The Sacred

 

I find the presence of the sacred hidden in the trees, the silent witnesses and participants in the progression and dance of life. I find it hidden in the growth of the plants, through the scorching heat and the pounding rain. Their resilience in the face of being ignored, unnoticed, even. Their bravery and beauty despite themselves. Their obedience and how they communicate. They reach quietly but surely for light when they need it. They dry out and wither and fall where they stand quietly; yet they give so much. Beauty, shade, life, food, sustenance, and they teach us so much without saying a word. They don't go prancing about; they make no sound, yet they are wise beyond our knowledge, by the power within. If only we could pay closer attention to our vegetation. That which is in the trees is also in us. Greater is he that is in thee, than he that is in the world. This reminds me of the Sufi saying;

Not what we see, but that by which we can see.

Not what we hear, but that by which we can hear.

Not what we feel, but that by which we can feel.

Not what we think, but that by which we can think.

He alone is Brahma, and not what people here adore.

Inspired by the book Ordinary Mysticism by Mirabi Starr

 

Blue

Rectangular, dark blue, smooth almost silky. Lets call it Blue. Not at all pretty just solid and dependable on the outside. Inside Blue's bright face welcomes me with just the right expression, designed to generate just the right emotion. I know because I placed it there. 

I feel a mix of emotions; comforting, protective, excitement inducing, dependence. Sometimes when Blue calls I feel annoyed at his insistence and sometimes I feel relief or apprehension. It depends. Once in a while Blue is a bittersweet reminder of many special times, and an echo of many voices now gone forever. Over the years Blue has revealed a lot to me about myself and the people that are dear to me. However protective I am of Blue, I feel a need to share her with my children on occasion because I refuse to make her more important to me than they are. 

In actual fact Blue offers too much. On the face of it she seems too giving, too selfless, but she really isn't. Her pound of flesh is exacted in much the same way as the fruit laden tree in the garden of Eden, so we must control ourselves lest she gets the best of us. 

You have a Blue too. We almost all do.

 

Those who can, Teach!

The day is over. At least it is for my Grade 5 class, because the rooms are empty and there is the unusual  silence that only occurs at this time of day. There is also the drained feeling of heaviness and relief. It's as though my body which was tightly wound for several hours finally had the permission to sink into its natural rhythm. As we used to say in pidgin English when I was a teen, I am degassed, devoid of gas or fuel, and I've realized something. It isn't so much the teaching that tires me out; it isn't the constant movement or the talking or the modeling or the heightened state of attentiveness. For me it is the learning. Teaching has to be synonymous with learning, right? Learning about what works for each child, what doesn't work, who needs more or less of what, and why. It is exhausting but I love it. As I watch tired teachers settle at their desks to begin their preparations for the next day, I wonder if they feel as I do, and I smile. They have to love it, otherwise how could we possibly get ready to do it all over again tomorrow? 

In Spite of...

 In spite of us

The shadow.

Follows me everywhere. Now here, now there. 

Never too far yet too close for comfort

I'd rather not see you, but I can’t hide from you

Like a light (in spite of its darkness) it reveals me

I like to see myself as this, yet it shows me as that

That which I’m not proud of, that disturbing self

That unsettles, worries, shames, reduces me

Yet humbles and fills me with love for a God 

Who knows me all, and accepts me all….every which way. 

Surely, this life is all going somewhere good 

In spite of us.

You don't value me

'Afam Nwa' - You don't value me

The forest of Kundum was a beautiful place to live. During the day the sun shone brilliantly through the emerald green leaves of the proud acacia trees, leaving dappled lights scattered on the ground for the. When it rained, the streams overflowed onto the red earth along their banks where the mudfish writhed with abandon. and droplets of water danced over the foliage like little diamonds, nourishing the red and black earth below.

Kusum was home to the magnificent elephants, the graceful, haughty antelope, the clever thieving monkeys, and a wide array of less noticed little creatures that included the slow walking, spiral shelled brown snails.

Every animal in the forest had something to boast of...except the little creatures like the snail. He was slow. He was weak. He was little, was easy prey and he was ugly. No one thought much of the snail. The prized catches for hunters were the deer, and the village wives preferred to trap grasscutters and fishes. Children dug up snails to play with them, and the very old and destitute rummaged around the undergrowth after rains looking for snails to eat. But the truth was, snails were a tasty addition to any soup, and the village wives knew this. They were just plentiful and cheap, because they moved slowly and were so easy to find.

