traveling Kimba

Thanks to a family trip, Kimba got to go to South Africa. Unfortunately, however, the silly lion forgot his camera--so I shall have to rely on his travel souvenirs in order to show you that he had a lovely time in Johannesburg and in Durban!

what one can do

I was vaguely aware of the voices from the TV in the background, engrossed in my book while friends plaited hair and commented periodically on the antics of the Lusaka network series’ characters. But then, after a few minutes of the next program, I suddenly realized what I was hearing and I was drawn to the set with a sort of disturbed fascination. It was simply an animated show for children, I thought—until the child on the screen sadly mused, “ . . . I used to have a mama and papa, and an auntie and uncle, and many relations here in the village. I heard the neighbors whispering about AIDS . . . I am lonely—and so hungry . . .”
When I asked my friends about the show, they said, with a sort of matter-of-fact indifference, that is was an educational program, teaching Zambians about the spread of HIV and about how they must not be afraid of, or discriminate against, those with the disease.
It strikes me that the problem with this approach may be that, while the disease is indeed everywhere, those who are ill either do not know it or will not admit it—to anyone. I think of a man whose employers found him immobile in his hut when they went to see why he had been missing from work. Taking him to be tested for HIV, they found their suspicions correct, and so they signed him up for the Antiretroviral Therapy, free thanks to internationally funded relief programs. He is now doing well, a year later, working and apparently healthy—but to this day he refuses to tell his own wife that he is infected. Talking with some missionary friends recently in Ndola, they confirmed that they too knew of many such instances.
Here in Zambia there is a strong cultural taboo against the disease—a taboo which is combined with a resigned acceptance of promiscuity that comes in the form of affairs, multiple wives, and the like—clearly, a deadly combination. And a hugely daunting problem, in the grand scheme of things.
So when I start to think about it, I worry, and I wonder what can be done. But frankly, I haven’t the slightest clue how to begin in this realm: this sort of relief and development work is way out of my teacher/librarian/writer league. Beyond that, I am increasingly aware, as the years go by, of my limitations [though I spent my early years fearlessly assuming I could do anything and everything]; I am simply not one to do great things, in terms of accomplishments.
What then, can I do? Perhaps all I am meant to do is build up those around me. In some small measure, if I can encourage and empower the people in my sphere of influence, I may be able to influence in some way, when it would be pointless [and perhaps detrimental] to try to change behaviors and cultures. This, I suspect, is why I was struck by the urge to make a small gift to a friend in the village. It was a photo of a stunning West African woman, staring frankly into the camera, with a caption that read “I am powerful.” I made a simple matting and a frame for the photo, and took it to her, explaining that it made me think of her when I saw the beauty and strength of this woman’s face. My friend cannot even read the words herself, but my hope is that in small way this reminder that now hangs by her bed can keep her mindful of the inherent, God-given worth that she must never compromise for the sake of empty words and human frailties.

dancing direct objects

this post is slightly outdated now, as I've been traveling and without internet for the past week: lusaka, ndola, and lusaka again at the moment . . . but here is is, outdatedness and all :-)
At dinner the other night I asked Eva if she had told Mom and Dad about her goofy direct object lesson that day. When she said she hadn’t, I asked why not, to which this sensitive youngster replied that she didn’t want to make fun of her teacher. My encouragement did not seem to persuade her so I finally informed her that I would then make fun of her teacher . . .
You see, we happened upon a rather unusual, but quite effective, method for learning the difficult lesson of how to identify the direct object of a sentence. As we wrestled that day with how to distinguish between nouns and predicates, subject nouns and common nouns, and, of course, direct objects, I had a bit of a teacher’s “Aha!” moment.
As I began to explain how to decipher the direct object, I discovered a little trick: a simple way to locate it is to read the sentence once and then reread it, eliminating the end and replacing it with the question “what?” For instance, “My dog ate a large bone. My dog ate a large what? A bone!” And so you have discovered the direct object—“bone,” in this case.
I believe this is a relatively standard method for teaching direct objects. What I realized that day, however, is that when you start going through a series of sentences, a bit of a rhythm develops. So as I illustrated this method, I began to lapse into a rhythm, which morphed into a bit of a rap, which led to the obvious next step of dancing as I rapped. When I recovered from the losing-myself-in-the-moment syndrome and glanced at my pupil, I found her wide-eyed with delight. So I continued. She quickly caught on when I paused after the sentences to allow her to insert the “what” of the direct objects. And so we rapped through a page of her work.
Until one of her answers made me stop—I realized she had given an incorrect reply, so I stopped to correct her. And stopping the rhythm of course interrupted the routine. When Eva commented that I had stopped dancing, I replied that her goal was “to keep teacher dancing.” By this point, both girls were getting into the game, and we laughed our way through the entire lesson for Eva’s English that day. In the process, I believe we also managed to give Ellen a head start, as I suspect she will remember our little trick once she reaches the same point in her grammar lessons.
Sometimes it behooves a teacher to be willing to be a bit of a goofball.

who's hanging out by your pool?

