"Where hunger is ugly, where the souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it
And I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin'
But I'll know my song well before I start singin'
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall"
Last night the rain came down so forcefully on my tin roof that it woke me out of a dead sleep (and I’m a deep sleeper). It was so dynamic, it sounded like hundreds of machine guns firing at once. It made me grateful for my shelter - I’ve been given such a beautiful sacred space here in Malawi that is allowing me to make space inside of myself. Thinking about all the things I hold onto: collecting, filling up, demanding space and energy. Are they feeding me or taking from me? The rain fall slowly let up and I fall back asleep, then again around 3am I awoke again to another surge. It was a beautiful moment to witness such a force.
This man I met on a bus yesterday traveling back from Blantrye asked me what I would tell my family about Malawi when I returned to the states…I responded with the usual crowd pleaser “that Malawians are so friendly.” He loved it. Then he said “Yes, but we are poor. Life is very primitive here.” The statement really struck me. Primitive.
Life here IS primitive, raw, rough, jagged, holistic, connected…allowing moments of vibrant rainfall to come into my life, for the phase of the moon to influence my sleep, and for the stars to be seen in a magnitude of which they are worthy.--------------------------
Left: since the rains have started these little flowers have popped up all along my pathway home.
Right: the ridiculous 1960’s flower power dress I found at market and debuted at the st. patrick’s day party this weekend it Blantyre. Live bands playing classic rock covers and guiness, it was true culture shock.