I had the most harrowing grocery shopping experience of my life this afternoon. I should know better than to go to one of the only 2 trader joe's in Manhattan on a saturday afternoon.
Next time, Maggie.
The store was set up in 3 very unorganized levels. From the time I walked in til the time I left I was confused. Almost all the food i went there specifically to buy were out of stock despite their efforts to constantly restock the shelves. There was a dairy floor, a frozen foods and breads floor and an escalator for my grocery cart.
Note to self, use a basket next time.
Every time I turned around I was bumping into someone or someone was slamming their cart into my ankles. The line was over 60 people long and meandered around the whole confusing mess of the store. My favorite part was when this old woman (like, in her 80's) who was waiting for samples got fed up with being crowded and shoved a full but abandoned cart out of her way, and crashed it right into my cart. I could hardly take it personally. If I was her age and I had been dealing with such nonsense for this long, I'd probably do the same.
When I lay down at bed at night, the automatic phrase that comes to my lips is: "Help, God." That's the only thing that comes. Prayers that used to feel so eloquent and robust now taste a bit false on my tongue. Has belief shrunk? No, I don't think so. But practical needs are so much more... well, practical. How will I eat tomorrow? "Help, God" How will this interview go? "Help God" How will I get up in front of 35 professional actors tomorrow and pretend that I deserve to be in this class? "Help, help, help, God."
It's not so much frightened as it is consistent and reliant. I cannot possibly control my life. This has always been true, but where the illusion existed before, the false foundation of "self-sufficiency" has been exposed and I find myself entirely at the mercy of love: His and those he puts in my path.
What could have been shaken was, so what cannot be will remain.
as Saint Joan said (according to GB Shaw): "Do not think that you can frighten me by telling me that I am alone. France is alone and God is alone and what is my loneliness before the loneliness of my country and my God. I see now that the loneliness of God IS His strength. Well, my loneliness shall be my strength too. It is better to be alone with God. His council will not fail me, nor His friendship, nor His love."
I told God the other day "I don't understand" and he said "i never asked you to understand, I asked you to trust."
There you go again, God. Not much I can say to that, but "yes" and "I love you"
...because i really do.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Dr. Seuss, the subway and my purple robe
"Be who you are and say what you feel,
because those who mind don't matter,
and those who matter don't mind."
— Dr. Seuss
Call it a new season, call it a change of seasons, call it adventure or call it boredom … I always know when it’s time to write again. Perhaps it happens when I’m spending enough of my day alone that poetic (or banal) lines begin to dart through my subconscious like a stray cat… accompanied by the thought:
“you really should be writing this down”
So here I am writing it down.
You’ll have to forgive me. Since my last blog, which was, I believe, over 2 years ago, I can’t remember sitting down to just WRITE for a non-assignment related purpose.
I fear I am more than a bit rusty.
It’s Saturday night, 11:34 pm in the city that never sleeps. I’ve been sitting Indian style on my bed in my fluffy purple robe for the last hour, happy to be indoors, not regretting one bit my neglect of the late-night bar scene. Perhaps it’s an overdose of the non-specific human interaction or unproductive busyness (which is daily and inevitable), but when I come through the door of my temporary, 5th floor, upper-west-side apartment, I immediately take off my shoes, coat, jeans, sweater, purse, everything that smells like “out-there” and cozy up in my purple robe (possibly my favorite article of clothing on this planet), and sit Indian-style on my bed and begin click-clicking through facebook profiles and old emails.
I don’t recall behaving this way in the past.
Granted, I’ve only been here 6 days. Wait, has it been six? Maybe only 5. I arrived on Monday night with as many winter clothes as I could tote on the subway (the rest was shipped by my mother in a cardboard box). I was still recovering from an internal wound to my esophagus (I will spare you the details) which prevented me from eating food or drinking water without a great deal of pain. I made my way in the dusk to my temporary apartment, put away my few things, shed a few tears and brushed my teeth.
This is my new home.
How can that be?
It is a strange city, New York, when you’re not here as a temporary or tourist. I have always been mesmerized by the activity and drive of everyone in EVERY direction. But now that I know that I LIVE here, it just feels exhausting. “Where is home?”… I keep thinking. Where’s the place where you drive into the driveway, turn off the key and hear the ding-ding-ding when you open the door? You see the house lights on. Walk in the door (ground level) drop your bag, kick off your shoes and find your dad watching the 10 O’clock news.
None of that here. I’m lucky to see the lovely woman I live with twice a week in passing.
I’ve only been here 5 full days.
And in those 5 days, I’ve taken up the part-time job of a nanny while I look for something more “stable”.
Ha.
Apparently I didn’t realize how attractive being 7th of 10 children with 18 nieces and nephews (and being raised without sugar on a farm) would make me to the young New York mother, who is also trying to resist the culture here and raise her children without white bread or television.
(Ok mom, so you were right after all. Apparently the world is beginning to catch on.)
So my life at the moment consists of picking up little girls from school and doing their hair into a perfect bun (on the bus) while we rush to ballet class, playing ambulance driver in the jungle gym and reading One Fish, Two Fish until my voice begins to crack… All of which are surprisingly decompressing activities compared to the flurry of the city. There’s something about being with children (and being paid to be present with them) in a city like this that is a type of salvation from all the serious thoughts about “what am I doing with my life”
But really... what AM I doing with my life?
There’s a lot of time in transit to think about such things. People watching is a given and deep and meandering thought about anything and everything is inevitable. As the subway todders you back and forth in the overpacked car, you bump between the business man’s elbow and the model’s $1200 purse and drone in and out of awareness. Staring off into space (which has always been an odd habit of mine), you start to think about every possible life you could have chosen. Wondering if I should have gone to school to be a Lawyer? Wondering what it would be like to live in one of those pent-houses on 5th ave? Wondering how it would feel to be a migrant worker and commute into Manhattan at 5am every day. You cannot avoid thinking about your life in a thousand different ways every time you board the train.
And the funny thing is, here I am around more people than I’ve ever met in my life and no one is even looking at each other! It’s like no one even SEES anyone! It’s the ultimate check-out... Every now and then I just want to scream:
“Hello everyone! Aren’t we all alive? Isn’t this real? Isn’t this life? WAKE UP!!!”
But that, of course, would never fly. So, like everyone else, I just watch nothing and think and check my day planner for the 7th time in the last hour. There has to be something I’m missing.
This is why it’s so relieving to don my purple robe at night and surf facebook.
Or write.
