Love All Around

It is a writer’s job to take a reader into his mind and plant them in a world where they can see and hear.  The physical senses are easy.  The writer pulls grass up through the reader’s toes, splashes colors on the walls of their imagination.  What writers often fail at is the transmission of the intangible emotion in the air.

In recounting the last few days of my sister’s wedding, I’m faced with this last challenge over and over again.  I’ve made an attempt, albeit long and inadequate, to capture the magic in the air.

For me, it started last Wednesday as I drove to Rehobeth Beach with my future brother-in-law, Garrett, for his bachelor party.  Besides my brother Josh, I didn’t really know any of the other groomsmen.  We picked up a few from the airport on the way and found ourselves in a condo in a repurposed church about a block from the beach.

Jon, one of the two best men, said it best a few nights later that often the best judge of a man’s character is the company he keeps.  From the moment the group of guys were together, a chemistry evolved that cannot be explained simply by the fact that we were an outgoing group.  We all came together quickly because of our shared love for Garrett.  The group came from all over the country and represented different but equally important stages of Garrett’s life.  These were the men that Garrett chose to stand by his side as he moved to the next one and they speak volumes about the man Garrett is and the man Garrett wants to be.

After some late nights and time on the beach, we drove back early Friday morning.  I was up before most of the others, so I took a quiet stroll on the boardwalk to watch the sunrise, one of the many beautiful sights I witnessed over the last week.  On the drive back, with my weary passengers sound asleep, I had some tranquility to absorb the new friends I had just made and think about the future of my sister and the guy passed out next to me.

When we got back, we met all the bridesmaids and joined in on the do-it-yourself wedding on the farm.  Tables were set up, ice was procured and a tent came alive on our front lawn.  Later, we did a quick rehearsal for the day to come - my sister made the rehearsal extra special by wearing the wedding dress that both my grandmother and mother wore for their weddings.

After, we met under the tent for dinner: pizza from Fireworks.  Fireworks is the Nesbit crew’s favorite pizza spot and the restaurant where Garrett asked my whole family to marry my sister.  We all had an opportunity to give a toast to Elizabeth and Garrett and I guarantee no one foresaw the emotional ride to come.  Garrett’s mom set the tone.  My mom read a letter from my late grandfather that he wrote to Elizabeth when she turned 18.  Garrett’s grandmother revealed a long kept secret: his wedding band would be his grandfather’s.  I told the story of how I got to know Garrett, where I grilled him over a 22 hour drive back to DC from Texas only to realize that he was a man apt for the challenge of being my sister’s other half.  My brother looked out under the tent and proclaimed that these were Garrett and Elizabeth’s cast of characters, echoing Jon’s sentiment that we are the company we keep.  Garrett and Elizabeth capped off the toasts with their understanding of marriage rooted in others, giving their thanks and requesting the support from the loving community that surrounded them.

For the last month, my mom and sister had been worrying about the weather.  Initially, it was forecasted that it would rain on the wedding day, a calamity for an outside wedding.  As the date moved closer, only a storm on Friday night, the night of the rehearsal dinner, was predicted.  As we sat under the tent that night, enjoying our delicious pizza, the storm clouds gathered on the horizon and we were sure we were in for a downpour.  However, the rain came and went, only clipping us at the edges and taking the heat with it.  Behind it, the storm left a double rainbow, a continued sign of good fortune.

After dinner, we moved to our backyard for a slideshow and s'mores.  The slideshow illustrated the importance of Garrett and Elizabeth’s “cast of characters” and friends and family lingered late into the night in conversation over unholy combinations of graham crackers, chocolate and marshmallows.

The following morning started with a friendly soccer match at Waterford Elementary School with mixed squads pulled from the bridesmaids and groomsmen.  Before the match, we had a quick round of “speed-dating” where the groomsmen and bridesmaids got to know each other a little more.  Somehow the bride and groom made it through the game unscathed.  Considering the bridesmaids represent pretty much the entirety of the Rice women’s soccer team and therefore may very well have some bruised egos about the game, I’ll just say that the bride’s team won and let sleeping dogs lie.

