london times

the morning is different. it’s quiet. and still.

roosters aren’t waking the villagers. women aren’t sweeping the dirt.

the air is sharp and cold.  

the thin, foggy blanket hovering above the frozen ground is disturbed only by the horses’ running feet as they traverse the waking hillside.

the green is dull.  and even the air is frozen.

my morning run is different.  it’s cold. 

i’m not dodging potholes and motorcycles.

i’m passing cathedrals.  and old men in galoshes.  and the royal mailman on foot. quaint cottages and stone gates. and stone age burial sites.

cattle grids begin every driveway.  and every cottage is named. 

stone houses with thatched roofs.  public footpaths with iron gates.

i should like to live here.

i should like to live anywhere. and everywhere.

i could, you know.

i could.

but i feel the discomfort of discontent creeping in.
and my thoughts are elsewhere.

dreaming.

of a life that’s not here.

but i’m missing out.

missing out on the wonder that is here.

the wonder that’s in my body when it moves with grace across the floor of an old dance studio.  

the wonder that’s in my hair when the glistening snow falls quietly on my head.

i’m missing out. 

missing out because i’m not opening my eyes.

so try it.

open your eyes.

the wonder is here.

you only have to see it.

never leaving

trekking through the African jungle.

the air is sweet. wet. rainy season is finally on its way.

sucking on a handful of coffee beans i just picked from the tree.  

mangy goats cross the path ahead. the red dirt tints their remaining fur.

the green is thick. and vibrant.

a canopy of towering trees shield the glittering sun.  

i'm getting comfortable here.  and God knows that's the one thing i fear most.  

comfort. 

but i feel it.  

i'm getting used to sleeping with lizards.  rinsing the ants from my toothbrush.
eating fufu, koliko, aguti, and ablo.  wearing floor length skirts and t-shirts with necklines up to my chin.  bananas, coconuts, mangos, and pineapple on the roadside. 

strange smells.  

bustling markets.  

colorful people.  

this place has changed me. but not much, i don't think.

except maybe my 

eyes.

they're wider. and wiser. 

more open.

to the world. to its people. 

to the will of God.

the presence may not be physical.

but Africa will remain.

i've learned. and laughed. and loved.

and lived here.

it will never leave 

me.

market

you can tell a lot about a 

person.

from where she buys her 

things.

c'est la vie

did you shower this morning?

did you walk 6 miles in bare feet through thick, jungle brush to the nearest, nearly dry stream and carry it all back on your head?

have you taken a sip of water recently?

did you sift out the cow feces first?

are you wearing clean underwear?

were they washed with the same water you showered in yesterday?

did you eat today?

did you think about whether or not you could afford to actually eat your food rather than sell it?

probably not.

do you brush your teeth with toothpaste?

some people wouldn't know what to do with a tube if you gave them one.

do you use shampoo?

“shampoo” doesn’t even exist in some people’s vocabularies.

do you check the weather on your smartphone?

some people don’t need to.  only sticks and branches separate them from the outdoors.

this is not a guilt trip.  
i promise. 
no sir. not even close. just an eye-opener.

and a funny story.

several years ago, the Peace Corps came to Kpele Tsiko, Togo looking to do some humanitarian work.

family members of long-term patients stay on the hospital compound.  in an area called the “cuisine.” 

divided cement slabs. a pump. a couple of cement rooms with doors. some showers. places to cook. and build fires. clean water. 

the conditions seem meager to me.  but I know the Togolese that stay here think they’re living like kings on those cement slabs.

a while back, they didn’t have toilets.  now, thanks to the Peace Corps.  they do.

the funny thing is though.

they’ve never been used.

seriously.  never.

the brush is just fine, thanks.

really?  yes really.

i know exactly what you're thinking. i do.

i started out feeling sorry for them too.  but then I noticed something.

they don’t feel sorry for themselves.

this is simply how they do things.

walking 6 miles to find water during the dry season isn’t a drag.  it’s life.

wearing long skirts in triple-digit heat isn’t oppressive.  it’s culture.

carrying children on your back while you harvest yams and hack squaking chickens isn’t crazy.  it’s a living.

hard to believe. i know. but i’m beginning to understand.

slowly.

i have been deceived. 

i have mistakenly made the words “convenience” and “necessity”

synonymous. 

little

i enjoy feeling little.

big cities, big churches, big stages, big oceans, and big mountains make me feel little.

so do the intricate insides of a human, the microscopic complexities of photosynthesis, and the diversity of the world's people.

it doesn't happen often. but today a felt it. little.

hundreds of butterflies nudged my sun-kissed shoulders and brushed my liberated hair. amidst a flurry of flying colors, we counted down.  5, 4, 3, 2, 1.  zero.

mad dash for the falls.  3 blazing white Americans streaking across the river.  toes and ankles landing hard on the smooth, cold, river rock.

blinding mist.  laughing and screaming and falling under the cool pressure.

Ghana's highest waterfall.  a glorious cascade of revitalization.  of enjoyment and beauty and wonder.

a reflection of the Creator's masterful mind.  of His creativity and of His grandeur.  

we are all here. small and in His hands.

sometimes. feeling small and insignificant is intimidating.

and sometimes.  that's good.