::Sigh::
To be continued…
M
Saturday, July 19, 2008
a baby
my little sister had her first baby today.
it's one of those things that only happens once, ever, in a lifetime... and now it's gone. i missed it.
i will first see whatever-his-name-will-be when he's 6 weeks old and devoid of that new-newborn charm: the blank eyes that can't see 6 inches past his nose, the tounge that doesn't know it's part of his physiology yet, the grasping fingers, the pure unadulterated innocence... just moments from heaven.
it's occurring to me, as i sit here on this ugly blue couch, halfway around the world, that when you say "yes" to something, you also say "no" to everything else. and sometimes 'everything else' is more important, more substantial, more enjoyable, more life-giving (etc.) than the thing you CHOSE to do.
i could say here "BUT..." or "However..." or "Nonetheless,..."
but there's no "but" or "however" or "nonetheless" tonight. i just wanna go home and see my sister and her new little baby boy.
that's all.
m
it's one of those things that only happens once, ever, in a lifetime... and now it's gone. i missed it.
i will first see whatever-his-name-will-be when he's 6 weeks old and devoid of that new-newborn charm: the blank eyes that can't see 6 inches past his nose, the tounge that doesn't know it's part of his physiology yet, the grasping fingers, the pure unadulterated innocence... just moments from heaven.
it's occurring to me, as i sit here on this ugly blue couch, halfway around the world, that when you say "yes" to something, you also say "no" to everything else. and sometimes 'everything else' is more important, more substantial, more enjoyable, more life-giving (etc.) than the thing you CHOSE to do.
i could say here "BUT..." or "However..." or "Nonetheless,..."
but there's no "but" or "however" or "nonetheless" tonight. i just wanna go home and see my sister and her new little baby boy.
that's all.
m
Friday, July 11, 2008
15 Specific things I miss about home… in no particular order:
(this reflection was prompted by Rebecca Bea Blumhagen... bless her heart)
1. Summer night trips to dairy joy. Sitting on the back porch after closing on those cement, circular benches, eating a Reeses and Oreo “arctic swirl” with Alan and Murm and Kathy or Thomas, Anthony, Bunny, John, Noah, Brigit and, if we’re lucky, Molly Mom and Dad. Conversation pauses when the trains go by and dad goes to check on the penny he left on the track. Hopefully, the cops don’t see him.
2. Jonathan Roth driving by in “Old Merc” He asks if I want to go for a bike ride on the prairie path, or come see him play at Borders, or he comes in and stays for 5 hours, ending the evening with a few glasses of wine and some freshly written songs—and goodbye my love sung at the top of our lungs when he leaves.
3. The porch at (formerly) Elizabeth’s pool house. Candlelight. Oatmeal cookies and dad’s coffee, French pressed on the table. Crickets. Long conversation about marriage, Catholicism or the nature of God. Kids come in, shivering from the pool and sit on our laps in oversized towels.
(Why am I in Africa again?)
4. Sitting on the left end of the 6th row, center aisle, at Church of the Resurrection. Feeling free to stand, cry, talk, pray or fall asleep. I listen to the musicians. I glance over at John Fawcett, whose frail figure cannot help but lift itself to the heavenlies. I think of how much John taught me about humility and not-taking-oneself-too-seriously.
5. The way Kathy and I laugh at Mary when we’re all together in a bed and Mary pretends she wants to sleep in the middle but we both know she’ll slither out sometime in the middle of the night and sleep on the floor and then leave butt-crack-early in the morning before we’ve had the chance to bring her Starbucks.
6. Rain. Midwest rains, I’m convinced, smell sweeter and more like the earth than any other rains in the world. Sitting the wicker rocker on the porch at the farm house as the rain pours down is one of the more beautiful things in life. And when the electricity goes out, that’s even better.
7. The 11pm hour at the Ritchie household. Mom is at the table looking at magazines. I am baking cookies. Dad is falling asleep watching t-vo recordings of Chris Matthews. I have a friend or two over and we are sitting around the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, doubtlessly discussing the misfortunes of my high school acting career or the latest marriage that no one approves of.
8. Women’s prayer. Lying out on the carpet with 6 pairs of loving hands on my back, my neck, my little finger and the small part of my ankle. Words of insight, sentences of revelation, tears of love and longing. Everyone holding on… as if I might slip away… As I have.
9. Going to Chipotle and ordering the usual: burrito bowl with pepper, onions, extra chicken and light rice. Black beans, mild salsa, corn and cheese. (Sour cream and guac on the side). We order 6 soft-shell tortillas on the side and Kathy, Murm and I split the glorious Americanized-“Mexican” concoction . Oh, and I forgot about the coke with at least 3 lemons squeezed in.
9 (b) Oberwies chocolate malt, easy on the chocolate, with an extra cookie straw for dessert.
10. Late nights at crossroads. Age 11-13. Before I went to school. Playing basketball on the parking lot that doubles as a basketball court. We have a construction light rigged up with an extra long extension cord that winds through the meeting room window and bathes the court in light. I wear my Dennis Rodman jersey and pride myself in getting the most re-bounds. My hair is pulled back in a tight pony-tail. Everyone is soaked in sweat but no one wants to stop. We break at 11pm for frozen pizza and mountain dew. A car drives by on route 30 and revs his engine and screeches his tires or gives a friendly honk. Those nights seemed to go on forever… I must have thought they would.
11. Honey Rock camp through the years… Always a summer staple. As a child: camping trips, falling in love with Jesus, Zulu Warrior competitions, mountain bike masters… or grown up: Driving those long curvy roads at dangerous speeds. Christy Braaten. McGriddle Wednesdays. The smell of the lake. The sound of the lake, lapping against the doc. Camping trips. Smelling like smoke. Smelling like sweat. Showering after a trip. Kathy over the kitchen counter. Ben stock brining me icecream on my camping trip.
::Sigh::
Emily: It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another...
Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you.
Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? --
every, every minute?"
Stage Manager: No. (pause) The saints and poets, maybe they do some.
Emily: I’m ready to go back.
(From Our Town, by Thorntan Wilder)
12. High school days when Noah would come home having completed the day’s mischief and my sleepover club (which met on a daily basis) would hear the stories and giggle. Kellen Scott and Adam Baluch lived upstairs and we would go out for late-night mini-ice-cream-cones at McDonalds.
13. Frost lake days. Sitting on the old dark-wood porch (Can’t believe that thing is still standing and hasn’t sogged under so many years of Frosts sitting and telling stories) Grandma and Grandpa sit like a king and queen in the plastic lawn chairs as their progeny bustles around them. In the screen door, out the screen door, Oops, forgot my drink, in the screen door, out the screen door again. “Close it all the way! Don’t let the bugs in!” Sitting at the picnic table. Swatting flies. “Grown-up boat ride! Who’s coming?”. Quickly, the younger generation organizes our own speedboat ride and when we pass the “grown-ups” put-putting along in the old pontoon boat. We yell and wave and brace ourselves for the next bump.
