August Twenty-Twenty Six

 

a reflection written from my time in Kenya at the beginning of August: 

After thirty-two years of coming to this place,
well over half a lifetime for me,
it’s become a second home.
Though the desert is a stark contrast
to my beloved Pacific NW terrain,
I’m at home here.
Eating ugali and goat meat,
sweating while I drink a cup of hot tea in 90+ degree heat,
letting “Bwana Asifiwe” (Praise the Lord)
roll off my tongue.
Over the years,
we have shared not only the gospel
but our very lives with one another.
These people have become my people.
What matters to them matters to me.
This kind of exposure therapy—
of listening to stories and gaining perspective,
of being surrounded by prayer,
of having my heart stretched,
of being infused with love,
of being with people who love well,
of being comfortable being uncomfortable—
this keeps changing me for the better.
My dear friends from India,
Ratnakar and Saroja,
added to the beauty of Kenya
with their stories,
with their dancing,
with their cooking—
infusing flavor
and life and color
and perspective.
Veronica hosted us
and truly was a superwoman—
pulling things together,
following up with children,
managing tensions,
reading the room.
Our connection has become a lifeline—
to support the program,
to support one another,
to love one another,
to love each other’s families,
with our hopes and dreams and aches and pains
across the miles.
Because of time well spent,
we have more perspectives,
more voices,
more stories.
We are not as locked into our single stories
about one another or about the world.
Giving thanks for the crowded table
with these brothers and sisters.
Giving thanks for the love that is like mycelium—
the web beneath all we see.
Giving thanks that our stories are woven together
and that we belong to one another.
Giving thanks for the way Kenya keeps expanding my heart.
Bwana Asifiwe!

I’ve been thinking about those words from the mural above, which I saw this spring while I was in North Carolina, as I’ve put together my monthly collages for August. These collages have become a way for me to notice and gather up the joy of the month—the people, places, moments, beauty, laughter, and little glimpses of goodness that I want to take the time to remember and name.

But of course, the fullness of life means that we can carry beauty and brokenness at the very same time. This poem below, which I heard this past week, speaks so beautifully to that reality and feels especially needed, as I know we are all carrying so many stories.

I hope it resonates with you as much as it did with me.

I want a word that means
okay and not okay,
more than that: a word that means
devastated and stunned with joy.
I want the word that says
I feel it all all at once.
The heart is not like a songbird
singing only one note at a time,
more like a Tuvan throat singer
able to sing both a drone
and simultaneously
two or three harmonics high above it—
a sound, the Tuvans say,
that gives the impression
of wind swirling among rocks.
The heart understands swirl,
how the churning of opposite feelings
weaves through us like an insistent breeze
leads us wordlessly deeper into ourselves,
blesses us with paradox
so we might walk more openly
into this world so rife with devastation,
this world so ripe with joy.

-Rosemerry Trommer