After the game, the set-up for the wedding continued and the wedding party went to work.  The boys moved hay bails into position for seating and set up the tent once again for another dinner.  The bridesmaids helped out with making things look picture perfect, hanging up pictures and setting up centerpieces.  There’s something to be said about the wedding party being so involved in bringing the wedding alive.  Our own hands contributed to the farm’s transformation.  It almost felt like the farm had been begging for an opportunity to flex its muscles all these years.  We could look around and see our part in it all, however small.

Before the time came, the groomsmen were gathered in the basement of my house, playing ping pong, foosball and watching TV.  In a poetic moment, Garrett passed out ties and suspenders to all the groomsmen only to realize that he forgot to get one for himself.  We joked that this was typical of Garrett’s character: he often forgets to think of himself before others, even on his own wedding day.  With two of his friends by his side, he rummaged through my dad’s closet and found a tie to wear.  Minutes before we headed upstairs to begin the ceremony, we shared a quiet moment together.  Strangers days before, we climbed the steps brothers.

Four grandmothers had made it to see their grandchildren get married and the ceremony kicked off with four brothers - Garrett, his brother Jeff, Josh, and myself - escorting them to their seats.  Next up came the mothers.  My mom, radiating beauty and love, had Josh and I take her down the aisle.  There was an almost imperceptible moment where she saw the two of us and stopped in her tracks.  With a smile on her face and slight tears in her eyes, that moment about threw me into the sky with emotion.  I was even more unprepared for the arrival of my sister.  Right before they reached the aisle, my sister shared a glance with my dad, who gave her a knowing and comforting smile.  The looks exchanged in these moments told their own stories. The ceremony seemed like a blur of emotion, picturesque. With the rolling hills behind them, my sister and Garrett got married underneath a beautiful tree.  Their vows encapsulated who they both are: serious and committed but unafraid to be silly.

After pictures, dinner (delicious crepes) began.  Throughout dinner, we saw Garrett and Elizabeth’s first dance (an awesomely choreographed affair), father-daughter and mother-son dances and some truly fantastic toasts from fathers, maids of honors and best men.  All these moments moved us forward through what seemed like a dream.  The rest of the night was spent dancing, laughing, smiling.  The dance floor was never lonely, with some surprise visits from grandmothers.  The newlyweds left the farm after walking through a tunnel of sparklers to the song “Firework”.  After their exit, the community of people who came to witness their union came together one more time to clean everything up in a flurry of activity.

But it felt like everyone was still holding on.  My brother and I drove to Leesburg to hang out with some of the groomsmen for a few more hours, shooting the breeze at some random wing place until closing at 2am.  Goodbyes and promises to stay in touch were exchanged in an empty parking lot.  On the drive home with my brother, we both remarked that for some reason we knew that those promises would be kept.

The day after the wedding, Garrett and Elizabeth met the family for one last meal before they left town.  After ice cream, my dad made a comment that if there’s a heaven, the last few days are probably a lot like it.  This got me thinking about what I had been feeling over the weekend.  It made me think of the last scene in Lost. There was an intense joy in that scene. I’ve been waiting to experience that ever since I watched the finale of Lost and I think the days surrounding that beautiful wedding were it. They were a dream. They were heaven. They were intense joy, inter-connectedness. The love was palpable, almost like you could reach into the air and grab it.  The whole experience felt like we were being let in on a big secret.  And what a secret it was.

Into the Book

The reader opened the book with wonder, with care. With her eyes, she climbed into the unknown that was the story.  It was like walking into a gathering where she knew most of the people, but there were always a few unknown visitors - the words she did not yet know - that would surprise her around the corner.

