle themselves they we taught them to work hard and I said to them that all things are possible when they believe and trust in God and work hard for it.”

The remaining kids are receiving nutritious meals consisting of beans, rice, posho (think hard-cooked grits), green and some meat. Yesterday more funds were released to purchase basic cooking supplies and more food, making it more cost effective moving into the future.

All meals are served on reusable plates and utensils, so there is no waste of funds on disposables.

Thanks for reading, and again, please feel free to share the blog or the link to the GoFundMe Campaign.

https://www.gofundme.com/manage/feeding-homeless-kids-in-uganda

Stay safe and thank you all for your continued interest and support.

Nancy

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Confessions of a Tygh Valley Weed Wrangler

Nancy — Sat, 14 Mar 2020 17:44:00 +0000

Still catching up her as the last snow of the season falls. I am acclimating it seems, because I wished for this snow! This, my third winter, was very mild and I found I missed the magical quality of snow, as someone who has not lived in it her entire life can say.

But to continue the catch up and give you the character of life here: back to that first year.

Year ONE, in the rear-view-mirror:

Shortly after settling into my cute place on the lake, two events coincided: my new landlords decided to sell the property, and the kids announced the coming of my first grand baby. When invited to move closer, I naturally embraced the chance to love on a grandchild, and for a short time, that would mean living in an efficiency apartment connected to their house. In the span of a few months, I’d repacked everything I’d just unpacked, and moved to join them in the high-desert and unpack again! I traded in my fancy water-proof Bogs boots for gardening boots and leather gloves and away I went, downsizing yet again, this time to a 300 square feet. That’s what grandmothers do…

Life in 300 Sq. feet

I moved in as millions converged a few miles down the road to watch the full-eclipse in 2017. It seemed fortuitous, but man was it dry country. A water person at heart, I was consoled by nearby White River Falls and the Deschutes River, nine miles away. Within moments of opting for life in a desert clime, I hightailed it to the Falls for proof of being able to get a whiff of mist. I wasn’t disappointed.

White River Falls

We got down to business of settling in and to give you a taste of the first phase of that endeavor, here’s a copy of an article I wrote for the Wasco County Master Gardner’s Newsletter.

Read it and weep.

Confessions of a Tygh Valley Weed Wrangler

Having served in the Peace Corps Africa for two-and-a-half years, before moving to Oregon in 2014, I thought it would prepare me well for living a more remote, less “Better Homes and Gardens” life-style – as was my preference. And to some extent, that’s true: I actually got better phone and internet coverage in the wilds of Africa than I’ve had in either Cannon Beach or Tygh Valley! That said, nothing prepared me for the sheer variety and ferocity of noxious weeds and grasses I encountered as the self-appointed Weed-Wrangler of our little piece of property in Tygh Valley. I admit—it’s not an entirely fair comparison though, since I wasn’t wrangling weeds in Africa.

The kids bought a five-acre piece of property in happy pursuit of the dream of having a big garden and chickens and a family compound of sorts. Surrounded by wheat fields, buttes and breathtaking scenery, the place has delivered on its promise of serenity, sunshine and possibilities. And then there were weeds …. and rocks… and ground squirrels…. and yellow-jackets … and a badger—all of which had staked their claim on the place during the years of neglect between owners. Although an acre-and-a-half had been (emphasis on past-tense) tamed a few years ago, its return to the wild was complete by the time we took possession. By the end of day three after moving in, I was a woman-possessed—and armed. Prepared for battle with heavy leather work gloves, leaf-bags, an arsenal of weeding tools, and a pioneer-spirit, I went to work.

Goat Heads will puncture bike tires & feet

“What the heck IS all this stuff?” I asked a Master Gardner at one of the last Farmer’s Market days in The Dalles last season. She plied me with brochures and resources, then told me about the Master Gardner program. That was August of last year and I was hooked. So here I am a fledgling Master Gardner-in-training and the answers are/could be/might be: Cheat Grass, Foxtail Barley, Bull Thistle, Scotch Thistle, Wheat, Dandelions of course, and False Dandelion (didn’t know there was such a thing), Field bindweed, Puncture-vine (aka Goat Heads) Knapweed, Wild Geranium, ad infinitum. Add blackberries, flowering rush (I think) and willow along the unlined irrigation ditch and it’s the gardener’s version of The Perfect Storm. In short, most of the weeds appearing on the PNW weed identification site and some that aren’t are in evidence under-foot, in the cat’s fur, in the gardens, and embedded in my shoes.

None of us have had much time for clean-up, but what time there was, had to be sandwiched between a newborn baby/grandbaby and jobs on Mt. Hood. It’s been a harsh learning curve, with many discoveries, one of which was that of the “seed bank.” Who knew…. This was not a happy discovery as I’d spent a hideous amount of time pulling weeds out of a previously landscaped bed – un-fortuitously situated across the road from a wheat field, only to have it covered with beautiful grass-like sprouts a few weeks later. Thrilled with the possibility that the lawn grass had “just needed room to spread,” it soon became apparent that this was not grass. And that’s when I began to understand the work of a seed-bank and wished my own bank account would yield such a return to abundance when emptied.

Having given away ALL of my yard tools when I sold my house to go to Africa, I’m in the process of re-stocking. I am now the proud new owner of a stand-up weed puller, which offered the promise of Dandelion control (not so), a hula-hoe (truly God’s answer to a seed-bank) and sundry other yard tools which promised to ease the work-load.

