I had been wondering what we were going to sleep on, or rather in. I knew that the desert got cold at night. So I was relieved when I saw that the blankets that we had been sitting on, all day, on the camel's backs, were our sleeping blankets. I mean, talk about efficient. Almost no packing necessary.
Dinner was incredible. Truly. The stars came out and I have never before in my life seen stars like that. Not even in Canada, in the mountains. These stretched from horizon to horizon and the sky was a perfect bowl. Betelgeuse was as red as a poppy. It was amazing, and we ate our rice and vegetables and dhal staring at the sky. Timothy and Chinua particularly enjoyed a type of bread that the guides made for us— a desert camping bread, I guess— it was made by setting a bush on fire, shoving it under the sand, and then making bread balls which were also buried under the sand. The result was a hard doughy ball that was warm and fresh and tasted a lot like sand. The guys loved them, and had seconds, maybe thirds. I was not so enamored, don't get me wrong, I just don't like my bread to taste a whole lot like the desert floor. I stuck to seconds on rice and subzhi— Indian vegetables. And I was glad that I refrained later, when the guys were in agony after the dough ball bread expanded in their stomachs. It was a sad picture, Chinua and Tim bending their backs as far as they could go, groaning like horses in labor, trying to give their stomachs more room in their bodies because there just wasn't enough room for all that bread.
We drifted off to sleep in our camel blankets on the sand. And in the morning, the sunrise. And a long trek back mid-day, which caused Chinua and I to almost die of sunstroke. But that's a whole different story.
August 23, 2005
Yesterday Chinua and I went to the nearest emergency room with our kids.
We were headed to the ER because after his nap Kai was complaining of pain near his sternum. This wouldn't have been too alarming, except for the fact that he had experienced a pretty big electric shock from an outlet in our room, earlier in the day.
I watch my kids. Really. It may seem that I let them run through the woods like Hansel and Gretel while I sit in my cabin painting my toenails, but this is not true. Actually, while I'm painting my toenails, they lurk over me fighting for a better view, Kai busy trying to touch the wet polish on the toe of one foot, while Kenya tries to step on the wet polish on all the toes on the other foot. It is a cross between a day at the spa and a wrestling match. Not totally relaxing.
Anyways. Kai climbed behind a dresser to retrieve a toy that he had thrown back there. Watching him, I really just thought "better him than me." Bending is not the easiest thing these days, considering my rounded belly. But it just so happens that there is an outlet back there, which had an appliance plugged into it, and it just so happened that the prongs were a little exposed, and it just so happened that there was a long coil of wire (that I only bought to use to try to break into the car when I locked myself out in a parking lot a couple of weeks ago, but that's a long story) and it had fallen off the dresser, ready to bend and touch the slightly exposed prongs when Kai brushed past them crawling behind the dresser.
There was a huge flash of light and Kai came barreling out and he was crying, and his thigh was hurt, and Kenya started fake sympathy crying, and I checked for black soot or burns but there were none, except for the burn marks around the outlet. I kept a close eye on him, and everything was fine. Until he started complaining of chest pain.
We called a nurse and decided to go to the E.R., but about halfway there, Kai wasn't in pain anymore. I felt a little silly as we walked in and registered with my child skipping around like a lamb. The hospital in Garberville is about the size of somebody's large house, and the E.R. staff appear to have nothing to do. But they took us, and looked at him, and in the end we all decided that he was okay. Which is really really good. I would rather have a false alarm than a real reason to be in the E.R. any day. There was one tense moment, when the male nurse, who has a gray braid down to his waist, said, "Well, I can't find a pulse." And the doctor said, "You can't find a what?" I looked at Kai hopping in and out of the tiled squares on the floor and shook my head. "No pulse, bud," I said. "That's not good." But the nurse tried again, and wow! There it was.
*
Kenya speaks like she's learning to speak English for the first time. (I guess she is!) There are too many syllables in every word. When I'm spooning out avocado for our egg tortillas, she says, "avocabadabodado" and looks at me as if to say, "right?" She has learned a lot about how sweet attention can be, beaming at everyone who enters the room, playing hide and seek and a whole lot of other flirty games with everyone she meets. If she puts two pieces of lego together, she brings them to me, shrieking "Wow! Wow!" until I say, "Wow, Kenya, did you do that?" and she smiles and ducks her head humbly. What a good thing. To bring something to your parents because you feel like you did such a good job and you want them to see it. It's so simple and beautiful that it makes me want to cry.
Kai is also brilliant, and as his third birthday is approaching, he is getting smarter and more creative in his imagination, though his view of reality is a little skewed. He says to me quite often these days, usually after he's been in trouble for something: "When you will be a little boy and I am a mama, and you eat all the honey and break the rule, then you will be in trouble, and I will say, you have to do the right thing."
What does a mama say to something like that?