She warmly greeted the friends she knew.  The words were of all shapes and sizes and together they moved her along in the story, telling her where they had been and where she might see them next.  Some quietly whispered the descriptions of small things like raindrops racing down windows and large things like a storm wreaking havoc across a landscape.  Others showed her actions.  One threw her to the ground to show her falling;  another grabbed her and began a somber waltz.  These weren’t just words to the reader, they were her friends, her companions.  She had strange and tenuous relationships with all of them.  Sometimes these friends were good to her and they took her to happy places, to warm places.  Other times they abandoned her, making her feel alone and afraid.  Regardless, they all felt like magic.  They took her away from the now and all the way to there, always another world.

What she enjoyed most was seeing how all her friends interacted. Some seemed destined for each other, like two peas in a pod that played off each other’s strength.  Many were social creatures and alone could only say so much.  Others got along terribly with their colleagues - they just didn’t work well with others.  Some words were shy, but powerful.  They would hide among their more exuberant friends, leaving their brilliance for the observant reader. Her favorite of all, though, were the words that made everyone look better. They would come into the room and make it shine, knowing the force of their presence but preferring to not make it about them. Everyone would join in and give the performance of their lifetime.

Without warning, she came across one she did not know.  She approached hesitantly.   There was an inkling of familiarity, a sense that she had seen the word in another place before but had never said hello.  Words and readers have this relationship: occasionally they will quietly slip by one another.  Feeling adventurous, this time was different.  She began to ask around about this new word.  The other words told her a little bit about it, hints at its character, clues as to where the word would lead her.  But this did not satisfy her curiosity.

In her pocket was a great phone book of words, the dictionary.  She found the unknown word’s listing and called the number.  A friendly voice answered and the reader and the word got to know each other.  The brief conversation departed upon the reader the word’s purpose, its origin and the work that it had done in the past.  She was grateful that the two had finally met.

No longer strangers, the reader and the word said hello.  The word passed her along, giving her another small part of the story, a piece of gossip about the main character.  In parting, the word told her that she must meet say hello to good friends a few sentences down.  They were the word’s closest friends and oh, the stories they could tell.

Later in her travels, she came across an empty room with just two words.  These words were not interacting, almost like they had been in a fight. The reader heard the door slam behind her, telling her that she couldn’t leave until she understood this room. One word she knew: it was a proper noun from the story. They made eye contact and had a moment of understanding. The other was another unknown - a strange verb she had never seen - and she reached for the phone book in her pocket. The conversation was terse: this word was angry and powerful. Slowly but surely she teased information from the stubborn word and discovered its place in the unfolding story. She then began to fill the empty room with her voice and the two words resolved their differences. With this conflict mediated, the two joined together and told her more of the story and the door opened behind her.

That room had drained the reader. Tired but satisfied, she made up her mind to leave the party. She had traveled through time and space and had seen things that only fellow readers had.  She climbed out of the book and greeted the present again, noticing that time had passed without her and hunger had come knocking while she was away.  Closing the book, she saw the writer’s name and thanked him for the new friends she had made.  Her gratitude reminded her of the promise she had made her new friends: she would pull them out of the abyss and introduce them to others, enlarging their already massive network, increasing their unique ability to tell a story. And as the reader knew: oh, the stories they could tell.

Here and There

I’m back on the farm, away from the noise of the city. The tranquility has offered some space to think about my last couple of weeks in New York.

Perhaps it’s the juxtaposition of being in the city one moment and then on the farm the next, but the one train of thought that I’ve been returning to is the comparison of the two places.

The city is loud, ripe for exploration, and stuffed with experiences.  It is defined less by its physical characteristics - the buildings and streets - and more by the diverse arrangement of its contents.  It’s a space in a constant state of redefinition.  Subway cars move from a state of tabula rasa to a unique combination of people as they are transported from one station to the next.  Coffee shops observe the ebb and flow of people, some dashing with their fuel to another location and others lingering for conversation, thought, work and creation.

The city is an organic being that hurls you into the abyss of the unknown.  A place like New York offers up an intriguing plate with the complex flavors that serve to continually remind you of their innumerable combinations. 