Hula Hoe

By late-Fall, the debris pile had grown to the size of a small house and burning just didn’t seem like a good idea considering that much of Oregon had recently been on fire. Finding no-one willing to haul it away, we ended up renting a U-Haul truck with the Granny Attic and filled it to capacity, dumping it at the Transfer Station, but leaving at least a third of it for another load. The next load consisted of 50+ paper leaf-bags transported in style in a shiny new rented box-van. I’m sure a burn-barrel is in our future—when we can find one. I know people burn out here all the time, but frankly I don’t want to be the one to set the hill on fire when a flaming tumble-weed escapes before I can bat it down. As of this writing, much of what was cut away to create a fire-barrier, is now in the process of growing back, so it will require constant maintenance

In the war-against Dandelions, the Dandelions have won. What precipitated this surrender was the collection of a bushel of Dandelion blossoms and seed heads (a half-hour’s harvest), accomplished to the mantra “there are still plenty left for the bees!” What happened next can only be described as karmic. As I reached down to pick up an armload to transfer to the paper leaf bag, I was stung by just such a bee, foraging from the picked supply. Mea-culpa. I think Dandelion salads and tea might be my best revenge.

Periodic use of the hula-hoe has been nothing short of magical in making “withdrawals” from the seed-bank with minimal soil disturbance. A weed-torch has been useful in preparing the 32’x24’ area we’re prepping for the garden which we’ll put in too-late because we’re still hand-digging the thirteen, 28” deep post holes in soil that is at least 50% rock, to erect an eight-foot “deer proof” fence.

Future weed-puller

Yep! We’re the newcomers, city-clickers, novices, dreamers, optimists—so feel free to laugh and cry at our efforts (we are). But progress is afoot and I have new appreciation for the Ugandan expression: “slowly-by-slowly.” By the time this confession goes to print, the fence will be up and hopefully, our one small “starter row” with its temporary chicken-wire fence will not have been consumed by the deer – or the ground squirrels – or the badger. And I fully plan on teaching my grandson, that if he’s very good, I’ll let him pull weeds. But he’s still a little young.

Post Script:
I’m happy to say, my future weed-puller likes “working in the yard with Nana,” and is becoming a fine puller of weeds (as well as the random flower… and the occasional-but not-often, cat-tail). Bribery has not been involved.

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Been A While

Nancy — Mon, 02 Mar 2020 05:54:00 +0000

Hello my friends. For those of you still reading, thank you for hanging in there. For new friends, thank you for welcoming me into your lives. I’m lovin’ my life in Maupin, and still learning how to be an Oregonian; new survival gear is involved: snow boots, rafting gear, ice cleats. Skills to out-smart and out-run a two-year-old are also on the list, though not Oregon-specific.

After Peace Corps, Mexico, and Cannon Beach I sort of fell off the radar when so much new life (literally) announced itself. Life went into high gear, and the blog fell off the short-list; excuses/reasons will be apparent in future blogs.

My book about the whole adventure of Peace Corps and more is in the works; and that took me back to my blog to see where I left off. I was a little shocked to realize I’d failed to post the last entry I wrote four years ago. So, while it’s old news to some, I’m putting it out there… just because.

As a recycled-Texan, the expression, “I’m back in the saddle again,” comes to mind; though the last time I was in a saddle was at a Dude Ranch in 1996 and that didn’t end well. As a new Oregonian, maybe I’m back in the raft? Back on the trail? Yet all of those feel a little unfamiliar. Let’s just say I’m writing again and it feels good. That actually is familiar ground and makes me happy.

Here’s the bit I hadn’t posted, from November 21, 2016, so don’t let the timeline confuse you. More to come in bits a pieces…

Still processing the aftermath of the (2016) election, I decided to focus on something positive, some-thing a little more uplifting. So here’s some beautiful scenery and an update.

At the end of September, my landlords decided to sell the cute little Cannon Beach Cottage and it became time to shift gears again. Long term rentals in Cannon Beach are non existent, since property owners can earn more on a weekend from the tourists than they can in a month of lease. The upside was that Travis was able to come for a visit before full chaos erupted and it was like Christmas having both of my wonderful sons here at one time. It was so much fun sharing this beautiful place with Travis and then being ale to spend time with both of them in Brett’s end of the world – Mt. Hood.

Magically, one – and only one – place became available 16 miles up the road, via an acquaintance I’d made in one of those synchronistic meetings a year ago. It’s a tiny place, overlooking a lake buzzing with activity: otter, deer, elk and birds. So far, I’ve identified 86 different species of birds – but who’s counting. In short – another gift from the universe. Here’s a peek. SO much more open feeling and lots of light. The people weren’t even going to rent it, but a friend of a friend sent them the Peace Corps article that appeared in the newspaper a while back and apparently I didn’t look to scary.

After getting my stuff in, I took a break from the tourist craziness of the summer and decided to be one – a tourist, that is – and set off to explore the Olympic National Forest and its Rain forests. Who knew!? The trip was beyond my expectations and just in time to see the Fall Color. Had my friend and I started a week later we’d have missed it!