The King of the forest was no better. Whenever he needed a new Elder in his court he made an announcement. “Any animal can apply to be an Elder, except the snail. He is too slow and dumb. I need clever creatures to be Elders!”

One day, the leader of the snails in Kusum forest made a decree. He alone knew their true value and he was fed up with being disrespected. “The best way for others to recognize your value is to deprive them of your presence entirely. All the snails will hereby disappear from the forest”, he announced. “Then we will see how the community will fare without us.”

The next morning, not a single snail could be found in the forest.

Soon the snakes and birds begun to starve. The poor people who couldn’t buy meat could no longer find snail meat for their soup, so they only ate fruits and vegetables, and they soon began to get sick.

A few weeks after the snails disappeared , the forest animals began to realize that the forest was beginning to have a bad smell. Dead animals and plants seemed to lie around for a much longer time than usual. As time went on, the animals noticed that the new plants that sprouted seemed unusually small and shriveled. Animals like the antelopes and grasscutters struggled to find food, and they slowly began to starve.

The king of Kusum forest called his wise counselors to a meeting.

“What is happening to our forest? Why are our plants and animals dying?”

“I think it’s a punishment from the gods! The animals have not been on good behavior so we are all being punished.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Antelope said. “We are dying because the deer have poisoned our food. They want to kill us all, then they can be the fastest animals in the forest.”

Then the wise owl quietly said... “It’s the snails.”

“What did you say?” The king asked.

“It’s because the snails have disappeared.”

All the elders laughed loudly. “What on earth is Owl talking about? He’s so old now, he can't even see anything...what does he know?” they jeered.

“None of you know how important the snails are, do you?” Owl asked.

The king knew how wise Owl was, so he did not dismiss him. “Tell us what you mean, Owl,” he said.

Owl spoke. “Did you know that snails eat dead leaves and little animals, rotting wood, and different kinds of trash? It is no wonder we are drowning in rubbish since they left the forest. Also snails are food for many animals like snakes, beetles, turtles, mice and birds, so if these animals can’t find snails to eat, they will become unhealthy and die. Guess what will happen then to those of us who feed on mice, snakes and turtles? Now you know why many of the animals are dying!”

The King and his elders were very quiet. No one knew what to say. Finally the King spoke.

“We must be very careful about how we treat the least of our brothers and sisters. We didn’t know how important the snails were to us. Now, what are we going to do?

'Afam Nwa' - Wax print name

Change

I am going to miss this school.
Walking down the corridors and remembering a time gone by...17 years ago.
My four year old daughter with tiny pompoms in her hair, yellow t shirt under flowered overall shorts. Her little hand gripping mine tightly; wondering about this new school.
The pretty classrooms lined up in a long U, with rounded, terra cotta coloured roofs. The large well-laid, green basketball court in front of the classrooms, separated from a sandy playground by a line of low trees.

I remember taking her to the little petting zoo tucked in the corner of the bend between grades 2 and 3,  to see the tortoise, the rabbit and the guinea pig, just to settle her anxieties.
In no time she got to love the school. (How could she not?) Even more, when it became my school too.

 One summer, the petting zoo gave way to a new classroom...my own. I remember my first day as a teacher. I was confident, nervous, excited and worried. All at once.
My first class of students. I remember every one of them. The little girl who cried everyday until she learned to speak English. The little boy who had a habit of chewing a piece of his notebook the minute my back was turned. The one who brought little lizards into the classroom after recess;  the one who looked like she'd burst into tears whenever it was time for number work...

I remember the wonderful community of teachers...so many of them have come and gone, and every group has been special. There have been numerous changes over the years; too many to count, but we are on the verge of experiencing the biggest yet. The quaint classrooms with their rounded terracotta colored roofs will soon give way to a massive state of the art high-rise school block. It is an exciting change for all, but today, I feel sad. Bereft.

Anja

Anja is from Kosovo. She just joined the class a month ago in the second semester of the year. She speaks no English, but appears to have some learning difficulties too.

Initially, the girls in the class took her under their wing, but all that has changed. They discover Anja is different. She looks, speaks and acts differently. Plus she let on that she was older than most of them...two years older. The fifth graders do not know how to embrace all that uniqueness. For sometime Anja did not realize they had lost interest in hanging out with her, so she followed them everywhere. It became obvious even to her at some point, yet that didn't stop her from seeking their friendship...though not quite so enthusiastically.