Every subway car, every coffee shop will present a new picture.  Zoom out of this picture and you see an ever-changing organism: the neighborhoods different parts of the body.  Zoom back in and the streets become limbs, individuals become cells.  It’s complexity within complexity, all in a state of flux that often surprises you with its jarring nature.

The farm does not escape change, but its metamorphosis is different from that of the city.  The force of nature goes at its own steady and unassuming pace.  It rolls over you like the movement of the sun, an evolution that you don’t notice until the darkness of night is total.

My favorite spot on the farm is the backyard deck that offers one of my favorite views in the world.  It extends beyond my family’s property into the hills that slowly roll into the Blue Ridge Mountains.  The sunshine of the last few days have only compounded this view’s beauty.  From this vantage point, I see the languid movement of nature. The trees lazily swim through the air, reaching ever so slowly to the sky.  Creatures large and small eke out a living.  Life is engaging in a long struggle towards equilibrium that it will inevitably win.

While this refreshing view of nature recharges me, I’ve decided that I want to be in a city for as long as I can handle it.  I’m in a stage of my life - ambitious, passionate, curious - that demands an environment to match it.  The city is a place of action, of movement and redefinition.  Some day I might want another change of pace, perhaps a place where the mountains capture your attention.  Until then, you’ll find me roaming the streets, curious to see what’s just around the corner and an open heart to the diversity that the chaos offers.

A Symphony of Words

The writer was hurling the words at the paper like a bouncy ball against a wall, but only a few would return each time. The rest would stay on the page, congregating in small circles, saying hellos and goodbyes, meeting new friends.

He reached deep into his pockets and found big words, lonely words, exotic words.  Some were stuck together like glue and he figured they belonged connected. From this collection he picked a few to put on display, like in a museum.  He dropped them off on the page and they joined the growing party. The others stayed in storage in his pockets, hoping for their chance to shine.

Later, he took the words left in his pockets with him on a walk. They danced around him and crawled up his arm, all screaming for attention.  Their behavior was quixotic: the writer enjoyed their enthusiasm but was instead searching for more pensive words. A few leaked out of his pockets and enjoyed the sun on the freshly cut grass.  From these, he picked a few up off the ground and vowed to use them later.  The rest he shook off and left for another.

As he slept that night some words slipped into his dreams, occupying conversations and creating strange dreamscapes.  At daybreak, only a few of these words were remembered, but he placed them carefully in his pockets to play with later.

As the morning wore on, he moseyed to a coffee shop.  On the way, he decided to keep that word, too: moseyed.  The dark smells of coffee seemed to tell a story, and he chose a few to borrow but promised to return them.  Across the coffee shop, the stares of a mysterious girl exchanged a series of soundless words, but he felt they were too beautiful to keep.

As finished his coffee, he noticed that it had begun to rain.  He picked up a few more words, mostly onomatopoeias he collected from the rain.  As he walked outside in the dripping, oozing rain, a few more dropped into his pockets.  The smell of the pavement as the first rain came in: petrichor.  How the rain made him feel: halcyon.  The sound of the rain: susurration.  These were good words, interesting ones and the writer was grateful for the serendipity of the rain.

Returning from his morning coffee, he poured them all on the table and began to sort them out: big and small, dark and light, simple and complex. He began to play matchmaker, pairing them together: verbs and nouns, subjects and predicates.

At first, it was a cacophony of words: a chaotic mess, an orchestra with no conductor. But as he began to keep time with the wave of his pen, the talented individual words realized the others around them and began to play in sync.  The writer was a conductor of words: this was his natural bailiwick.

Out of chaos came order. Soon the cacophony moved to a symphony – the words became both the musicians and the dancers.

Satisfied with the progress his words had made, he let them go. He shared them with others and through that act of sharing, the words took on a life of their own. Readers and listeners kidnapped them, borrowed them, tasted them. The journey of these words had been long: this was only one stop of many.