There are four temperate Rain forests just three hours north of here and we explored two of them: The Hoh and the Quinault. Feeling like we were lost in the set of Avatar, every vista was more mystical than the next. Take a look –

Tucked in among the dripping leaves, bearded trees and waterfalls we chanced upon Lake Quinault Lodge that looks like the set from Dirty Dancing. Driving on, the scenery switched back to the eerie beauty of the Twilight movies filmed around here. And in another heartbeat there was scenery that looked straight out of Colorado.

Returning via an Indian Reservation and some iconic fishing villages and harbors, we wound our way back into Oregon, stayed long enough to do laundry and regroup before heading south to explore Mt. Shasta, then back north via the southern Oregon coast.

Hoping for a little weirdness on Mt Shasta – known for it’s mystical happenings and inexplicable encounters, we found only great vistas – until we tried to get back to the shore. Somehow – (used in the true Ugandan sense…) we were routed to a Forestry Road through the Forest Prime-evil devoid of any sign of humanity except for dilapidated, long abandoned barns and small signs announcing GOLD CLAIMS!!! It was a trip back in time and we were lost, running out of gas and approaching dusk. It stirred up some old spookiness about back roads and bayous in Louisiana, and fearing I might have to walk out or spend the night in the car, I threw up my hands and asked the Universe for help I’m happy to say a big black SUV appeared around the next curve. Although very welcome, it too had an element of weird: not a speck of dust on this dusty road and no identifiers what-so-ever re: Make and Model.

We were looking for weird, not scary, but this slice of adventure sufficed. Heading back home, the north coast welcomed us with characteristic rain, and so another fall begins. I’ve settled into a new place, with great new neighbors – both animal and human – and ESL (English as a Second Language) classes have begun. Trying to find a new cadence to life, since this community is so removed and different from Cannon Beach.

Looks like we’re in for quite a ride these next few years and in trying to find some solace, what I’ve come to is a quote from Margaret Meade:

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed it’s the only thing that ever has.”

It’s time to act in your own way to “Be the Change.”

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/margaretme100502.html

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Change – and choice

Nancy — Thu, 30 Jun 2016 16:52:00 +0000

Hello all –

So I thought I’d completely jettisoned my old self…. but there are some things that are just here to stay… And that was rather the point – to see what remained after all the excess fell away. Part of the Peace Corps journey was to re-calibrate. You’ve heard this story before, so no repeating. In short, I chose an opportunity that would allow me the space to live my work – and not sell it. I’ve dismantled two websites, leaving behind sixteen years of history. I’ve stopped formally teaching the Feng Shui, the organization, dispute resolution, the ADHD classes, intuition, hands on healing. I began teaching these topics at least a decade before they became mainstream and commercial. I’m glad to say that most of it is now part of the vernacular. When I started, some of these concepts were only spoken of in hushed tones with trusted friends or others who had experiences that were outside the norm. Now they are the subject of websites, books, webinars and Oprah.

Suffice it to say, that what remains after all that jettisoning of trappings and overhead, is the spiritual practice in daily life and the essence of that is awareness of what kind of emotion – vibration – energy I am offering to the mix. Am I a source of light or contributing to the darkness?

Energy – sound – light – matter – emotion: it’s is about vibration. Everything vibrates at its own rate and that makes us all transmitters. It’s not MAGIC – it’s PHYSICS. This vibration influences everything around us and is cumulative in its impact. It becomes and defines the collective. It’s one of the building blocks of the principle that thought-creates-form. In Africa, I had the remarkable opportunity to observe the immediate results of the concept in daily interactions. Here there is so much noise, that sometimes it’s hard to rule out the variables.

So why am I dragging this out now – after years of hiatus? Because we, as a nation and as a complex culture, are in a mess – a world of woe. It’s one we created for ourselves – and therefore a situation that we can choose to dismantle and change before our unconscious actions or knee-jerk re-actions cement what it now just a possibility into a concrete reality. Regardless of political affiliation, our collective energy has created this atmosphere of escalating divisiveness. Each political candidate represents the out-picturing of the mass energy – representing in different measures: hope, fear, love and hate. We have – individually and as a society, allowed ourselves to be distracted by the media’s images of hate, violence, divisiveness and inflammatory rhetoric. We have either not been paying attention, or often paying attention (aka: giving our energy) to things, thoughts, emotions and personalities that do not serve us well. But we can change this IF WE CHOOSE. And choose is an active verb…

Each of us has the ability to change our own energy or vibrational signature if we so desire and therefore calibrate (there’s that words again…) the signal we want to be responsible for sending and TO WHICH we want to resonate. Change the signal – change the path.

We are creatures of choice and we can choose to be the best version of ourselves or drift along and let others do the choosing. But what does that mean on a moment-to-moment basis?

In part, it means being acutely conscious of what we bring to every moment, every action and interaction, every decision about what we re-post on FB, about the stories we tell about others and the worth we hold for ourselves. In the book The Four Agreements (Miguel Ruiz), there is a quote:

“Be impeccable in your word.”

For me, that means not just to tell the truth, be authentic and honor our commitments. Our “WORD” is actually our frequency – the vibrational signal we emit. Sound – as an example of frequency – can destroy or create calm. Is the signal we emit love or hate, worth or devaluing, supportive or discounting? We are the tuners of our own devices; we are self-calibrating when we choose to be.

IFF we want a different world, it means active engagement, but not necessarily in the old ways. If we choose change, we no longer have the luxury of living on auto-pilot and being asleep to our real value, power or capabilities to shape the world and the relationships around us. Perhaps we have reached this point of chaos and despair precisely to encourage us to be more aware, more conscious of the responsibility we hold for the choices we make, the actions we take and the words we utter.