14. Shanes Deli. Sam makes my high-maintenance sandwich with sprouts, pesto and honey mustard and I devour it along with Mrs. Vinnies Salt and Vinegar chips and a small Coke. Yum!
15. Being around people who know me. Who know my stories. Who were there for Mr. Mabie, Hamlet and Junior Miss… people who don’t need things to be explained. I’m tired of explaining. Oh, to be seen like everyone else on the streets. Not being pointed and laughed at when I try one of my few full sentences in Kinyarwandan. Not being asked for money. Not being proposed to. Not being treated like an object of wealth and opportunity. Being seen as everyone else. Or better yet, Being seen as Maggie.
1. Summer night trips to dairy joy. Sitting on the back porch after closing on those cement, circular benches, eating a Reeses and Oreo “arctic swirl” with Alan and Murm and Kathy or Thomas, Anthony, Bunny, John, Noah, Brigit and, if we’re lucky, Molly Mom and Dad. Conversation pauses when the trains go by and dad goes to check on the penny he left on the track. Hopefully, the cops don’t see him.
2. Jonathan Roth driving by in “Old Merc” He asks if I want to go for a bike ride on the prairie path, or come see him play at Borders, or he comes in and stays for 5 hours, ending the evening with a few glasses of wine and some freshly written songs—and goodbye my love sung at the top of our lungs when he leaves.
3. The porch at (formerly) Elizabeth’s pool house. Candlelight. Oatmeal cookies and dad’s coffee, French pressed on the table. Crickets. Long conversation about marriage, Catholicism or the nature of God. Kids come in, shivering from the pool and sit on our laps in oversized towels.
(Why am I in Africa again?)
4. Sitting on the left end of the 6th row, center aisle, at Church of the Resurrection. Feeling free to stand, cry, talk, pray or fall asleep. I listen to the musicians. I glance over at John Fawcett, whose frail figure cannot help but lift itself to the heavenlies. I think of how much John taught me about humility and not-taking-oneself-too-seriously.
5. The way Kathy and I laugh at Mary when we’re all together in a bed and Mary pretends she wants to sleep in the middle but we both know she’ll slither out sometime in the middle of the night and sleep on the floor and then leave butt-crack-early in the morning before we’ve had the chance to bring her Starbucks.
6. Rain. Midwest rains, I’m convinced, smell sweeter and more like the earth than any other rains in the world. Sitting the wicker rocker on the porch at the farm house as the rain pours down is one of the more beautiful things in life. And when the electricity goes out, that’s even better.
7. The 11pm hour at the Ritchie household. Mom is at the table looking at magazines. I am baking cookies. Dad is falling asleep watching t-vo recordings of Chris Matthews. I have a friend or two over and we are sitting around the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, doubtlessly discussing the misfortunes of my high school acting career or the latest marriage that no one approves of.
8. Women’s prayer. Lying out on the carpet with 6 pairs of loving hands on my back, my neck, my little finger and the small part of my ankle. Words of insight, sentences of revelation, tears of love and longing. Everyone holding on… as if I might slip away… As I have.
9. Going to Chipotle and ordering the usual: burrito bowl with pepper, onions, extra chicken and light rice. Black beans, mild salsa, corn and cheese. (Sour cream and guac on the side). We order 6 soft-shell tortillas on the side and Kathy, Murm and I split the glorious Americanized-“Mexican” concoction . Oh, and I forgot about the coke with at least 3 lemons squeezed in.
9 (b) Oberwies chocolate malt, easy on the chocolate, with an extra cookie straw for dessert.
10. Late nights at crossroads. Age 11-13. Before I went to school. Playing basketball on the parking lot that doubles as a basketball court. We have a construction light rigged up with an extra long extension cord that winds through the meeting room window and bathes the court in light. I wear my Dennis Rodman jersey and pride myself in getting the most re-bounds. My hair is pulled back in a tight pony-tail. Everyone is soaked in sweat but no one wants to stop. We break at 11pm for frozen pizza and mountain dew. A car drives by on route 30 and revs his engine and screeches his tires or gives a friendly honk. Those nights seemed to go on forever… I must have thought they would.
11. Honey Rock camp through the years… Always a summer staple. As a child: camping trips, falling in love with Jesus, Zulu Warrior competitions, mountain bike masters… or grown up: Driving those long curvy roads at dangerous speeds. Christy Braaten. McGriddle Wednesdays. The smell of the lake. The sound of the lake, lapping against the doc. Camping trips. Smelling like smoke. Smelling like sweat. Showering after a trip. Kathy over the kitchen counter. Ben stock brining me icecream on my camping trip.
::Sigh::
Emily: It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another...
Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you.
Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? --
every, every minute?"
Stage Manager: No. (pause) The saints and poets, maybe they do some.
Emily: I’m ready to go back.
(From Our Town, by Thorntan Wilder)
12. High school days when Noah would come home having completed the day’s mischief and my sleepover club (which met on a daily basis) would hear the stories and giggle. Kellen Scott and Adam Baluch lived upstairs and we would go out for late-night mini-ice-cream-cones at McDonalds.
13. Frost lake days. Sitting on the old dark-wood porch (Can’t believe that thing is still standing and hasn’t sogged under so many years of Frosts sitting and telling stories) Grandma and Grandpa sit like a king and queen in the plastic lawn chairs as their progeny bustles around them. In the screen door, out the screen door, Oops, forgot my drink, in the screen door, out the screen door again. “Close it all the way! Don’t let the bugs in!” Sitting at the picnic table. Swatting flies. “Grown-up boat ride! Who’s coming?”. Quickly, the younger generation organizes our own speedboat ride and when we pass the “grown-ups” put-putting along in the old pontoon boat. We yell and wave and brace ourselves for the next bump.
14. Shanes Deli. Sam makes my high-maintenance sandwich with sprouts, pesto and honey mustard and I devour it along with Mrs. Vinnies Salt and Vinegar chips and a small Coke. Yum!
15. Being around people who know me. Who know my stories. Who were there for Mr. Mabie, Hamlet and Junior Miss… people who don’t need things to be explained. I’m tired of explaining. Oh, to be seen like everyone else on the streets. Not being pointed and laughed at when I try one of my few full sentences in Kinyarwandan. Not being asked for money. Not being proposed to. Not being treated like an object of wealth and opportunity. Being seen as everyone else. Or better yet, Being seen as Maggie.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
off to tanzania
I am currently eating a meal of my own words. It was only 2 months ago that I swore never, unless forced by gunpoint, to enter Nairobi airport again.