September
September 6, 2005
Some positive things about pregnancy:
1. I take vitamins. I never take vitamins otherwise. Not only do I take a handful of vitamins every night, I also drink a concoction of herbs that tastes like hay but is brimming with good nutrients for pregnancy and childbirth. And it's no wonder that it tastes like hay. The herbs are raspberry leaf, nettles, alfalfa and oat straw. I've grown to like it, actually, seeing that I drink a liter of it every day. I feel amazingly healthy. I recommend it to any pregnant women out there who think they might have leanings toward drinking tea that tastes like hay (and provides excellent reproductive health). I'm expecting a shipment of six pounds of it on Friday, so you can even come over to my house for a gallon or so, if you'd like.
2. People take things from you when you're carrying them. Even your husband. I mean, I'm used to the single guys around here suddenly exploding into gentlemanliness, but sometimes husbands believe their wives are so capable that they forget to offer to carry things. It's really nice to be walking along with something like, say, a pillow, and have a man swoop down on you and pluck it out of your hands saying, "Here now, I don't believe you should be carrying that." It's true, though, that this principle can work in reverse. It's the principle of: If you don't act sick, people will treat you like you're well. I have a hard time slowing down, ever, so I sometimes end up sitting and feeling sorry for myself, wondering why no one treats me any differently because I'm pregnant. It's the lesson of my life: You need to let people know what you need.
3. You have a little friend with you everywhere you go. I'll be sitting by myself, thinking about bill paying or car registration, and suddenly, tap tap tap. My little inner friend is communicating with me. Of course, this becomes much less desirable toward the end of pregnancy when there just really isn't enough room for both of you in one body. I remember arching my back with all my might with Kai, trying to make just a little more space so he could enjoy his stretching without squishing my organs permanently.
4. There is a special hormone given to you in pregnancy, one that is designed to keep you from yelling at your children because you are so irritable and grumpy. The effect that this hormone has on you is like a big giant dose of giddiness over how adorable and amazing your kids are. You could eat them. You could pick them up and squeeze them until they protest and you ignore them and they keep protesting until you finally listen and give up and put them down. You actually do this. And I am blessed, because Kenya has entered her cuddly lovey stage at the same time, so we can cuddle and cuddle to my hearts content. She likes
to get her blankie (she calls it her "bing") and lay on my chest and make contented humming noises. It's great.
September 10, 2005
Maybe, while I'm pregnant, I shouldn't be allowed to go out in public. Just a thought. There are times when it can be a little awkward for other people. Yesterday was a good example.
Chinua and I have had our licenses suspended until we can pay fines that we owe for tickets that we can't afford. Yesterday was my big day to go and represent myself before the Humboldt Superior Court, and beg for forgiveness for the speeding ticket that I received over two years ago. I felt a little nervous about it, since I've never been to court before, and even my immigration hearing was like a cozy little chit chat in my new Vietnamese-American best friend's cozy little office. (He became my new best friend after granting me permanent residence on the spot.) I asked Chinua what he thought court would be like. His thoughts were that it wouldn't be like anything on TV, and that it would probably not even be held in a courtroom. What he said made me think of a nice talk with the judge and a secretary, soon to become my new best friends after the judge dissolved my charges and sent me on my way with a blessing and an admiring word for what a sweet person I was.
This is what actually happened: The court proceedings happened in a large room filled with church-type chairs, (you know, the padded ones) after about sixty other people and I waited in the hallway for the judge to show up from his lunch break. The judge, who was a good-natured and humorous old fellow in a robe, sat at the far corner of the room at his bench, which was guarded from people who had potential grudges by four more padded chairs, facing backwards. This, he said, was to give him time to pull out his gun should anyone rush toward him with a hand grenade, at which time, he said, the rest of us should duck. He really said this. Putting the chairs there was a wise move, since there was absolutely no security in the courthouse. This is Humboldt County, after all. (I've faced much tighter security at the Central Post Office in San Francisco.)
The Judge read us our rights. He also told us that if any of our cell phones went off a large man with a large stick would come and take them away. Then he proceeded to call us up in alphabetical order to plead our cases in front of everyone. I started to shake a little. Several people had last names that started with letters preceding F. Everyone pleaded guilty to their charges, the Judge would ask them if they could pay their fines that day, and they would say: yes. The most common cases were teenagers with speeding tickets who approached the bench with their parents, pleaded guilty, and had their parents pay for their tickets. I started to sweat. I could see that there was not really going to be an opportunity for me to tell the judge about my life, my kids, my low income, my volunteer work, and various other things I could bring up to get me out of paying the ticket. My plan was backfiring. Clearly I would never be able to drive again.
Finally he called me. I waddled up to the bench in a last-ditch effort for pregnancy based sympathy, then pleaded guilty to the charges. The judge pointed out that the charges were from 2003, being humorous. He was nice enough to take the fine down to only $360, and to say that the cop must have really been scraping the bottom of the barrel to fine me for not having proof of registration in the car (since they have it on their computer system). As he started to question me about whether I could pay, I started to break down. I actually started weeping. I stood sobbing before the entire room of people, thoroughly embarrassed. The judge looked a little alarmed, advised me to find 360 friends to give me a dollar, and then dismissed me.