Not to belabor the point, but again – we create with every breath, every emotion, every belief, every judgement, every blessing or curse – every word, thought, action (and inaction) – and every FB share! Frankly, acting from conscious choice all of the time can be exhausting! It means breaking habits, operating out of new paradigms, questioning our motivations – being fully present.

One practice I have found helpful is meditation in general, but I really love doing a walking meditation, whether hiking, walking on the beach or to the store or even driving… it’s a good way to focus energies and stay out of my monkey-mind. Sometimes, it’s a challenge to “sit” and still the mind or to re-frame troubling thoughts and feelings, so I’m sharing a meditation I created for myself, in case it resonates with you or you want to create your own:

With every step I take, may all beings walk in freedom

May every action I take be one of compassion

May every thought I have be in awareness of what I bring to the world

May every word I utter be spoken in kindness

May every emotion be of love and gratitude

May every breath offer a blessing

May I see all beings as the divine in form.

Namaste,

Nancy

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New Year Wrap-up

Nancy — Sat, 06 Feb 2016 05:42:00 +0000

Yes indeed, the sun has set on yet another year and 2016 blew in with with gusto and freezing temps here on the northern shore. Some strange atmospheric anomaly brought with it the tease of seeing the northern lights as far south as Cannon Beach, so in search of a little magic, a friend and I put on one each of the collection of jackets-hats-vests-and gloves co-mingling with the family of boots to drive up to one of the lookout points away from the light pollution of the metropolis of Cannon Beach.

We set off into the inky night, any glow from the moon obliterated by the giant specter-like Spruces guarding one side of Hwy 101 and the Pacific Ocean- – blackness incarnate – on the other. Headlights are all but useless on this road of hairpin curves and the darkness swallows the meager glow fr m our high-beams. So we threaded our way out of town into the encroaching spookiness until we came to Nekehanie lookout where we might be able to search out out some light-play on the horizon. The wind howled with a vengeance on this point as it juts out into the Pacific; Manzanita to the south and Cannon Beach to the north. My shoe-box size car does not like this kind of wind, nor does its driver – so we inched up as close to the wall separating parking lot from the sheer drop into the ocean and turned off all the lights hoping for a light show. As we waited, the car shook, the cold crept in and the spook-factor ratcheted its way up. The only light we saw were those of few fishing boats tossing at sea and I again thanked the gods that I was not on a boat tossing in the dark. As we sat, cloaked in the black night, it reminded me of the William Ernest Henley poem:

Daytime view from Nekahanie Lookout

“Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul…

In the fell clutch of circumstance,

I have not winced nor cried aloud;

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody but unbowed…

It matters not how straight the gait,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”

That same captain saw fit to settle me on this gorgeous coast with the intention of reinventing life and so I am. The first week of the new year always brings up the urge to avoid New Year’s Resolutions, but a review of what’s past and what might be ahead always seems to creep in. While mulling over such things, I began to fall into that abyss of trying to figure out what this time of life is all about. I’ve never really understood or identified with the term retirement. Thank God I was rescued from further ruminations by a phone call from a strange country code: 256… I answered my dark-ages black flip-phone (yes I admit it…) before the whereabouts of the prefix had been found in my mental Rolodex, for those of you old enough to remember such things. A resonate voice full of lilting accent blossomed forth…. Identifying the accent, but not the words I knew it was Uganda calling! A little knee-jerk panic hit as I wondered if I was going to being able to understand any of this. Historically – the answer would be no: lousy acoustics of my phone, poor connection, a vaguely British accent speaking across thousands of miles, old fart hearing and a brain (mine) being out of practice in processing the uniquely Ugandan way of stringing English words together.

I said: “I’m sorry who is calling ????”
The voice: something unintelligible
Again, me feeling embarrassed: “Oh I’m sorry! can you say that again?”
The now-laughing voice: “Your friend! The former Assistant Rrrrrra D.C. (Regional District Commissioner)!”
Me finally: Oh Emily – it’s YOU! How wonderful!” I am now choosing words carefully, trying not to “decorate” language with words that will only confuse. My English is just as strange to her ears as her’s is to mine.

But we prevailed and it was the most delicious, surprising conversation.

She said “It is the New Year and I could not welcome it without calling you! I have been missing you! And I love you too much… and I could not start another year without saying thank you for all you have done? We miss you SO much!”

Oh my, I felt wrapped in love and gratitude for knowing this woman, having lived those years in Uganda, having been “enough” to be missed two years later. Overcome with emotion I couldn’t think fast enough to ask her about everyone and when I tried one volley, I could tell there was familiar mis-step in making oneself understood (it goes both ways) when the crackle of a poor connection took over … In the next moment, I think I heard her ending the conversation as it was just beginning. It was a very Ugandan practice – usually without preamble the conversation is simply “finished.” Air-time is a precious commodity and telephone etiquette is just different. Was that “Goodbye” I just heard? Yes – I think so. And I thanked her for calling and told her, “I miss you and love you ‘too much. ‘ ” And then it was over. Had it actually happened?

