I May Be Going Mad, or Maybe Someone Just Messed With the Presets on My Radio

     I remember learning a few years ago from some supportive colleagues that grief messes with your attention span.  When my Dad, Sir died, I was unable to read a book for almost a year.  I couldn't get past a few paragraphs before I was distracted.  I'm struggling with that again.  Last week, I found myself skimming the newspaper, because the articles were too long for my wandering mind. Sigh.  At least I know now that it's "normal."

     The flip side of that is the delightful way a turn of a phrase, or worse, the chorus of a song gets stuck in my head and plays on repeat.  I'm not talking about the everyday earworm of a song that gets stuck in your head.  This is a very loud, repetitive drone that edges out more productive thought.  And thanks to an errant push of the scan button on the car radio, I am slowly being pushed into madness by Paul McCartney's 1979 gem  "Goodnight Tonight."  Why, oh why did Paul McCartney experiment with disco?!  "...you can say anything, but don't say goodnight tonight, tonight, tonight, tonight...."

   I'm not going down without a fight, though.  There is no way that synthesizer special effects and the chipper pleading of Macca are taking me out.  Not this time.

    I went to Newport yesterday for work.  The entire island was fogged in and the seas were very violent.  The wind carried an overpowering, but not entirely unpleasant, briny smell.  The angry, disjointed rhythm of the surf crashing against the rocks at Breton Point was jarring.  To my relief, I found the scene hauntingly beautiful.

     See, for my entire life I have sought solace in the sea when I've found myself in distress.  Only the sea is responsible for my grief.  So, I've been at a real loss for ways to cope.  Two weeks ago, I tried to walk "my beach."  It was a beautiful day.  I sat in the car for 15 minutes before I decided that I wasn't ready.  I drove away without another glance.

     I spent last weekend in Plymouth (yes, the one with the Pilgrims) at a conference.  It took me the entire weekend before I could even look at the water--and I was in a hotel that overlooked the harbor.  Sunday morning, though, I finally ventured out.

      It was an absolutely beautiful day. Sunny and warm with a gentle breeze.  I was a wreck, though.  The entire weekend, I was out of sorts.  I had hoped that spending the weekend with friends and colleagues who weren't as sad as I am would help.  They were wonderful and supportive.  There were moments of hilarity that lifted my spirits.  It wasn't the weekend I wanted to have, though.  And I spent almost the entire time on the verge of tears.  It was in this state that I found myself, miserable, sitting on a bench at the Coast Guard Auxiliary's station.

     The most notable feature of Plymouth Harbor is the 3500 foot long breakwater that protects the moored fishing boats and small sailboats from the Atlantic.  I love jetties.  Many of my best memories are linked to time spent on rocks jutting into the sea.  For my entire life, I've run surefooted and fearlessly across them.  

                                                                                                                              

Until last Sunday.

    I was afraid.  I found myself watching every step.  Grabbing the guide wire.  Waiting for people to pass before moving on.  Sticking to the biggest and flattest stones.

 It. Was. Awful.

   
      And that's when my upbringing kicked in at its fiercest.  I got angry.  Angry that I was afraid.  Angry that I couldn't control that.  Angry that I couldn't control anything.  And, yes, angry that Evelyn and David are gone.

      And I aruged, with whom I'm still not sure--myself?  The Atlantic?  God?  As I argued, I kept walking.  Suddenly, I'm not looking at my feet anymore.  Suddenly, I'm not scared.  Suddenly, I'm at the end of the jetty.  The ocean didn't care.  Not a bit.  It just is.  And I found that oddly comforting.

I'm still not okay with any of this.  I'm good enough though. The ocean didn't beat me.  

There's no way Paul McCartney will. 

     

To Do

     Last month, during my final week in Rwanda, the Evil Genius was on school vacation.  That Monday, those two twisted brothers planted homemade bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  My Personal Chef's office is within a few blocks of there.  Our home is within an hour of there.  Needless to say, it was a rather stressful week for my family.  The high emotions culminated on that Friday night.  While my group was flying from Africa towards the US, the bombers went on their internationally televised rampage, finally ending with one brother being killed and the other captured only hours before we landed.
    Because of the tension of that week, my son frittered his vacation away in front of screens.  No bike rides across town, no pick up basketball games at the park, no climbing rocks at the gorge, no trips to the ice cream shop or library, no hanging out with his neighborhood friends... nothing but sucking his brains out through his eyeballs going from the computer to video games to the tv.