As this group of words moved to their next occupation, he was not sad.  His hold on the words was emphemeral at best.  With his pockets empty, the process began again.  He was hungry for words.  Looking at the blank page in front of him, the ebullient writer only saw the future: only bright, unbridled possibility.

Homes

I think we have both physical homes and intangible ones.

The physical ones are easier to understand.  I grew up on a farm in Waterford, Virginia and that’s where my roots are.  This home is peaceful: surrounded by horses, trees and fresh air, it’s a space to think and relax.

Next up is Carnegie Mellon.  The dorm that I live in doesn’t match the comfort of my farm, but it has a distinctive character.  I’ve attempted to reclaim my small space as an RA as my own.  If you ever saw my room from this last year, you could tell that I was expressing my philosophy of minimalism and my increasingly global perspective.

This summer I’ll be rooming with my dear old dad in a small studio apartment in the Upper West Side – a great base to explore the city.  It’s a bare bones operation, but I think that suits the two of us well.  

This tiny shared space has me realize something about how the physical home transforms.

When I’m on the farm in Waterford, everything is contained with the serene space of the home.  I can read and nap on the couch, nurse a cup of coffee in the kitchen with a family member or grab a desk and get some work done.  There’s room to breathe and but also room to share.

Once I leave the farm and head to Pittsburgh or NYC, that reality shifts.  Sure, my studio apartment or my tiny dorm room is pretty self-contained: it has a bed, fridge, a desk.  But I’ve realized that I’ve moved part of my home to more public places: I write in a coffee shop, I hang out with friends in a lounge, I read in the courtyard, or I alternate work between hidden spots and my room.  I’ve had to export the function of home outside what I can claim as mine, and that’s an interesting concept to me.  Everywhere I go, I’m participating in a “public” home.

What I’m looking forward to in NYC is finding where I can map my home in the city.  Coffee shops, libraries, parks - they’re all an opportunity to form a new spot of home.  What’s exciting about cities is that you never know if you are sharing a little spot of home with another: our occupation of the space outside our apartments and dorm rooms are only temporary and we may never run into our fellow “house” mate.

More than our physical homes, the intangible ones have become increasingly important.  With family members who are often in different parts of the world - a summer in Malawi, a few weeks in Nepal, hanging out in San Francisco - rooting our communal sense of home in something physical is doomed to fail.  As much as older generations bemoan the pervasive role of technology in our lives and the dependency on connectedness that it’s created, it’s allowed my family to forge a virtual home through emails, texts, and tweets.

Home is an intriguing concept – we only really notice it when it experiences a transformation.  Often this transformation happens as we move from one stage to the next, like moving out of the dorm room in which you’ve spent a year laboring.  I think there is much to be said about taking a moment and thinking, “What is my home right now?”.  Regardless, I’m just glad to have one.

Emulations

Emulations are important — they tell you a little about who you are and who you aspire to be.

I was reaching for a glass to get some water today and I instinctively reached for a mason jar. I realized that I was emulating my late grandfather . Every time he visited us, he would always have a mason jar of water loaded with ice. I think it become one of the many symbols I associated with him.
Another is a longer story, but he and I had a ongoing joke that he was an apple core eater. I was eating an apple in his kitchen one day and I jokingly said that I thought he was the kind of guy who ate apple cores.

When pressed on what I meant, I created a personality of an apple core eater and gave a few examples: Jesus of Nazareth, Buddha, and Abraham Lincoln. I deemed my grandfather worthy to be among other historical apple eaters. He got a kick out of it, so our discussions of apple core eaters throughout history and their distinctive characteristics became a recurring theme in our time spent together.

After my grandfather passed away, I began eating apple cores. I never actually asked him if he ever ate them, but I felt like every time I ate one I was reconnecting with him and aspiring to be an apple core eater.
Who we emulate tells us a little about who we are, who we respect and who we want to be. Sometimes small actions like reaching for a mason jar or eating an apple core can speak volumes.

Looking Back

Note: I’m setting the publish date of this post to August 2009 in order for it to make sense chronologically, but I’m really posting from 2014.