Wow! What a gift! What a spectacular way to start a new year! A with it, a heartfelt reminder of the impact we have on each other’s lives. Emily – who rescued a toddler literally from the sacrificial alter of a local witch doctor and moved heaven and earth to help me with Peter’s horrid school situation had far more impact on my life in Uganda than I perceived having had while there. Still, I believe any small act of caring resonates far more deeply that we can imagine. It was – for me – a clarion call to continue to be mindful of our ability to change the world through small acts of kindness given freely and without attachment to the outcome. And that continues to be one of the repeating gifts from my time there: to simply to the next right thing without expectation of return. Just do it.

Three weeks later, life has resumed some form of normality. The elk herd wanders down the street and fat racoons maraud around town at night and the wind blows.

One big step for me in the ongoing process of re-calibrating and redefining life has been to jettison some of the trapping of a prior life that no longer support me. The knowledge from and the appreciation of that life remain, as do good friend but other things no so much. The website I had for 20 years Focus On Space and the email that went with it, along with it the book site are now defunct. And I will tell you that the conscious dismantling and untangling of a previous identity with so much history was daunting. It is so much more than I thought and as liberating. Rather than dragging my history along behind me by default, I decided-to-decide what I would keep. That said, there is NO aspect of life that that site did not touch: accounts, online billing, contacts, professional life, ad infinitum. As soon as one layer was cleared another took it’s place. But, slipping around in the primordial goo of a new life forming is a distinctly unsettling – if often exhilarating – experience.

So I am exploring and face it – funds are essential. But thanks to Peace Corps and other internal shifts, my relationship with money has changed as has the life-style I choose, allowing a lot of latitude. But this new life I have here has no real rhythm and that’s taking some getting used to. I’ve taken on something new for me that stems from the language training in Uganda and my short stint in Mexico, learning how to teach English as a Second Language. I’m the new coordinator for recruiting students and tutors for a TESL program funded by Clatsop Community College. It ends in May, when the tourist season starts here and it’s been interesting. It’s a bit like herding cats: finding both tutors and students and then matching them up and finding venues for sessions: different schedules, abilities, transportation limitations, etc. etc. I’m teaching one class a week that ranges from 5 – 12 students, half at any given time are new… English skills all over the place and great fun. What a great group of lovely, supportive, funny women.

Cold but beautiful

My role as staff for Haystack Rock job starts and this year I’m getting paid for what I did for free last year. That fulfills one of my intentions: to get paid for work I would do (and have done) for free Since that job revolves around low-tide, there’s no normality to be found there. The tide waits for no man, so all other schedules have to dance around this one. No sense of balance there… But being paid to be on the beach, talking to people about the wildlife is pretty fine. However, the first session of beach duty was a little raw: 45 mph winds, cold and rough surf.

And somehow I’ve made it onto the front page of the local papers without doing anything illegal or outrageous – yet. I was interviewed about my Peace Corps experience, so it was fun and lovely to have the chance to the experience.

An that’s the news from lake Wobegone…

Wishing you all a belated Happy 2016! Love and blessings ya’ll…

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Settling in to New Digs

Nancy — Sat, 25 Oct 2014 03:55:00 +0000

It’s been rather a whirlwind, but I’m in and I’m stayin’ here for at least the year. I keep telling myself, this Fall and Winter will be the test. Thus far – not yet a month, the weather has been a nice surprise. Yes, there’s been rain, but from the reports I received from non-Oregonians – I would surely be covered with mold by this time. Having experienced that in actuality on the sailboat trip, where even the dried Eucalyptus grew a fuzzy green coat, I can tell you that I have not yet succumbed. Yes – it has rained, but on most days, it’s cleared off to reveal blue sky and temps in the mid-high sixties.

Just such a pattern showed itself in the hour it took for me to walk part of the beach a few days ago. The Oregon coast is apparently notorious for its wind and I walked leaning into a gale-force blow, picking up a hefty tail-wind on the return. I loved it. Just for fun, I took pictures of the progression of the weather during that hour.

But the season is young. I’ve been waiting to be as cold and wet as people threatened, but not yet. I have, however, been introduced the the world of boots, having visited the local Fred Myer store and asked to be directed to “boots please.” Isles and isles of boots: polka dot boots, furry boots, fancy boots, short boots, tall boots, fishin’ boots, bog-boots, Xtra-Tuff boots, psychedelic-flowered boots – yes – even glittery boots. Everything but cowboy boots. I’m not in Texas anymore apparently. But these boots are made for walking, skipping through puddles, wading through surf and – as I have experienced – surviving a trick-wave with your back turned. I now have boots and have packed away my umbrella for travel, having been instructed that it broadcasts one as a tourist.

And so it would seem, I have at least moved in evidenced by the unloading of a trunk full of boxes at the recycling center, making several runs to Goodwill and one to donate boxes of books to the local library, which is not funded by the city – only donations and volunteers. Although the town has only 10,000 people, its recycling center is a good indicator of how serious Oregon is about recycling. I discovered this focus when I waited for my wee-trashbox (yes BOX) to be picked up two weeks in a row. I discovered that it would be picked up every forth Tuesday, while my HUGE recycling bin is emptied every OTHER Tuesday. This is an effective training strategy it turns out, not t mention helpful when one is continuing to purge the detritus of three years out-of-the-loop.

