I am hoping to write more and write more openly. We'll see how this goes. Here's an example, something I wrote on the plane back to the U.S. for a visit.
The day I returned to the States I nearly stepped on a dead
dog. I was startled and stared at the pink tongue lolling out its mouth,
walking on as the usual dust rose from my footsteps. It clung to my shoes as it
clung to everything that was roadside, even though this road was paved. My
flight took me up and away into the night to the big bursting city where people
took their leave. Another jet, larger,
outfitted and stocked, seemed to move with a power that could send us to the
moon. On this giant craft I left Kenya after 6 months there. On many flights many places you can see that
there are those coming and those going. A certain mix of people from that place
taking off and those who have perhaps enjoyed their stay. This jet though seemed to just
carried those headed home. It was a
plane where quick quips were exchanged about where the new school was built or
what mission was accomplished. Perhaps we could have talked about the
animals. What rarity was seen or nearly
seen on that safari. I am no different, just choosing to keep my chatter to
myself. When asked, my documents in
hand, what I was doing in Kenya I replied, “volunteering”. And I, too, could talk
about seeing the wild life. I felt in a way there was more than just carved
wooden giraffes wrapped in newsprint under arm that we were taking. There’s
much we are taking along with-wire toys in suitcases, carefully wound in
kangas, soapstone hippos padded with kikoy, handformed clay bead jewelry or
colorful jewels made of rolled up Oprah magazines. We were taking pride and
lessons of thankfulness, of whatever ideas and feeling we wanted to leave
with. Did I give or only take? Am I
leaving or coming home? What am I more
disgusted by.