In my very first post on The Orange Sky, I explained what was in store for me in the summer ahead and how I decided on the blog’s name.

Next, I wrote about my first impression of Malawi: very positive.

Very quickly I dove into work at the busy hospital.

As I settled into the work, I began to use weekends for a little bit of adventure: exploring the surrounding area and making trips into the city.

Speaking of the work, I got to know lots of amazing and committed people.

As my time in Malawi came to a close, I thought about what I was bringing back not much stuff but a lot of experience.

A cornerstone to my experience in Malawi was seeing the ethic of reciprocity at work.

The Ethic of Reciprocity

The community here at St. Gabriel’s has done nothing but welcome me, a complete outsider to their world.

Many people here have trusted me with their children (much to my surprise); as a result, I’ve become very attached to many of them:

Prince

Faith

Christopher Dallas

As well as a few others:

Rodrick

Sister Honesta

Malifa

They’ve invited us to explain derivatives on home-made chalkboards:

An honest attempt

Shared many dinners with us:

A gathering to be remembered

Offered sugar cane:

All I can say: I tried… Oh, I tried.

Let us explore their villages:

Gogos - “grandmothers” - in a local village

Travel their scenic routes:

Beautiful path in the woods on a long run

The ethic of reciprocity, otherwise known as the Golden Rule, demands that we treat each other how we want to be treated. This principle is a global concept: the ethic of reciprocity shows up Christianity, Buddhism, Baha’i Faith, Confucianism, Hinduism, Judaism, Sikhism, Taoism, Jainism and Islam.

The community here at St. Gabriel’s treated me well. As a firm believer of the ethic of reciprocity, I have tried to give back.

After many hours with Matthews, who I would now call a good friend, we came the close of our translating sessions (FrontlineSMS Messages – upwards of 4,300 messages completed!).

The completed incubator, ready for action at St. Gabriel’s:

The training sessions with the Surgery Ward attendants also came to a close. Empowered with knowledge and a set of DVDs that provide videos of the lessons they learned, they are ready to work:

Patricia, Dorothy, Alinafe and the cameraman

Their hard work paid off:

Patricia and Alinafe helping a patient using crutches

My sister and I measured the pots in the guardians’ (who take care of patients – feeding and washing them) smoke room for the technology team at Rice University to create a energy-efficient pot design that greatly reduces smoke output:

Hazy conditions

My bags are lighter as I leave – many gifts were given. The numerous polos I brought to wear at the hospital have dwindled in supply, soccer balls have been distributed and gifts given:

A new dress

The next day, Grace has a new outfit:

All smiles

In the Warm Heart of Africa, the ethic of reciprocity thrives.

Warmth cannot be forgotten

Bringing Back Malawi

In a week, I will be flying across the ocean to return to the comforts of Waterford, Virginia.  My bags will have become lighter: many of the things we brought will have been left as gifts to our friends.  The other day I gave one of my polos to Matthews for his birthday.  His gratitude and joy was a wonder to experience.   I have given gifts and will return with more for my friends and family; however, I will not be just be bringing back items, but a little bit of Malawi.  Among the pieces of Malawi that will travel with me is a redefined sense of greeting, a gesture with a different meaning, a phrase, a Malawian attitude and renewed appreciation of the power of a smile.

I’ve spoken about the difference in greeting here: if you are walking and you pass a group of people, you extend your greeting to each individual.  I’ve found that it helps to forge a connection with every person you meet.  The importance of the style of greeting here in Malawi is two-fold: not only are you paying respect to every individual, but the frequency of greeting those who pass you by is exponentially higher than at home.  When passing another male, it is common to say “Wowa”, essentially meaning “Hey man, what’s up?”.  The word is often accompanied by a thumbs up.  The gesture is not a sign of approval, but of greeting.  I can’t get enough of it and neither can the older men who receive a thumbs of from me. Hopefully, I can bring back a little bit of Malawian style to greeting people in the States.