Before and after move-in

I unloaded about 80% of my belongings and life before running off to Africa. It was liberating! Opening the boxes packed away for three years was like Christmas and a life-review all wrapped into one. Some items still provoked, “What was I thinking?” moments as I unpacked puppets from India, a hand-embroidered almost unwearable Chinese coat and a monk’s robe, etc. etc. Well – now they are at Goodwill – in the Halloween section no less. Yes, I saw them there. It’s been great fun taking the basics of this “furnished” cottage and mixing them into the tableau.

For those of you who saw the snaps of the cottage before I moved in and have asked for updates, here goes. Tweaking continues, but it’s feeling like home and it turns out that 875 square feet feels just right. It requires me to be conscious of what I bring in, what stays and where things land. It suits me. Maybe I’ll write a book, if I can stop arranging things… And below is the view from the stairs: before and after.

The unloading the storage in Austin, loading the U-Haul, unloading it again in Hillsboro and then re-loading has had its moments. Not finding but ONE person in all of the north beach area to help, resulted in a call to Brett to “please help.” So it fell to him and a not-so-strong helper to move the hideously heavy-beast-of-an-heirloom-table you see below. To my metaphysical friends, the round spots you see to the right are – I think – finger smudges on the original camera lens and not “orbs.”

And finally, a real kitchen with more than the two burners and an actual oven. No more cooking brownies in a makeshift oven 1/3 of a recipe at a time. And a refrigerator that works more than a few days out of a month. Life is good. For good measure, I hid the microwave into the back of a storage closet. There are some habits I don’t want to re-start – although when I bought a box of micro-wave pop-corn the other day, only to return it for the real thing I wondered whether I was that committed or if I should “BE committed…”

So that’s most of the news for any of you who are still tuned in. The next installment is to figure out what I want to do when I grow up. However, I have read, courtesy of a FB post, that “If you haven’t grown up by the time you’re 50, you don’t have to.” So there. Still, I’ll be returning to Austin on a quarterly basis to teach at Austin Board of Realtors and to see clients, so that’s a least a bit of a framework to build around. The desire to lead life more simply and more intentionally is what started this whole phase, so I’m taking things one intentional step at a time.

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Place of the Turtles – Parting Shots

Nancy — Fri, 27 Jun 2014 23:10:00 +0000

It’s closing in on my last week in paradise and I’m grasping at ways to hold these times close and be present. Surrounded by tourism as much of Yucatan is, sometimes I forget to simply close out the rest of the world and see where I’m standing.

It’s easy to get caught up in “what should I do next” and “what will I be sorry I didn’t do when I look back.” As in the rest of life, it can be a challenge to be fully present and filter out the background chatter. And on a tour, there’s plenty of chatter. Last week I went on a snorkeling tour to Cozumel, supposedly the best-of-the-best in the Costa Maya. As tours go, it was more relaxed than some, but still constrained. Sadly, there are so many tours and so much boat activity there, the reefs are dying and it was disappointing. What is even worse is the fact that this area’s economy depends on such activities and that very activity, badly handled is killing the reefs. But there’s the sense of “I’m HERE! I need to do it all.” So I’m still glad I went and know what’s there, but it was a reminder that you don’t have to be IN the water, to be bowled over by what there is to see.

Here, there is so much natural beauty about the sea it’s just mind boggling. I usually don’t take my camera, because then I’m always taking a step back to try to get the perfect shop. But then I realize, I don’t have any pictures. So a few days ago I took a walk with my camera to capture my morning walk and here it is.

I’m on the north end of the beach, the tail-end of the tourist district and it’s pretty tranquil. That’s a left turn when I get the sand and it’s a world apart from what I see if I turn right where there are wall-to-wall hotels, bodies, beech chairs and music. My end is more populated by the locals fishing, couples walking hand-in-hand and sand-covered toddlers squealing with delight. Dogs cavorting in the surf are having at least as much fun as their owners and one followed me last night with a ball in his mouth looking for a “throw.” The only structures for a while are a few Palapas like the one at right built for a little shade.

About a mile down is a small lagoon fed by cold water coming from the underground rivers. You can see a bit of it at left. The water stays deliciously cold until it merges with the sea. A few nights ago, I heard drumming and the call of a horn made from a conch shell. There, gathered at the lagoon were about 50 locals participating in a ritual cleansing ceremony complete with feathers and smoke… and the Virgin Mary. I was expecting a Budha, but it’s a Catholic country after all.

I waited ’till today to venture to Akumal, Mayan for “Place of the Turtles,’ since the beaches and the water there boil with humanity even on off-season weekends. It does live up to its name. My turtle researcher friends first told me about it since they have been there often to count and tag the local green turtles that like the grassy patches there. It’s a turtle sanctuary.

Before it got too stiflingly hot, I walked the two miles to catch the local version of what Ugandans would call a Matatu, but thank goodness the similarity ends there! These are nice, new Toyota vans that hold about 12 – 16 people and are the middle alternative between buses and Taxis that charge a round trip fee because they are regulated by district and can’t pick up a return fare. Because of that, they’ll will wait up to a few hours for you if you choose, but that fare is about $55US. The collectivo on the other hand charges about $3US, is air-conditioned and one leaves every 30 minutes! For the budget minded-and that would be me-the collectivo is perfect.

The collectivo drops its riders on the highway at the mouth of a pedestrian bridge that empties onto cobble-stone walkway into the town. You know you’re getting close to the beach when the hawking of tours begins. Luckily the dive shops rent gear, lockers and showers without requiring a guide or a tour. What they do require is life jackets, so I paid my $15US, donned my life jacket and gear, stashed my loot and footed it to the water a little apprehensive about actually finding turtles, considering some of my previous water adventures.