And yet, here I am.
A man just walked by wearing a cheesy tourist tee-shirt, spouting the phrase “It’s all Greek to me” with a bunch of basic Greek phrases, and their translation listed below. I was reminded of the period in my own life when I owned, and wore proudly (with many a laugh) a t-shirt that said “Hukt on foniqs rily werked fer mee”. And I had another good laugh, silently remembering my 12-year-old self, by myself, at the Nairobi airport.
This morning, I arrived 1 ½ hours early for my 8:35 flight. Only to find that it had, indeed, already departed. Apparently, you are supposed to reconfirm your flights by going to the local branch of the airline (a 2 hour process, at least) 48 hours before the flight… in case they decided to change the time. Now, I understand delays, but I don’t really get bumping UP a flight to an EARLIER time. And somehow, everyone but ME figured it out! Another one of those things that I will never quite understand about Africa…
The scene has changed. I have boarded the a tiny plane that is taking me to Kilimanjaro Airport, where I am meeting up with a cast of characters from NYC, affiliated with the Theatre Development Fund. For the next 3 weeks, I will be working along-side a professional (Broadway?) director to write and direct a play with a group of children from a school in Arusha, Tanzania. At this point, this is all the information I have, so please, hold your questions. More to be revealed, as always. Oh, and my dear friend, Rebecca Blumhagen, will be taking a short respite from her burgeoning career as a young actor to join us.
And THAT is a sure excitement.
(yay!)
I haven’t exactly been writing much about my life lately. Messages from people have gone from the more specific “How was your time at the Orphanage?” or “did you get your car battery fixed?” to the less specific “How is Africa?” or “Are you still IN Africa?” to, least specific and most desperate “Mags… are you still alive?”
Excuses (in order of influence): Laziness, business, writers block, laziness, recent addiction to arrested development, more recent addiction to Heroes, laziness.
For the 3 of you who care, and want specifics, here they are:
Upon returning from Ireland (family vacation) /France (Taize) /Belguim (the only thing I did in Belgium was drink a beer at a noisy youth hostel with a guy from India): I settled in to my current living arrangement and, after months of straddling the hips of skinny Rwandan moto-drivers (and more than a few scrapes with death), I finally 'broke-down' and got a car (ironic choice of words you say? not so ironic...). Well, I rented a car. From a friend of a friend. It’s what we would consider in the US a “beater”. But I love it. It has lots of character ☺
Driving around Rwanda is a totally different experience of Africa.
First of all, Kigali is an expansive matrix of non-parallel streets, with a few random one-way streets… without markers. The only way to tell you’re going the wrong way on a one-way street is by the hissing and clapping noises coming from the pedestrians by the side of the road. You may think they are minding their own business but the second you make the wrong turn, about 40 of them turn toward the middle of the intersection, flailing their arms and hissing… and you realize they have, indeed, been watching you the entire time, and you are, indeed, going the wrong way.
The only time i attempted to take my car out out of Kigali, i got a flat tire 50 miles out of town. there we (my friend Jenny and I) were, sitting on a curve in the road, with no help in sight... except for the "help" that came from behind the bushes the ditches ---people with nothing better to do with their time--- who did nothing but bang on my spare tire with a crowbar and steal my money.
we couldn't get the spare tire off. There was a key to one of the bolts that we couldn't find, no matter HOW many pairs of hands searched my glovebox... and stole my money.
finally, after 2 hours in the hot sun, we gave up. I sent the keys back with a Mutatu (the name for a closely packed taxi van) to Kigali. that's how it works in rwanda. everyone knows everyone. the owner arranged to meet up with the taxi driver and we took the only ride we could to Ruhengeri... which happened to be a tow-truck, already towing 6 men and lots of heavy machinery. there was only a bench seat, which was chivalrously given to Jenny and I while the rest of the men sat, or swung, from the machinery in the truck bed. we drove half the way to Ruhengeri, with hot air from the front engine blowing in our faces, then had to catch two different Mutatus to finish the journey. the whole thing took over 5 hours (it's normally a 1hr40min trip)
[I am, by the way, still typing--AND listening to my ipod--and the plane is about to take off. I am sitting across the aisle from a crew-member. Either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Either way, I am going to do my civilian duty and close my computer because I don’t want to “interfere with the instruments.”]
Ok. I’m back. To Rwanda…
Part of the reason it’s taken me so long to write about Rwanda is that some of my experiences have bordered on the unbelievable. Certain things are hard to write about on the world-wide-web. Especially when security is involved. Less especially when you face the threat of being misunderstood. I might find a way/reason to write about this at a later date, for now, suffice to say: my circumstances are quite extraordinary and I’m being well taken care of.
Last week a group of potential investors visited Rwanda. The major perk of my job is that whenever someone even slightly “important” lands, I get to drop everything to join them on a tour of the country. Of course, it’s difficult to spend 5 minutes in places where you’ve spent 5 months, and feel as if an accurate representation is being given, but it doesn’t take much for people to get a vibe of what’s happening in this place, and to fall in love with it. It’s very exciting to watch.
It is difficult to have an “endless possibilities” personality in a country of endless possibilities. You may think this is a good match at first, but soon you become overwhelmed with the … well… endless possibilities. And you are rendered immobile, or indecisive, like a child in a candy store. This year has taught me more about myself than I ever cared to know. Under which circumstances I work well… and under which I fail miserably to organize my time and get anything done. How easy it is for me to ignore God. How much I really LOVE him... (like, instead of feeling like I should love him more and wondering why i don't and beating myself up for the disparity therein) it's a very exposing time.
When you're in college and frantically busy with assignments, rehearsals, coffee dates and house meetings, it's difficult to get a true sense of who you REALLY are. I don't mean this to sound all self-discovery-ish, nor do I claim to have "found myself", not nearly. but when you see yourself outside the high-performance landscape, you see how a lot of things you have done in the past because you wanted people's approval (consciously or subconsciously) sort of fade out when you're in a culture that's not performance-based. but it's also revealing to see what's left: what you still have appetite for. chances are you are now doing the things you're supposed to be doing... without all the busy clutter.
but i digress. i think we're about to land.
"thank you, maggie, for sharing your narcissistic thought patterns with the whole wide world."
you're welcome.
:)
m
And yet, here I am.