Giving a new perspective on fear of wearing a bathing suit in public . . .

. . . a sight so lovely as a tree

Another favorite Baobab of mine, along the vein of my previous "sight so lovely" post.

the post i almost didn't post, and may still decide to un-post . . .

This week has thrown my people-pleasing, affirmation-driven self for a loop. I pray that the worst of it is over, and can’t quite see how it could be any more difficult. But it has no doubt been a good growing experience.
I have been forced to realize that sometimes one just has to grow up and take the crud as it comes. In the middle of a barrage of unexpected, unwelcome stresses, sometimes you just have to step forward, one baby step at a time, and pray for the strength to get through it.
I think on some level I have been holding on to a notion that I can make my life work out at least somewhat the way I want it to. Perhaps that comes from being forced out of childhood too early, and so being a bit of a control freak ever since: an intense upheaval at a crucial age in childhood has maybe created a need to feel that things can’t get too out of hand, or too crazy, ever again.
But you can’t really count on that, huh? And I am realizing new levels of an inner ability to keep moving when all my senses tell me that I have no tangible support to grab onto any longer.
So here I am. Moving forward. I don’t necessarily know why, or towards what, but I push on. Realizing that sometimes you just have to be a big girl and remind yourself who you are, even if no one cares. Pressing ahead in doing what I know to be right, loving those I know my job it is to love, and patiently waiting out this dark time. Waiting for a light at the end of the tunnel. Believing beyond hope that God still works miracles. That He, if no one else seems to, really cares about me. That He really is making something worthwhile out of my life.

on the 30th . . .

. . . Alexander Thomas was born!!

the perfect pod

These unique pods fall from great trees all over this area. And if we can snag them before the monkeys do, the colorful seeds are ready for all manner of artistic uses. This particular one was found by Eva, and she was kind enough to donate it to teacher :-)

roses & a razor

I fear I may not be a very good ascetic. Ok—so I know I’m not a good ascetic. And I fear this may also seem rather unspiritual; but the fact of the matter is that God’s grace manifest itself to me in the form of roses & a razor, Indian food & ice cream.
I should probably explain why exactly it feels unspiritual for me to feel this way: the reason I was able to experience such luxuries is that I was passing through the bustling metropolis of Lusaka en route to a “Spiritual Life” missions conference. So my tears of gratitude came more intensely from the outing offered by a generous friend than from the speakers & studies of the conference itself.
That said, the conference was certainly not without enrichment—not in the slightest. But it was the old connections that I benefited most greatly from, since I am not an official member of this missions crew. I was invited to the conference thanks to old family ties. Or, as I was introduced when I arrived, I am a “former missionary kid.” At which point a voice piped in from the audience: “So at what time of life exactly does one cease to be a missionary kid?” The dissenter was answered with a sharp glance of un/-amusement, but a few chuckles were heard shortly thereafter when another member was introduced simply as a “missionary kid.” [Later I asked him how he had earned his lifelong membership in the club].
The conference was full of people eager to share memories they had of my parents & siblings; I, in turn, was eager to listen. It was also filled with sweet times of communion with people my bush-isolated self was unaware I was hungry for.
As for those roses . . . a friend took me to an unusual spot in Lusaka, a small corner to “home” for those of us accustomed to such aesthetic delights as gardens. In the midst of heat, dust, and a city focused on survival, this was a stunningly beautiful rose garden and park. I stood there for a while, stunned at the sight; then I proceeded to walk around, smelling all the roses. What I am guessing is that Zambia is a perfect rose-growing climate, and so when someone makes the effort to grow them, the results tend to be brilliant blooms in vibrant hues. For me, this discovery was intensely moving: a simple discovery that yielded a most immense delight.
And the razor? Well, for approximately 2 months now I have been using a half of a razor, the other half disappearing into the belly of a warthog. And this was the first time since then that I have been able to get to a store in which to purchase such extravagances.
Indian food and ice cream I will assume to be self-explanatory as far as pleasures go. And so concluded the happy week and a half of adventures of a bush resident in the big city :-)

cotton[tail]

What--you don't know what this is? Why it is, of course, Peter's tail. Or that is what I decided when I discovered it, in the form of 2 bushes right outside my bedroom window. Perhaps more officially, this is known as a cotton plant--here pictured in the 3 phases I used it as: the seed pod, the opening of it, and the fully opened one. I saw Peter's Cottontail, as it was right before Easter weekend that I found them, and I was at the time brainstorming for children's activities. For the bustling family weekend here, I was manning the children's activity room, and these lovely pods proved to be perfect for turning an average drawing of a bunny into each child's exciting 3D masterpiece.