I cried all the way to the clerk's office, as I went to talk to them about payment options. I cried the whole time I was standing in line. I just couldn't stop the tears. Once a pregnant woman is weeping, it takes a whole lot to get her to stop. All I could think was that I was never going to be able to drive again. I was very, very sad. When I got to the counter, I was still crying. The man on the other side looked a little alarmed, just like the judge. I told him I was unable to pay, and he said he would get me set up with a payment plan. Then, he said the magic words. He told me that once a payment plan was established, they would send a "case closed" message to the DMV, and they would work on restoring my license. My tears started to dry up. The man patted me on the hand and told me it would be okay.
All of this brings me to something I have been thinking about for a really long time. It's about the courts of God. I'm not really talking about the courts in the courtroom sense, but in the royal, kingly sense. Yesterday I felt humiliated, admitting my stupid mistake in not paying a two-year-old fine and admitting my inability to pay. But in the courts of God, I have a voice. Meditating on this has changed my life. I know that I can walk into the presence of the Most High and make my requests known, and he hears me, not just as some pregnant lady who somehow made it into his courtroom, but as his daughter, his friend. Do you see how restorative that is? Everyone wants to be heard. To have a voice. Before Majesty, we do. He inclines his ear to hear us. When I am humiliated, all I have to do is remember that I have a place in the courts of God. And he hears me.
This is what I pondered as I drove home with my friend Elena. The white stripes on the road ran alongside us and the river popped in and out of view, wandering beside the highway, crossing underneath, and disappearing into the distance, only to flash back into view around the next curve.
September 13, 2005
I really need stability in my life right now. Routine. Monotony, even. It's one of the side effects of being pregnant, this whole needing stability thing. It's completely instinctive, like, "I need to make a hole in the ground and bring food to it every day, so that I know when I have my pups I'll have a hole with food in it to care for them in." How about if my family wakes up every day and I feed them and do the chores and bring the kids up to what we call the Big House where someone will watch them for a couple of hours while I do my work in the office and then we'll all go eat lunch, they'll take naps while I do more office work, play for a while, eat dinner, play for another while, and then go to bed? How about that?
Life is never that simple. At least not for humans. And especially humans who work in intentional communities. How about this instead? After Kenya keeps us awake for a good part of the night with her teething, I'll wake up and realize that the sink is still broken because the duct tape has come of the hose that connects it to the shower. So I'll wash the dishes I didn't get around to last night in the shower, and make breakfast for the kids. After we're done eating, Kenya will lay herself down on the floor and cry because she is just so miserable from the teeth that are coming in. Somehow we'll all get ready and head up to the Big House. On my way up I'll have an epiphany. The family is still here. That is, the family who showed up a few days ago, needing help. There is a father with five kids on a school bus, and the mom has become estranged temporarily: they are looking for her. (I want to interject here that with all my heart I really want to help them, and I'm so glad that we're able to do even the smallest thing to help them. But, we're talking about my stability instinct, and suddenly having five kids cruising around on top of your two is not the most stable thing.)
When I get to the Big House I'll find out that the person who usually watches my kids while I work is away picking grapes for the week. This is the first I've heard of it. So, in a last-ditch effort to still get some work done, I'll attempt to put a video on for them. But the TV will be broken. Okay. At this point there's nothing for me to do but find my husband and let him know that I quit, because my job has become impossible. He'll suggest that we find another TV, at which point I'll throw my own self on the floor (metaphorically) and wail that there isn't another TV anywhere. But then my friend Elena will let me know that there is. So Chinua will install the new TV, which has been around since before I was born, while I sit and mutter in the corner. Soon the kids will be happily installed on the couch watching Pooh's Heffalump Movie, (all the kids, including Elena's son Jed and three of the other five) and I'll go to start some work in the next room. Not very far into
it, though, Elena will come in holding Kenya, and tell me that she found her down near my cabin, crying her heart out. She must have been looking for me. After my immediate heart attack, I'll cuddle her, thinking, "And they call the TV a babysitter. Ha. Nix the TV babysitting."
Not much will be done, and you get the point. We'll have a few more adventures, like Kai waking Kenya up half an hour into her nap, so the rest of my working day is shot as well, and then Elena and I will chase a stray chicken around for awhile. You can imagine how hilarious this looks if you remember that Elena is nine months pregnant and I am five months along. The visiting kids will prefer to think that I am heartless, rather than believe me when I say that I am working, and too busy to fix the VCR for them. It will be an amazingly routine-free and fruitless day, work wise.
And it is so, so good for me. It is at times like these, when I am torn between sympathy and irritation, that I have to turn to God and say, "Look at me, I'm still a wretch," and he lovingly lifts me up. When I am sick with anxiety over the work I have to do and the impossibility of doing it without help, I remember again that it is all in his hands. I really want to help people, but I still have not found a way to combine office work, taking care of my children, and being fully present for people in need. One requires solitude and order, the others my full attention. Will I ever figure it out? Or is walking my life out more a matter of stumbling from situation to situation, asking God to create stability in my heart, to keep me standing by the sheer strength of who he is for me?
Trees Tall as Mountains (The Journey Mama Writings: Book 1) Page 2