   " Life is too short to suck your brains out," I told him.  So we started talking about fun things we like to do. We talked about fun things we used to do, but haven't for a long time. We talked about how there was no good reason that we didn't do those fun things.  And in no time, it evolved into a  list.  Now it's a work in progress that we are calling the Official Summer of Awesomeness To Do List.  It's been shared with the rest of the FabFam who have all chimed in their own ideas.  This past weekend, as my circle gathered to mourn the loss of our two dear friends, I told them about the list. We laughed.  We cried.  We laughed until we cried.  And we added more ideas to the list.

     And then this morning I read this:  Are We Having Fun Yet?  Lisa Rosenberg over at Smacksy has been right up there at the top of my blogger crushes for a while now.  And here she is confessing that she is as lame as I am?  Well, damn, if she and her friends need help having fun, then I don't feel so alone.
    In fact, I bet there are a lot of us out there who are scaling the mountain of laundry, but haven't made it to REAL mountains in a long time.  Or went on an actual date, because, no, going to the grocery store together is NOT a date.  Not even if you are married to a chef.

So, here is a sampling from my FabFam's list to help inspire you and yours to make your own fun:

1. See every minor league baseball team in New England play a game.
2. Start a "watershed moment"* wine collection with at least 5 bottles of great wine.
3. Take the Boston Duck Tour.
4. Start a garden gnome collection.
5. Have a meteor watching party on the beach during the Perseids this August.
6. Go zip lining.
7. Buy cowboy boots.
8. Take the kayaks on the ocean this year.
9.  Build and fly a really beautiful kite.
10. Sleep on a boat.
11. Skydive, because my Personal Chef promised he would.
12. Take the kids' to Niagara Falls.  Because apparently, the Evil Genius has ALWAYS wanted to go there.
13. Visit all those "we've got to get together soon" friends.
14.  Have professional family pictures taken.
15. Make gallons of bubble stuff and go crazy with giant bubble making bubble wands.

Right now, our Official Summer of Awesomeness To Do List has over 50 items on it.  Someone adds to it every day.  There are even dates scheduled for more than a dozen of them.  I'll be sure to share some of our stories.  I'd love to hear yours, too.  How are YOU going to make this the Official Summer of Awesomeness?



*wine that we set aside for toasting milestones and other great moments in the upcoming weeks, months, years such as Thing 1's acceptance in pharmacy college, Thing 2 starts his first job, the Evil Genius makes his first outfield hit, etc.

   

     Yesterday, the beautiful and terrible Atlantic Ocean claimed the lives of two of my closest friends, while a third dear, dear friend, watched helplessly.


  And after writing that sentence on Monday, my words just dried up.  I have not been able to write, speak, or even think.  It's been an awful week, filled with phone calls that nobody wants to receive, and a To Do list filled with items nobody wants to have to do. I have literally "worked" my way through these past four days by staying too busy to stop too long to have to think too much.

  I grew up in a family that values stoicism over almost all other "virtues."  It is ingrained in me to not show emotion, not "make a fuss," as my Nana would say.  So I haven't.  I've prepared meals, made phone calls, run errands, gathered photos, and otherwise been practical and useful.  For a few more days, while there are still public gatherings to attend, I'll appear to remain "together."  And then I won't be.

     Unlike the generations that went before me, I'm okay with that.  Well, I'm not okay with any of this.  And that's the point.  None of this is okay. It is awful.  Simply awful.  I'm supposed to feel awful.  Which is good, because I do. I am heart sick. And I'm going to be for a long time.


   

Sorry for Leaving You Hanging

     I didn't intend to fall off the face of the earth.  I didn't intend to raise all kinds of questions and then not answer them.  I didn't intend on April unfolding the way it has.