Last weekend my sister and I ventured into the craft market again in order to buy some gifts for people back home.  This time we armed ourselves with the Spanish language, using it communicate what we liked and didn’t like at each of the vendors.  Normally, the vendors would pick up what we wanted to buy when we spoke English and would hassle us to buy something.  The Spanish greatly confused them – they were unable to decipher our comments about “la cosa de la madre y el hijo”, or “the thing of the mother and child” – making the shopping an event of great success.  The vendors were not the only ones exposed to new vernacular: a man we met introduced me to a new phrase that I plan on using.  After the man read the words on my shirt (Lifetime Fitness), we began to chat and I asked him how he was, receiving a response of “extra super”.  Next time someone asks me how I am, they will occasionally get a bit of Malawian vernacular when I respond, “Extra super!”.

His response is typical of many Malawians, who espouse an attitude of optimism and hope.  A commonly heard word around here is “Chabwino”, meaning “it’s all good, no worries, whatever” all rolled into one.  In the month I’ve been here, I have yet to see a single Malawian show signs of stress in an environment that places many demands on the people here.  The other day I passed a young boy, maybe five years old, expertly wielding a hoe in the family garden.  The women here are strong – many are open with their HIV status and work hard to get their children tested.  This attitude of no worries must be ingrained in their culture as everyone hopes for tomorrow.  Last night, I asked a Malawian man why he thought his people were like this.  He offered an enlightened response: “We do not view our problems and struggles as burdens, only as something we must get through.  In the end, we know that tomorrow is a gift. Tomorrow is a blessing and it is tomorrow that we can always look to.” These words, spilling from the mouth of a smiling Malawian on a beautiful night filled with stars that shine the brightest I’ve seen, struck me as poetic and a testimony of Malawians and the human spirit in general.

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Young girl moves with purpose through the woods

When my sister first came back from Malawi, she remarked on the nature of a smile here and found a pertinent quote:

“A smile costs nothing but gives much. It enriches those who receive without making poorer those who give. It takes but a moment, but the memory of it sometimes lasts forever. None is so rich or mighty that he cannot get along without it and none is so poor that he cannot be made rich by it. Yet a smile cannot be bought, begged, borrowed, or stolen, for it is something that is of no value to anyone until it is given away. Some people are too tired to give you a smile. Give them one of yours, as none needs a smile so much as he who has no more to give.”

Smiles here are plentiful.  Whether it be from a young child as he or she screams “Azungu!” in delight, or a mother who smiles at her child’s fear of an azungu, smiles decorate the red landscape wherever you travel.   Never again will I underestimate the power of a smile.

A few smiles:

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Malifa, Grace, and Rodrick

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Smiling faces

Those are among the many things I want to bring back from Malawi.  Mwina (maybe, in Chechewa), being here for this long has taught me to dance half as well as the Malawians…

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Dancing at the technical college

Life is a People Sandwich

The other day I was talking with a friend about her experiences in Jamaica, where she went with a group from my high school to work on building projects in impoverished areas.  After her and I began to talk about both our experiences in different worlds, we came to a similar conclusion: it’s all about the people you interact with.

From the moment the rooster rudely awakens me in the morning to the second I close my eyes and enter the dream world, my day is filled with characters.

Every morning a young man named Matthews comes to our guesthouse to help me translate the text messages from Chichewa to English sent between St. Gabriel’s and the community health workers using FrontlineSMS, a project set up here in by my brother.  The translation of these messages will benefit projects of my mother, brother and my brother’s accomplices.  We work hard for two hours – pounding out around 300 translations every session.  Matthews is quiet but extremely hardworking: he is using the money we pay him to help translate to buy books for school.  I routinely ask him, “Matthews, are you tired? We can stop if you’d like” only to have him respond, “No, it’s okay”.  The two of us get in a zone as we try to make sense of each other – a fusing of two cultures. Coincidentally, my brother, currently in Neno, Malawi, is working with Matthew’s brother, Henry in implementing FrontlineSMS there.  Josh has similar positive reports for Henry.  Funny the way things are connected: two pairs of brothers working with each other, hours away.