This time the reports were true: by the time you’re up to your chest in water you’re in turtle territory. Find a dark grassy spot or a gaggle of snorkelers and you can be pretty well guaranteed turtles. The water’s a little murky because of the surge, but I followed about 8 turtles around, mostly solitary, but some in pairs or a group. There were a few real granddaddies out there – probably 2.5 to 3-feet long. They forage on grass and periodically come up for a gulp of air and go about their business. They really are beautiful and prehistoric looking and since it’s shallow, they’re very close. Another plus were the sting-rays gliding along the bottom and a few schools of fish. A real treat to be this close to these guys.

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Trek Across the Peninsula: Campeche and Bacalar

Nancy — Sat, 24 May 2014 00:59:00 +0000

Life has definitely slowed down. To perk things up a bit, I decided I’d take a few days and go to Campeche on the other side of the Peninsula from Bacalar. Having heard it is like going to an old walled-city in Spain, I didn’t want to miss it while I’m down here. So at about noon a couple of weeks back I caught a Colectivo – a taxi carrying several people and charging a fraction of a private taxi – boarded a Primero Clase bus for a six hour ride across the peninsula. Once there I caught a tiny chartreuse taxi and made my way to Hotel Navigante, there not being but a few hostels in Campeche and none of them discoverable online. Tucked into a cluster of sherbert-colored houses, I’m glad I picked a hotel in the old historic district. Within this portion, everything is concrete – not a patch of grass anywhere as you can see.

I was relieved to escorted to a big room with a balcony, AC, a deep TUB. I’m thinking, “boy this is going to be great!” It was already dusk when I set out to find dinner, but had no idea where to go and the desk clerk was singularly disinterested in helping even when I used my best Spanish. So I ended up grabbing a yogurt from the little kiosk next door, just as the sky opened up and a heavy rain drenched the city.

Perfect night for taking a long hot bath – right up until I discovered that there was no way to get the shower off and the tub faucet on. So I decided to let the shower fill the tub, left the room and looked up to see to see a river of water cascading out of the bathroom because the shower wasn’t adjusted properly and would require a ladder to reach it. So much for the bath idea…

Next day, bright and early I went down for breakfast of weak coffee and five different kinds of bread. Does anyone know how to boil an egg? OK – I’m being tacky. This is a hotel for chrissake – not a hostel and even hostels usually have a pretty decent breakfast! The edge of hunger having been softened, I left with map of sorts in hand and went off to explore and find a decent cup of coffee. My mood improved dramatically when my search was rewarded with frothy cup of cappuccino and a piece of something like apple pie with fresh apples.

Inside one of the bastions

Campeche lived up to what I’d been told: it is a classic representation of a old walled Spanish city, which began as a Mayan town and became a completely walled entity because of it’s constant bombardment by pirates. The Spanish built an eight sided wall around the entire town, which is now just a small part of a pretty decent sized city. Not much of the wall remains, but the bastions and portals are still pretty much in tact and a lot of restoration is going on. One of the bastions has been reclaimed as the town’s Botanical Garden and it offered a beautiful place to sit on a hot day.

The gardens

It is quiet town and within this historic district not much is going on. Many of the streets are entirely devoid of people or cars and one wonders how it survives. But it’s pretty with its rows of colonial houses which share walls and are all meticulously kept and freshly painted. It was amazingly clean – not a speck of litter anywhere, but has a very serious character about it. In every town I’ve visited in Mexico, people are friendly, say “Hola! Buenas dias!” to passersby or at least respond when spoken to. No so here. Very few smiling faces and this was later mentioned by Veronica, one of the hostel owners here in Bacalar. I don’t know what created such a personality of a town, but this one has it’s own perculiar energy which was not particularly welcoming.

Interesting interface with the Gulf of Mexico though. There have been so many hurricanes that have hit Campeche that there is no more beach. It is entirely sea wall, but has a beautifully developed hike and bike trail running the length of the historical area. There are even stopping points with gym-type equipment to do a workout! Unlike most beaches I’ve been to the waves run parallel to the beach, and don’t break against the seal wall. No doubt the geographic configuration of the land, but it’s just a little weird.

Mystery flower…

There is a stunning Cathedral there and one street closed to to traffic and devoted to extraordinary sculptures. One of the lovely things abut every town I’ve visited is the accessibility of art and it’s inclusion everywhere in public areas. There were a few old colonial homes turned museum that I was able to visit. Glad I got to see what all the fuss was about, but not particularly captivated by the feel of the place. Merida held more interest, but nothing so far has compared to Guadalajara. I will not make it (this trip) to some of the more interior places that I hear people rave about: like San Christobal, San Luis Potasi, Palenque or San Miguel. But the alur of the Yucatan Peninsula is definitely Mayan Ruins and beaches.

So, time to go back to Bacalar. The trip back was an hour longer for some reason I never figured out and was made even more interminable by the kicking of my seat by a small child (old enough to know better) sitting behind me with his only slightly older brother. The mother and the grandmother wisely sat on the other side of the isle. The kicking started before we were even out of the gate and my Spanish dictionary was tucked safely inside my back pack in the baggage compartment when I desperately needed a word for “kick.” Waiting a while, not wanting to be the ugly American being hateful to a small child, I turned around kneeling in my seat and reached my hand down to try and still his kicking feet and uttered, “Por favor, no.” Well that earned me a look from the mother – who did nothing to intervene, nor did it impress the kid enough to change his behavior. Obviously I was too nice… Won’t happen again.