A man just walked by wearing a cheesy tourist tee-shirt, spouting the phrase “It’s all Greek to me” with a bunch of basic Greek phrases, and their translation listed below. I was reminded of the period in my own life when I owned, and wore proudly (with many a laugh) a t-shirt that said “Hukt on foniqs rily werked fer mee”. And I had another good laugh, silently remembering my 12-year-old self, by myself, at the Nairobi airport.
This morning, I arrived 1 ½ hours early for my 8:35 flight. Only to find that it had, indeed, already departed. Apparently, you are supposed to reconfirm your flights by going to the local branch of the airline (a 2 hour process, at least) 48 hours before the flight… in case they decided to change the time. Now, I understand delays, but I don’t really get bumping UP a flight to an EARLIER time. And somehow, everyone but ME figured it out! Another one of those things that I will never quite understand about Africa…
The scene has changed. I have boarded the a tiny plane that is taking me to Kilimanjaro Airport, where I am meeting up with a cast of characters from NYC, affiliated with the Theatre Development Fund. For the next 3 weeks, I will be working along-side a professional (Broadway?) director to write and direct a play with a group of children from a school in Arusha, Tanzania. At this point, this is all the information I have, so please, hold your questions. More to be revealed, as always. Oh, and my dear friend, Rebecca Blumhagen, will be taking a short respite from her burgeoning career as a young actor to join us.
And THAT is a sure excitement.
(yay!)
I haven’t exactly been writing much about my life lately. Messages from people have gone from the more specific “How was your time at the Orphanage?” or “did you get your car battery fixed?” to the less specific “How is Africa?” or “Are you still IN Africa?” to, least specific and most desperate “Mags… are you still alive?”
Excuses (in order of influence): Laziness, business, writers block, laziness, recent addiction to arrested development, more recent addiction to Heroes, laziness.
For the 3 of you who care, and want specifics, here they are:
Upon returning from Ireland (family vacation) /France (Taize) /Belguim (the only thing I did in Belgium was drink a beer at a noisy youth hostel with a guy from India): I settled in to my current living arrangement and, after months of straddling the hips of skinny Rwandan moto-drivers (and more than a few scrapes with death), I finally 'broke-down' and got a car (ironic choice of words you say? not so ironic...). Well, I rented a car. From a friend of a friend. It’s what we would consider in the US a “beater”. But I love it. It has lots of character ☺
Driving around Rwanda is a totally different experience of Africa.
First of all, Kigali is an expansive matrix of non-parallel streets, with a few random one-way streets… without markers. The only way to tell you’re going the wrong way on a one-way street is by the hissing and clapping noises coming from the pedestrians by the side of the road. You may think they are minding their own business but the second you make the wrong turn, about 40 of them turn toward the middle of the intersection, flailing their arms and hissing… and you realize they have, indeed, been watching you the entire time, and you are, indeed, going the wrong way.
The only time i attempted to take my car out out of Kigali, i got a flat tire 50 miles out of town. there we (my friend Jenny and I) were, sitting on a curve in the road, with no help in sight... except for the "help" that came from behind the bushes the ditches ---people with nothing better to do with their time--- who did nothing but bang on my spare tire with a crowbar and steal my money.
we couldn't get the spare tire off. There was a key to one of the bolts that we couldn't find, no matter HOW many pairs of hands searched my glovebox... and stole my money.
finally, after 2 hours in the hot sun, we gave up. I sent the keys back with a Mutatu (the name for a closely packed taxi van) to Kigali. that's how it works in rwanda. everyone knows everyone. the owner arranged to meet up with the taxi driver and we took the only ride we could to Ruhengeri... which happened to be a tow-truck, already towing 6 men and lots of heavy machinery. there was only a bench seat, which was chivalrously given to Jenny and I while the rest of the men sat, or swung, from the machinery in the truck bed. we drove half the way to Ruhengeri, with hot air from the front engine blowing in our faces, then had to catch two different Mutatus to finish the journey. the whole thing took over 5 hours (it's normally a 1hr40min trip)
[I am, by the way, still typing--AND listening to my ipod--and the plane is about to take off. I am sitting across the aisle from a crew-member. Either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Either way, I am going to do my civilian duty and close my computer because I don’t want to “interfere with the instruments.”]
Ok. I’m back. To Rwanda…
Part of the reason it’s taken me so long to write about Rwanda is that some of my experiences have bordered on the unbelievable. Certain things are hard to write about on the world-wide-web. Especially when security is involved. Less especially when you face the threat of being misunderstood. I might find a way/reason to write about this at a later date, for now, suffice to say: my circumstances are quite extraordinary and I’m being well taken care of.
Last week a group of potential investors visited Rwanda. The major perk of my job is that whenever someone even slightly “important” lands, I get to drop everything to join them on a tour of the country. Of course, it’s difficult to spend 5 minutes in places where you’ve spent 5 months, and feel as if an accurate representation is being given, but it doesn’t take much for people to get a vibe of what’s happening in this place, and to fall in love with it. It’s very exciting to watch.
It is difficult to have an “endless possibilities” personality in a country of endless possibilities. You may think this is a good match at first, but soon you become overwhelmed with the … well… endless possibilities. And you are rendered immobile, or indecisive, like a child in a candy store. This year has taught me more about myself than I ever cared to know. Under which circumstances I work well… and under which I fail miserably to organize my time and get anything done. How easy it is for me to ignore God. How much I really LOVE him... (like, instead of feeling like I should love him more and wondering why i don't and beating myself up for the disparity therein) it's a very exposing time.
When you're in college and frantically busy with assignments, rehearsals, coffee dates and house meetings, it's difficult to get a true sense of who you REALLY are. I don't mean this to sound all self-discovery-ish, nor do I claim to have "found myself", not nearly. but when you see yourself outside the high-performance landscape, you see how a lot of things you have done in the past because you wanted people's approval (consciously or subconsciously) sort of fade out when you're in a culture that's not performance-based. but it's also revealing to see what's left: what you still have appetite for. chances are you are now doing the things you're supposed to be doing... without all the busy clutter.
but i digress. i think we're about to land.
"thank you, maggie, for sharing your narcissistic thought patterns with the whole wide world."
you're welcome.
:)
m
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Over-sized Leprechauns and Over-packed Cars
I am forcing myself to write … my eyelids are drooping and I’m slouching like a 7th grade boy…but I know I have to write. However badly, I have to “just do it”. Some writing teacher’s voice is echoing somewhere in the recesses of my mind, saying “writing is a discipline. If you want to be a good writer, you have to do it… even when you don’t feel like it” now, while I wouldn’t say my biggest aspiration in life is to be a “good writer”, I do wish to tell stories, and I wish to tell them well… whether my own or someone else’s… and the way to do that is to muddle your way through your jumbled, late-night thoughts and find the ones that are the most true, meaningful (to you) congruent and full of life.