When Josh described Henry, he said he was “the Alex of Neno”.  Alexander Ngalande is the superstar nurse here at St. Gabriel’s. He is a cheerful and extremely friendly person: the right type to head the Home Based Care program.  Whenever I run into him in the hallways of the hospital, I can’t help but smile.  One time I walked into the ART clinic seeing him update the databases, a pleasure he normally reserves for me and exclaimed, “Alex, this is the first time I’ve seen you actually do the mastercards… You must be having a lot of fun,”.  Alex playfully responded, “It’s going about as fast as an airplane landing”.  Alex is committed to his important role at the hospital and a pleasure to be around.

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Alex helping me load FrontlineSMS messages onto a USB drive

Just a few rooms down from where Alex works at the ART Clinic is the pharmacy, where I go to after working with Matthews to see if my help is needed by Sister Honesta Bicycle (you didn’t read incorrectly – her last name is Bicycle). Not surprisingly, she always welcomes my help.  Sister Honesta is honestly one of the funniest people I have ever met and a blast to hang out every day with.  She asks many questions about America, planes, sports and why I haven’t visited the nun convent yet.

While I’m working in the pharmacy, Peter, a health attendant in the male ward, often drops in to chat with me.  He is also a community health worker and is trying to become more involved in the hospital – often a huge help to my mother as she performs physical therapy.  A recent conversation brought a wealth of wisdom that I don’t think he realized he was giving.  I had asked him if he could have any job in the world, what job would he have.  He told me that he would be a nurse or an accountant, but he does not have the money to go to school.  It really made me think about the opportunities that have been given me because of the country I am from.  Not only that, but I now see those opportunities (a college education at a school like Carnegie Mellon) as a mandate to give the gifts I’ve been given back to the world in whatever way possible.  To much is given, much is expected.  I hope to hold to that as I take advantage of the opportunities that I see many are not offered.

During lunch break, my sister and I often go for a run.  On the winding paths through the landscape we encounter many people from the villages built around the trail and those walking on it.  The other day, I was running by myself and a man, around 25 years old, started to run with me.  I knew none of the Chichewa he was speaking, but I saw the wide smile on his face as he ran, in his crocs and jeans, with me for 15 minutes: a surreal experience to say the least.  After I had turned around and run back to his home, I stopped to thank him.

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Man that came with me for a run

Today my sister and I were running and a flock of children came to run with us, all under the age of 6. They are much like the children that wait to play soccer every day with us after work.  Playing soccer with them is always a joy – they go wild when I run fast and score goals, demanding high fives and excitedly yelling the score of the game.  Their laughter and smiles could light the world – two universal gestures that never seem to lose their value.

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Kids that followed us on a run all the way to a bridge

Sometimes at the soccer field we run into Deus, a longtime family friend here in Malawi.  Last weekend we came to his family’s house to see a traditional Malawian meal cooked: chicken (slaughtered before our eyes), rice, vegetables and nsima (corn flour mush – a staple here).  I even got the experience of eating an egg that was inside the chicken.  They were very committed to helping us learn the process, explaining every step along the way.  Deus has a 3.5 year old son named Prince Patrick, who is playful and a blast to interact with as he pokes you and runs away into another part of the house.

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Deus and his wife, Regina

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Prince

After dinner at the guesthouse I will occasionally go to the other house for a game of cards with the other visitors. They hail from all over the world: Scotland, the Netherlands, Belgium, Ireland and America.  It’s a melting pot and the card games are always fun and exciting: competitive spoons is making a revival here in Malawi.

As I sit in my bed each day, all I can do is reflect on the people I meet and interact with every day.  They are the heart of life and the connections you forge with fellow human beings can provide valuable lessons.  I am hope I can internalize these lessons.

Life is a people sandwich, take a bite.