where lions sleep

It is a sound unlike any I have ever heard before, and a sound impossible to describe with the written word. But once you have heard it, you can never forget it. So my sleep has been sweet, lulled into slumber each night to the soft and steady hum of the lions.
It has been the week of the lions. A small pride of females moved into the camp—no one knows why, as it is unusual for them to choose such a relatively inhabited spot, humanly speaking, for their hunting grounds. But they are most definitely here. And our daily life has been significantly disrupted.
I first realized how much so when a vehicle arrived early Monday to pick us up from school. The driver explained that the lions were right there behind the school, and so it was not safe for us to take our usual 5-minute walk back for lunch break.
For the remainder of that afternoon, we heard consistently intermittent reminders that one large cat was lounging right behind us. She was just hidden enough by the grasses for us to not be able to get a good look, but tauntingly close enough that each rustle in the grasses left us with almost-glimpses.
The next disruption occurred when the subject of my morning runs came up among staff. While I had asked about running before I came, it has ended up being debated off and on, as local folks notice my habitual roaming of the grounds.
It was with trepidation that I awaited the outcome of these deliberations—being an utter addict, if I were to be cut off from my run, I would be a lost soul indeed. Ultimately, to my great relief, it was decided that I could keep my routine, on one condition: I can no longer run with headphones.
So I am, for the first time in about 10 years now of running, getting used to what I call my “silent runs.” It’s been actually quite a nice realization to find that I can adapt to hearing only the sound of my own feet and breath. No doubt when I am once again living in an area where I can run with my iPod, I will welcome its return, but for now, I am happy without.
And so we have come through what I will remember as the week of the lions.

after the rain

Before the rain began this afternoon, Eva announced that there would be a rainbow today . . . I was thrilled to see that she was right :-)

Kimba's first prey

Inspired by the recent lion activity we have had around here, Kimba decides to try stalking his first prey. He is clearly still honing his skills, however--this Impala saw Kimba perched on the fencepost and promptly resumed his calm grazing, brazenly flashing his lovely striped behind as if to taunt poor Kimba . . .

the week's end

It has been a busy week. A good week, as far as the sum total goes . . . but an eventful week, for sure. The week of the lions. I hope to elaborate more on this when I snatch a few writing minutes this weekend. But for now, the occasion of seeing the sunset [recent days have prevented even this], more than merits its own post, I believe. You can be the judge, but I suspect that this shot will make up for my lack of posts this week . . .

signing hands

It was a moment that froze itself in my memory—a still frame of sorts, marked in its exquisitely ordinary coming about.
The sun was blazing, but nearing its late afternoon waning point, as I walked to the neighboring compound. My intention was to meet up with Purity on the way, as I knew she was planning to attend my Women’s Study that evening.
Getting to the village itself, I instead began to search for her home, not knowing yet which was her house. I did know, however, that my three pupils had come to the village with her, for a Sunday afternoon visit; this knowledge made me suspect that it would not be terribly difficult to find them. My suspicion was correct.
Spotting a small congregation of brown heads, I shielded my eyes to get a better look; then I smiled to myself as I headed towards the telltale crowd of curious children. Sure enough, I soon also spotted three very blond heads in their midst.
But then I realized what was happening, and I was stopped short in pleasant amazement: There stood my nine-year-old young charge patiently teaching “Into My Heart,” in sign language, to all the village children. These youngsters, from two years of age on up to twelve, were all painstakingly copying her motions and repeating each word she dictated.
Catching sight of me then, Eva summoned me over to help [though I was thrilled to notice that she knew it perfectly, after only 2 days of us working on it during our school day lessons!]. She wanted me to sing it, being too shy herself to sing out loud for them all. So I sang and signed, to a chorus of heavily accented echoes, as the sun set over the river behind us.
From the mouths of babes . . .
Strange how the most memorable moments of learning, in my life, have often come about outside of [and perhaps in spite of] all my school day plannings and lesson preparations.

Happy Birthday PaCharley!

With love and slobbery ear kisses, from one doting granddaughter plus four schoolroom pupils :-)

if the paw fits

For the animal print "series": this one was spotted by Ellen as we neared the house, walking back from the schoolhouse. Probably a leopard and, if not, a similar variety of large feline.

under african skies

If I had ever labored under illusions of any real scientific giftedness, I would have probably aspired to be an astronomer. But I had no such illusions and so no such aspirations. I did, however, pursue as much knowledge about astronomy as I could justify in my undergraduate studies.
And so it was with great delight that I finally did something I have been meaning to do since before arriving in this hemisphere several months ago: I studied the proper constellations and then located my first of the constellations visible only from this part of the world: The Southern Cross. It is a small but distinct diamond that can be found closer to the horizon in a line that runs diagonal to Orion’s left shoulder.
I should also confess that I was ignorantly surprised that Orion was easily visible here—I guess since I was so familiar with his distinctive presence, I thought he was a more northern constellation . . .
Also of interest to me here has been the brilliant presence of Venus each clear night—she shines brightly well before other stars show their nocturnal faces. And my youngest pupil has an inexplicable but quite delightful name for this planet; she is always quick to point out “The Fairy Star” when she appears :-)

two kudu

Though difficult to see here, these are two Kudus--they were photo worthy when I saw them as it was the first time I had seen these relatively less common variety of deer-like animals around here. Plus, their great size makes them quite striking to come across in the wild.

in-print