So here comes my life.
I have been getting several… more than several reminders that 1. My life is a little confusing if you’re not living it (and really confusing if you are) and 2. that I haven’t done a good job at keeping my loved ones (and the world at large, who doesn’t care nearly as much) informed about my life: including my whereabouts and occupation (small “o”).
I intend to rectify this negligence on my part, with no promises that this will be the last time you are confused as to why I can be having passion fruit with an Anglican archbishop one day, and surfing in Ireland the next.
Let me explain.
My family chose, for the first time in who-knows-how-long to take a real, bona-fide vacation. For those of you who know the Ritchie family, you will know that this is completely out of form for us. We just aren’t the book-a-hotel, rent-a-car, hop-on-a-plane and lie-on-the-beach-for-a-week sort of family. In the past, when we have done something “vacation-ish,” we’ve gone places like Rwanda and Iraq. Hardly the sites for eating lobster and getting a tan.
So, when the von Trapps told us they were singing in a music festival in Abbeyfeale, Ireland, “we” decided it might be time to do what normal families do. Take a normal vacation.
The problem is, normal families don’t travel with 17 people… And 6 instruments…
In 4 vehicles.
Needless to say, we could have made big money documenting our trip and selling it to TLC. Thank God for GPS. Somehow we made our way around the country (along the southern coast) stopping at quirky bed and breakfasts along the way and discovering the less-charted areas of the Emerald Isle. It was quite charming, to say the least. The Irish countryside is… (you fill in the blank. I hate using words like ‘captivating’ or ‘beautiful’ to describe something like the Irish landscape. It simply does NOT do it justice.
The trip ended and my family left, two by two. And all was silent. I was given the keys to a gorgeous flat in Dublin for the weekend while I decided what to do next. Saturday night, I was taken, accidentally, to a Gay club. I danced with a Slovakian contortionist. Funny story # 5. Sunday night, I met Iron and Wine on the street. Had dinner with them and got a free ticket to their show. Pretty sweet as well.
I woke up on Monday morning PLANNING to take a ferry to Wales (because I hate to fly) and then trek my way down to London to audition for LAMDA’s one-year-theatre conservatory. Well, the audition slots were full, so I decided to drive BACK, across Ireland, to the Cliffs of Moher… where my friends, the von Trapps were still staying.
So I went on a road trip, by myself, and saw all the things I hadn’t seen yet.
There is something so magical about the winning combo of driving in a beautiful place with beautiful music playing on the stereo. I am sharing this with you now because I had to experience it alone and I wished someone could gave been there. I set my GPS and started to drive: Kilkenny Castle, The Rock of Cashel, the monastic ruins of Glendelough… it was brilliant. I packed a half a loaf of brown bread, whole-grain mustard, turkey and Irish cheese. The sun didn’t set ‘till 10pm… and I finally arrived in Doolin after midnight. Thankfully Justin was awake and let me in.
Next day: Cliffs of Moher… we (the children and I) hiked WAY out, to the end of the point, and sat there, in the thick, squishy grass, for a couple of hours… talking about life and dreams and the color of the waves.
We also discovered the new Kate Rusby CD and listened to it all the way through, to and from the cliffs. Another movie moment.
At home, Annie had made us Chicken Soup, which we ate with brown bread cheese-toast. The perfect ending to a perfect day.
Somehow (still don’t know how) I talked Annie into letting the kids go with me to France for a week. We booked cheap tickets via-Ryan Air and left the next morning.
Life is good.
FRANCE
Now I could go into all the long and boring details of why I was going to France in the first place… but I don’t want to. Suffice to say, we spent a day in Paris, seeing all the cliché sights (which don’t feel so cliché when you’re THERE… there is nothing so unique as eating chocolate banana crepes at the foot of the Eiffel tower) and then took a train down south to Taize. All I knew about Taize before going is this: it is a place where they write and sing songs… some of which we sing at my home church. I soon realized it was a town, overrun by a monastic community where they receive (get this) 2,000-6,000 (!) visitors on a weekly basis. Stranger still is that 92% are from southern Germany and about 89% percent of those are between the ages of 16 and 19. So, basically, we spent the week in a German Christian High School camp.
Hilarious.
The highlight (besides the beautiful evenings of candlelit singing in 10 different languages) was sitting around with 400 beer-drinking adolescent Germans, singing “take me home, Country road”, while some German boy played along on his Trumpet.
Mrs. Von Trapp must never know about this. Promise not to tell.
All for now,
Maggie
So here comes my life.
I have been getting several… more than several reminders that 1. My life is a little confusing if you’re not living it (and really confusing if you are) and 2. that I haven’t done a good job at keeping my loved ones (and the world at large, who doesn’t care nearly as much) informed about my life: including my whereabouts and occupation (small “o”).
I intend to rectify this negligence on my part, with no promises that this will be the last time you are confused as to why I can be having passion fruit with an Anglican archbishop one day, and surfing in Ireland the next.
Let me explain.
My family chose, for the first time in who-knows-how-long to take a real, bona-fide vacation. For those of you who know the Ritchie family, you will know that this is completely out of form for us. We just aren’t the book-a-hotel, rent-a-car, hop-on-a-plane and lie-on-the-beach-for-a-week sort of family. In the past, when we have done something “vacation-ish,” we’ve gone places like Rwanda and Iraq. Hardly the sites for eating lobster and getting a tan.
So, when the von Trapps told us they were singing in a music festival in Abbeyfeale, Ireland, “we” decided it might be time to do what normal families do. Take a normal vacation.
The problem is, normal families don’t travel with 17 people… And 6 instruments…
In 4 vehicles.
Needless to say, we could have made big money documenting our trip and selling it to TLC. Thank God for GPS. Somehow we made our way around the country (along the southern coast) stopping at quirky bed and breakfasts along the way and discovering the less-charted areas of the Emerald Isle. It was quite charming, to say the least. The Irish countryside is… (you fill in the blank. I hate using words like ‘captivating’ or ‘beautiful’ to describe something like the Irish landscape. It simply does NOT do it justice.
The trip ended and my family left, two by two. And all was silent. I was given the keys to a gorgeous flat in Dublin for the weekend while I decided what to do next. Saturday night, I was taken, accidentally, to a Gay club. I danced with a Slovakian contortionist. Funny story # 5. Sunday night, I met Iron and Wine on the street. Had dinner with them and got a free ticket to their show. Pretty sweet as well.