     This year's trip to Rwanda was challenging, difficult, wonderful, eye-opening, unsettling, life-affirming and life-changing.  I'm already looking forward to my next trip to the Land of a Thousand Hills.  And that astounds me.  Two years ago, I would never have imagined that I'd actually be going to Africa.  That I've since been twice and even my family assumes that I'll be returning again?  Simply amazing to me.

     I don't know why I haven't posted in over a month.  While I was still in Rwanda, I was definitely up against time and technology constraints.  I had the Global Citizens blog to keep up, and a weekly column for my local newspaper to submit. Since I've been home, I have sat down to write several times.  This morning I deleted multiple draft blog posts that just fell flat.

     Perhaps I've just been jet lagged.  Perhaps I have been unable to articulate what I've experienced and felt.  Perhaps writing about a student trip halfway around the world while the Boston Marathon bombing drama is unfolding here at home feels inappropriate.  Perhaps the world spins just a bit too quickly and there are already new, more current things I feel like I should be writing about.

     Whatever the reason, I'm back now.  Time for me to put some thoughts to the page.

 

Questions from Africa

On the flight from Washington, DC to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia I read the journal entries I made last year when I first came to Rwanda.  There were events and observations I noted that made me grin—like my impressions of the utter glee the preschoolers at Good Samaritan School demonstrated.  And the utter glee I felt being there with them.  There were several things that I had forgotten about.  For instance, at the start of the trip, I felt like a fifth wheel, as I wasn’t a teacher and I wasn’t a student.  It took me a few days to figure out where I belonged and what my role was to be.  The students did a wonderful job helping me figure it out.  And being reminded of that warmed my heart.

It is notable to me that there was so little about genocide in my journal.  Actually, in several places I say that I was not ready to write about what I experienced.   It was also notable that there was so much about things that had absolutely nothing to do with Rwanda at all.  It was as if traveling halfway around the world and experiencing an environment, culture, and way of life complete different than mine forced me to examine myself.

There were so many questions I raised in my journal entries.  Some broad questions about the nature of humanity:  How does anyone forgive something like genocide?  How do we prevent genocide from ever happening again?  And some very pointed questions about my own nature:  What angers and injuries am I hanging onto?  How do I forgive?  What do I believe in?  How do I demonstrate that faith?

A year later, here I am back in Rwanda. I still don’t have answers to all of the questions Africa asked me.  And Rwanda has already started asking me more. 

Just this morning, I was woken by the sound of local people singing their hallelujahs in Kinyarwanda as they attended 6:30 AM mass at the Jesuit center we are staying at.  I wondered, again, how can Rwandans still have such faith after the horrors of the genocide?  And added to that was this:  Knowing that churches became places of mutilation and death instead of refuge, how can they return to worship?  What do they know that I don’t? 

For weeks now, I’ve been unsettled.  Leading up to the trip, I was anxious about all the final preparations and all of the unknowns.  My fears are unfounded.  I didn’t forget anything.  My family was ready for me to go.  Our travel to Rwanda has been uneventful.  The other two women chaperoning the trip are competent, organized, and truly great company. The young people we’re traveling with are remarkable.  I have the highest level of confidence in our tour leader, Alexis and his wife Gyslaine.  And still I’m unsettled.  I cannot quite articulate what it is, beyond that it is something within me.  The overarching question Rwanda seems to be asking me must be, “What’s the matter with you?”  I honestly don’t know.

I do know that I am supposed to be here in Rwanda. I'm hoping Rwanda will help me answer her questions.

Ready or Not, Here I Come

     I leave for Rwanda on Saturday.  Well, actually, I leave for Washington, DC on Saturday.  After a whirlwind tour of our nation's capital, including several gut-wrenching hours at the US Holocaust Memorial Saturday, we fly first to Ethiopia, then onto Rwanda on Easter Sunday.

     I. Am. Not. Ready.

I'm close.  I really am.  But not quite close enough.  The big stuff is done.  I think.
Done enough.  I guess.