The kicking continued – and having raised two boys with a lot of energy I realized this kid was just bored, but still… if he was already bored and we hadn’t even gotten on the road, it was going to be a loooong ride. After three more attempts at being reasonable, I got the mother’s attention and using the only Spanish I could muster for the occasion: pointed at the still swinging feet and said: “Por favor, esto es una problema.” Would like to have known how to say “Dammit, stop kicking my seat or I will eviscerate you!” But that might have created an international incident and I’m not sure my travel dictionary has the word “eviscerate.” Must learn the word for “kill.”

So! Back in Bacalar, the tourists have all gone home, the rainy season is creeping in a little early and I like it. It’s lovely to be back in this sweet little town. Every morning I walk my three miles and see the same people building a house on the lagoon, setting up to offer tours or just tending to their chickens, riding their bikes or scooters to work. On the right is the beginning of my route with some of what I see along the way below: gorgeous Bougainvillea, Flame Trees and bits of jungle.

Coral Bouganvillea

The Mayans are very sweet, friendly – always
have a greeting and I love seeing them with their families in the Plaza at night. The kids are happy and there’s so much family presence. Have met a few expats living down here, but am not sure I’m ready for that – still need to be more contributive (not sure that’s a word…) than that usually allows. Though this community seems different and more integrated into the regular town and its population than most expat communities. Houses are tucked in along the way and spread out throughout the area as opposed to being clustered together and a neighborhood unto themselves.

A private path to the lagoon

My free month in a condo a block off the beach in Playa del Carmen is nine days away and I’m soooo excited! Can’t remember if I mentioned that a woman I met in Merida has gifted me the use of her condo for the entire month of June, my paying only utilities. She lives in D.C. and the condo has no one scheduled for the month. I feel like I hit the jackpot and am eternally grateful!

Next post: Playa del Carmen!

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Reprieve – Sort of

Nancy — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 16:12:00 +0000

Good news abounds. First my foot and mobility have improved to the point that I can move to a location where I have to fend for myself. Now how is this good news…. The care I have received at the hands of Nurse Betsy has surpassed any care I have received anywhere. She is a treasure and has prepared lovely meals presented with a flourish of artistry and certainly love. She has washed clothes and ironed things that have never seen an iron (no mango flies on her watch). She has pampered and set up a shower in a way that keeps my foot elevated! She is every one’s perfect mother away from home.

So, I am moving and will miss Betsy and her care, but will have more freedom and access to getting around. One has to be a genie to find Betsy’s and the fiasco of transportation to and from dinner on Saturday night was all I needed to let me know “not to try this alone.” Also, there are frequently other PCV’s staying at the Bukoto Guest House, so it won’t be as isolating.

One PVC came in today with a jigger in her foot. No no, don’t get excited – not like a jigger of tequila. a little worm than can get in when you walk with open toed sandals through the grass. It’s a nasty little beast that literally worms its way in and sets up housekeeping until you cut it out. Another came in yesterday looking like death warmed over – probably Malaria. So it’s busy there even if all that happened was medical. There are 175 of us in country and something is always happening for someone. Then there are workshops and meetings and lost passports… So one can be “entertained” a bit while here. But I am getting proposals for my NGO written, studying Acholi and doing other PC assignments.
They try to make sure new PCVs are not having too much fun and keep us on a short leash. Not so much fun and much of it seems like busy work, if you’ve already lived a life and know how to get out there and get busy. But some folks are at sites with too much going on and others are stationed where they are feeling like they’ve been dropped on the dark side of the moon.

The latest hoopla has been over the lack of a Christmas Break. Washington D.C. has mandated that new PCV’s are forbidden to leave their sites during the first 90 days of service. This might work if we had not come at a time than when that 90 days spanned two important holidays: Thanksgiving and Christmas. For some of the younger PCVs, it’s the first time every that they have spent away from friends and family and this is tough. For the older ones who may have had some exposure to that, we have at least had the freedom to find ways to make the holidays fun or avoid feeling emotionally adrift or downright abandoned. It’s been a HUGE controversy with boat loads of discontent and today there was some give by HQ. At first we had NO days for Christmas. That was changed to give us two days – the 24th and 25th away from site, but ya’ can’t get anywhere in Uganda in a couple of hours and no one in his right mind travels at night. So today, there was a compromise made and we how have essentially four days, two of which are travel days but we have to take annual leave… This is where I need a bad word.

Wow – ya think that you leave some of this behind, but the bottom line is – this #!* is everywhere and there is no escape. Still – PCVs are people who color outside the lines, and the more you try to constrain us the more hostile we get. So now, the hostility meter is out of the danger zone and some normalcy has returned, meaning that we don’t have to become totally subversive. We will always be mildly so, because straight-arrows rarely sign onto spend two years with pit latrines, disease and daily uncertainty. So how do you handle 175 mildy-subversive personalities? Carefully and with a sense of humor, a large dose of flexibility and tact. These traits are not always in supply but sometimes they appear and pour oil on troubles waters.

So that’s today’s report from the Pearl of Africa, boring tho it may be.

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