I woke up on Monday morning PLANNING to take a ferry to Wales (because I hate to fly) and then trek my way down to London to audition for LAMDA’s one-year-theatre conservatory. Well, the audition slots were full, so I decided to drive BACK, across Ireland, to the Cliffs of Moher… where my friends, the von Trapps were still staying.
So I went on a road trip, by myself, and saw all the things I hadn’t seen yet.
There is something so magical about the winning combo of driving in a beautiful place with beautiful music playing on the stereo. I am sharing this with you now because I had to experience it alone and I wished someone could gave been there. I set my GPS and started to drive: Kilkenny Castle, The Rock of Cashel, the monastic ruins of Glendelough… it was brilliant. I packed a half a loaf of brown bread, whole-grain mustard, turkey and Irish cheese. The sun didn’t set ‘till 10pm… and I finally arrived in Doolin after midnight. Thankfully Justin was awake and let me in.
Next day: Cliffs of Moher… we (the children and I) hiked WAY out, to the end of the point, and sat there, in the thick, squishy grass, for a couple of hours… talking about life and dreams and the color of the waves.
We also discovered the new Kate Rusby CD and listened to it all the way through, to and from the cliffs. Another movie moment.
At home, Annie had made us Chicken Soup, which we ate with brown bread cheese-toast. The perfect ending to a perfect day.
Somehow (still don’t know how) I talked Annie into letting the kids go with me to France for a week. We booked cheap tickets via-Ryan Air and left the next morning.
Life is good.
FRANCE
Now I could go into all the long and boring details of why I was going to France in the first place… but I don’t want to. Suffice to say, we spent a day in Paris, seeing all the cliché sights (which don’t feel so cliché when you’re THERE… there is nothing so unique as eating chocolate banana crepes at the foot of the Eiffel tower) and then took a train down south to Taize. All I knew about Taize before going is this: it is a place where they write and sing songs… some of which we sing at my home church. I soon realized it was a town, overrun by a monastic community where they receive (get this) 2,000-6,000 (!) visitors on a weekly basis. Stranger still is that 92% are from southern Germany and about 89% percent of those are between the ages of 16 and 19. So, basically, we spent the week in a German Christian High School camp.
Hilarious.
The highlight (besides the beautiful evenings of candlelit singing in 10 different languages) was sitting around with 400 beer-drinking adolescent Germans, singing “take me home, Country road”, while some German boy played along on his Trumpet.
Mrs. Von Trapp must never know about this. Promise not to tell.
All for now,
Maggie
Sunday, June 1, 2008
The Intermittent Months
(this blog was written in April. But I lost it. And just found it. And didn’t want it to go to waste)
It’s been a while.
As I was explaining to Sophie the other day, on the hour-long car ride to Muhaze,
I only write when I feel full of words.
Stories build up over time and then, in a few glorious moments (or hours), everything pours out, and I can’t type fast enough.
This presents a problem, however, when there are no words. When the stories feel stale, foggy or just plain uninteresting.
And this is the point where the faith of the storyteller is tested.
I know there will come a day when I don’t apologize for writing too many words; When I don’t have to search for the most startling incident to catch your attention. A day will come when the details of simple life, crafted gently, but not overworked, will be enough. Just enough.
I have a box full of stories. Things I have a lived through in the last 4 months. As much as I would like to write about today and forget the rest, I’d feel like a bad steward… or something like that… because I am lucky, so very lucky, (we are all so very lucky) to be living life and I count it a blessing to relive it all through writing.
So here I am, stomach down on my Rwandan foam mattress, listening to Kate Walsh and remembering…
December:
On my way home from Africa for Christmas, I visited my friend, Emily, in Jordan. Emily is my travel soulmate. Over the next 2 weeks, there wasn’t a situation that didn’t leave us in stitches, slapping at eachother’s forearms, looking for something to hold on to, barely able to breathe… I think we wet our pants once our twice. There was something about the combination:
Arabic culture + Maggie + Emily = EVERYTHING is hysterical. Don’t ask me why.
We spent the first few days bumming around Jordan. Buying DVDs for a dollar, cooking macaroni and cheese I’d brought back from Africa (I thought it would be this huge surprise, only to find out that Jordan is naaat a third world country… ie they have mac and cheese), going to the Turkish bathouse (they scrub you and scrub you and scrub you… it’s amazing) and getting to know the feel of where my friend lives, alone, with a mosque next door that wakes her up at 5am every morning.
We decided to take a trip to Israel. To say it was hard to get in would be an understatement. Look it up somewhere else online, I feel weird talking about it here.
I don’t have words for this place. In the times I’ve tried to describe it since, I’ve used words like “Intense,” “Spiritually tumultuous” and “Bordering on creepy”. You could FEEL in the air (the way you can feel awkwardness at a social gathering) the centuries of religious tension and spiritual turmoil.
Nonetheless, it is magical place. Every rock has significance. The place where Jesus wept, the road he walked before his crucifixion, the shore where he cooked breakfast for the disciples (and where Peter, in his euphoria, jumped into the water to swim to Jesus).
We spend 2 days in Jerusalem and then took a bus up to Galilee. Our worst idea of the trip was biking “around” the sea of Galilee. We were told it was a 20 kilometer ride to Capernaum, and the sun was about 2 hours from setting. Great, we thought. Scenery, fresh air, exercise, is there a better way to sight-see?
Yes, there was.
3 hours later found us out of breath, out of energy, out of time and not yet to Capernaum. The road we were on had turned into a high was and the sea was no longer in sight. The Israeli-Jordanian border closed at 8pm and we HAD to be out by then. It was 7 and pitch black at this point. We tried waving down cars, but no one would stop. Two American girls hitchhiking at night in Israel = Probably not our best move of all time. We got frantic and started standing in the Road. Finally 2 women stopped. We explained our situation and they just said “sorry” and drove on. FINALLY, after about 30 cars had passed, a taxi driver with a bike rack on his roof pulled over. We had to talk him into it, but he finally agreed to take us back, 50 kilometers in the opposite direction, to the place where we’d first rented the bikes. In the 5 minutes we had before leaving, I scolded the man behind the counter for lying to us about the distance to Capernaum. I have a feeling this has happed before and will happen again.
We got to the border, just in time.
The next morning, we took a car to Syria. Emily was there for work, so I visited my friends, Benjamin and Christian who were living in a monastery outside of Damascus. Syria was also strange, and I feel strange writing about it. The people were beautiful, the food enchanting, but there was also something very hidden about the culture. Something I probably wouldn’t get after spending months or years there.