     I have the airline tickets in hand. Our itinerary is set and the ground expenses paid for.  I checked in with my doctor and got my antimalarial drugs.  I've made sure our state Senator's people and the US State Department and the US Embassy in Rwanda know when we're arriving and where we'll be when and such.  I've answered as many of the parents' questions as I can.  I've collected donations and purchased gifts for the friends I've made over there.  I've sent my boss approximately 1,942 emails about what work I've done up ahead, what work can wait until I come back, and what to do about the work that is neither done nor can wait.  I've made piles of things to pack--which the dogs have knocked over on a daily basis.  I've re-piled things to pack.    I got a really nifty new backpack, because last year, Rwanda did my old backpack in.  I put together the super duper first aid kit that covers everything from a stomach ache to boy trouble. (True story, I packed hard candy and gum to help treat cases of the weepies. It's in between the triple antibiotic ointment and the pepto in my medical case.  This was a hard-learned lesson from traveling with NINETEEN teenage girls last year.)  I've rescheduled a dentist appointment.  I've paid for the Evil Genius' school lunches for the next month. And basically, I've been moving non-stop and talking in one never-ending run-on sentence for the past two weeks.

Exhale.

     Truth is, if our flight were leaving today, I'd be ready enough with the actual trip prep.  It's the mental preparation that I've fallen behind on.  When I say that Rwanda captured a bit of my soul last year, I'm not being melodramatic.  I absolutely cannot wait to get back there.  Except for the part of me that is dragging my feet. See, there is no separating the lush landscape and beautiful people of Rwanda from the ghastly, unspeakable horror of the genocide.  I expected the visits to the genocide memorials to be difficult.  I could not have imagined how deeply affected by it I would be.  It was impossible to process all of that emotion during the short time that I was there.  It has been a year, though, and I realize that I have actively avoided going back and working through it at all.  And now I'm returning.  During April.  The month that the Rwandan government has set aside for national days of remembrance. And I am not ready.

    It's selfish.  I know.  I don't want to allow myself to feel that pain, and I definitely don't want it to force me to address the almost meaningless comparisons that pain brings up for me.  I feel guilty about that.  Every Rwandan has their own story of enduring the absolutely unbearable during the genocide. And here I am avoiding even thinking about it in the abstract, because it will be painful?  That the closest experience I have in comparison is that I struggle to forgive my father for not being the kind of father I wanted to have?  I'm ashamed. 

     I've had a year to reflect.  I've had a year to deal with what I've experienced.  I've had a year to be a better woman.  And if I am being honest with myself, I've squandered that time.  But I'm getting on an airplane and going back there in just over three days.  I'm traveling with a group of some of the kindest,  most compassionate people I've ever known.  They are so young--still in high school--and they are going to look to me for support or at least an example.  So, today I stop stalling.  The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one, right?  Well, then I guess I've taken a step in the right direction.  

Hiking Mt. Whelm

    Sometime a week or so ago, I went over the edge.  I'm overwhelmed.  Like every woman I know, I spend almost all of my time at the very edge of "whelm."  My toes dangle right there at the crest. Lately, I've found myself hanging over the rock face by one hand.  I've been sick.  I've been worried about my children.  There are inflexible deadlines at work coming at me and they seem to be speeding up. There's volunteer work I'm responsible for and not quite pulling off, it seems.  There's family stuff that is messy and complicated like everyone's family stuff is.  There's this cocker spaniel puppy that keeps forgetting he's housebroken.  I leave for Rwanda in three weeks.  I'm not even close to ready.  My house looks like a fraternity house on a Sunday morning after the big party.  It's all become too much for me.

BUT

     The view here is breathtaking.  It would have to be, otherwise, why would intelligent women spend so much time here?  It's all about the view.

     See, at the peak of Mt. Whelm is where we can see the possibilities of made beds, clean bathrooms, and all the laundry being folded and put away.  They are just over that next ridge.

We get a birds' eye view of those work projects totally rocked out.

Just across the valley we can see our children's successes--making the honor roll, hitting the curve ball, beasting that audition for the wind ensemble.  Here, above the tree line, our marriages are joyful and romantic and sexy.

     Of course, it's dangerous at the precipice.  The weather is unpredictable.  It gets really cold at night.  The snow remains year round.  There is always the threat of an avalanche.  The air is thinner, up here, too.  Sometimes, it's hard to breathe.  Sometimes, our packs are too heavy or our footing unsure and we go over the edge.

Photo courtesy of Bangor Daily News

But that view.