The next few days turned into a “tour of Syrian monasteries”. Those of you who know Christian and Benjamin won’t be surprised. It was amazing. My favorite monastery was out in the middle of the desert and used to be a Roman fortress. Like 20 miles from anything. We climbed one mile up stone stairs in complete darkness (save for Benjamin’s cell phone screen). The cold air burned in my chest and tears were streaming down my cheeks. But, thanks to Benjamin’s determination, we pressed on without pause, climbing the stairs, into the dark mountain.
We arrived at the gate and the candles lit the way into a tiny 1st- century chapel, insulated by carpets hanging in the doorway, filled with pilgrims and nuns in thick socks and fleeces.
A burly, robed and bearded man sat, cross-legged on the other side of the room. I don’t know how else to describe him but to say he was the closest thing to Jesus I’ve ever seen on this earth He looked at directly at with eyes that both welcomed and saw, knew and loved. “You are welcome” he said, interrupting his own liturgy. I sidled up against the stone wall as the tears continued to make their way from my cheeks to the carpet. It was an experience that goes beyond words or intellectual reflection. (Words, please? Anyone?) It was beautiful. It was otherworldly. I shared Eucharist with 20 people I’d never met (and 2 I had) in a cold ruin on the top of a mountain, in the middle of a desert, in a strange land. And it felt like home.
I think that’s how Christ intended it to be.
And that’s all for now.
Maggie
It’s been a while.
As I was explaining to Sophie the other day, on the hour-long car ride to Muhaze,
I only write when I feel full of words.
Stories build up over time and then, in a few glorious moments (or hours), everything pours out, and I can’t type fast enough.
This presents a problem, however, when there are no words. When the stories feel stale, foggy or just plain uninteresting.
And this is the point where the faith of the storyteller is tested.
I know there will come a day when I don’t apologize for writing too many words; When I don’t have to search for the most startling incident to catch your attention. A day will come when the details of simple life, crafted gently, but not overworked, will be enough. Just enough.
I have a box full of stories. Things I have a lived through in the last 4 months. As much as I would like to write about today and forget the rest, I’d feel like a bad steward… or something like that… because I am lucky, so very lucky, (we are all so very lucky) to be living life and I count it a blessing to relive it all through writing.
So here I am, stomach down on my Rwandan foam mattress, listening to Kate Walsh and remembering…
December:
On my way home from Africa for Christmas, I visited my friend, Emily, in Jordan. Emily is my travel soulmate. Over the next 2 weeks, there wasn’t a situation that didn’t leave us in stitches, slapping at eachother’s forearms, looking for something to hold on to, barely able to breathe… I think we wet our pants once our twice. There was something about the combination:
Arabic culture + Maggie + Emily = EVERYTHING is hysterical. Don’t ask me why.
We spent the first few days bumming around Jordan. Buying DVDs for a dollar, cooking macaroni and cheese I’d brought back from Africa (I thought it would be this huge surprise, only to find out that Jordan is naaat a third world country… ie they have mac and cheese), going to the Turkish bathouse (they scrub you and scrub you and scrub you… it’s amazing) and getting to know the feel of where my friend lives, alone, with a mosque next door that wakes her up at 5am every morning.
We decided to take a trip to Israel. To say it was hard to get in would be an understatement. Look it up somewhere else online, I feel weird talking about it here.
I don’t have words for this place. In the times I’ve tried to describe it since, I’ve used words like “Intense,” “Spiritually tumultuous” and “Bordering on creepy”. You could FEEL in the air (the way you can feel awkwardness at a social gathering) the centuries of religious tension and spiritual turmoil.
Nonetheless, it is magical place. Every rock has significance. The place where Jesus wept, the road he walked before his crucifixion, the shore where he cooked breakfast for the disciples (and where Peter, in his euphoria, jumped into the water to swim to Jesus).
We spend 2 days in Jerusalem and then took a bus up to Galilee. Our worst idea of the trip was biking “around” the sea of Galilee. We were told it was a 20 kilometer ride to Capernaum, and the sun was about 2 hours from setting. Great, we thought. Scenery, fresh air, exercise, is there a better way to sight-see?
Yes, there was.
3 hours later found us out of breath, out of energy, out of time and not yet to Capernaum. The road we were on had turned into a high was and the sea was no longer in sight. The Israeli-Jordanian border closed at 8pm and we HAD to be out by then. It was 7 and pitch black at this point. We tried waving down cars, but no one would stop. Two American girls hitchhiking at night in Israel = Probably not our best move of all time. We got frantic and started standing in the Road. Finally 2 women stopped. We explained our situation and they just said “sorry” and drove on. FINALLY, after about 30 cars had passed, a taxi driver with a bike rack on his roof pulled over. We had to talk him into it, but he finally agreed to take us back, 50 kilometers in the opposite direction, to the place where we’d first rented the bikes. In the 5 minutes we had before leaving, I scolded the man behind the counter for lying to us about the distance to Capernaum. I have a feeling this has happed before and will happen again.
We got to the border, just in time.
The next morning, we took a car to Syria. Emily was there for work, so I visited my friends, Benjamin and Christian who were living in a monastery outside of Damascus. Syria was also strange, and I feel strange writing about it. The people were beautiful, the food enchanting, but there was also something very hidden about the culture. Something I probably wouldn’t get after spending months or years there.
The next few days turned into a “tour of Syrian monasteries”. Those of you who know Christian and Benjamin won’t be surprised. It was amazing. My favorite monastery was out in the middle of the desert and used to be a Roman fortress. Like 20 miles from anything. We climbed one mile up stone stairs in complete darkness (save for Benjamin’s cell phone screen). The cold air burned in my chest and tears were streaming down my cheeks. But, thanks to Benjamin’s determination, we pressed on without pause, climbing the stairs, into the dark mountain.
We arrived at the gate and the candles lit the way into a tiny 1st- century chapel, insulated by carpets hanging in the doorway, filled with pilgrims and nuns in thick socks and fleeces.
A burly, robed and bearded man sat, cross-legged on the other side of the room. I don’t know how else to describe him but to say he was the closest thing to Jesus I’ve ever seen on this earth He looked at directly at with eyes that both welcomed and saw, knew and loved. “You are welcome” he said, interrupting his own liturgy. I sidled up against the stone wall as the tears continued to make their way from my cheeks to the carpet. It was an experience that goes beyond words or intellectual reflection. (Words, please? Anyone?) It was beautiful. It was otherworldly. I shared Eucharist with 20 people I’d never met (and 2 I had) in a cold ruin on the top of a mountain, in the middle of a desert, in a strange land. And it felt like home.
I think that’s how Christ intended it to be.
And that’s all for now.
Maggie
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