Through it all, Anja carried herself admirably. She always had a smile on her face, and got on with the business of school without complaint...or so it appeared. At the next parent meeting her mother informed the teacher sadly that her daughter was not happy in school. She thought the other girls didn't like her because she was so much older. The teachers are amazed. Anja announces her age at the least opportunity, with her ubiquitous smile. The very next day in a small group activity, the subject of age comes up as the students discuss a story character, and sure enough Anja pipes up. "I am 12 years old!"
This time the teacher looks more closely, and she sees it.  Face smiling yet fearful. Eyes beseeching acceptance. Trepidation masked by a stoic sense of self. "I am 12 years old!"

Anja was more than she appeared. She could barely speak English, but she spoke for us all...and in point of fact, she spoke better than most.

Brief

Achy feet.
Sore calves.
Stiff back.
Grainy eyes.
Migraine.
Jumbled thoughts - yet I must slice.
Even if its a sliver of a slice.
Perdóname (I'm learning Spanish), this is going to be brief.
It's been a tough day.

At the Market

The Baatsona market on Saturday morning offers a complete assault on the senses.
The marketplace in Ghana is one of the last vestiges of traditional and cultural practices that resist any movement into modernity. It never ceases to amaze me. From the randomly, haphazardly organized stalls, to the communal existence apparent in the human interactions, it is as though time froze here, and a visitor from the 1940s would have no problem fitting right in.

The vast array of red tomatoes, white garden eggs, green okra, blackened smoked fish, orange peppers and silver salted fishes are enough to leave you crosseyed. I head for my favourite crab lady first. She has large orange-hued moon crabs and delicious flat blue ones of all sizes. She 'mistakenly' gives me double what I ask for, and tries to convince me to buy it all. I sweetly refuse, and she sweetly acquiesces, prattling non-stop about her delicious crabs.

A table piled high with smooth, round shiny red tomatoes catches my eyes. Of course, the vendor caught me looking and wasn't about to let me go. "Oh mummy, please come!", she cried plaintively. (nevermind the fact there was NO way I could be her mother). Nevertheless, I liked the look of her tomatoes enough to comply.
 As I stood there, the insistent cries of a little girl nearby caught my attention, and I wondered why no one else seemed bothered by it. It was the tomato seller's daughter,  being chided severely by a woman at the next table. The mother finally intervened, and I wondered if a quarrel was about to break out between the women, but no, not at all.
 "You must listen to Auntie Esi when she asks you to stop," she said to her daughter.
I recognized it immediately from way back when I was little....the child-rearing style among females. Our mother's friends had every right to tell us off if for some reason she wasn't there to do it herself. We knew it, our mothers expected it, and the whole community valued it. It just isn't much in evidence among most modern parents today.

After a few more purchases my time in the market was done. Just as I turned to leave I remembered I hadn't bought okra. I stopped to get some but realized I had run out of money.
"Don't worry, you can have it," the okra seller said to me. "If you come next time you can pay me."
I couldn't believe it. This lady most certainly made a fraction of what I earned in a month, yet she was willing to give money away to a perfect stranger with no guarantee of ever getting it back. My heart was glad. Old fashioned values are still very much alive...even if only in the marketplace.

What's in a name?

My nephew's first name is Sir Garnet. A black African boy born to Ghanaian parents living in Ghana, West Africa. Why?

My grandmother's grandfather, Chief Kweku Andoh was one of the few educated elders in Elmina during the 1800s. He was the Chief of Elmina's foremost advisor at the time the British took over the then Gold Coast colony from the Dutch. On the Chief's expulsion from the country by the British, Chief Andoh was appointed regent in his place. He became firm friends with the British, whom he believed were more trustworthy than the Dutch, and became a lieutenant in the army. He developed a  friendship with Sir Garnet Wolseley, British governor in the Gold Coast, and major troubleshooter for the British empire.

 It is to our endless mortification, that my great, great grandfather joined Wolseley in his punitive expedition against the great empire of Ashanti. It was on this expedition that news arrived of his son's birth. Wolseley, grateful for the support of Chief Andoh, requested that his newborn son be named after him. Chief Andoh was happy to comply. Since traditionally names are passed down from father to son, the name 'Sir Garnet' has remained in my family to this day.

Strangely, our present day 'Sir Gee' as we call him, is as militant as they come....starkly different from his significantly more amenable siblings. What's in a name, I say?

Plodding Along

Gosh, sometimes it is so hard to find inspiration to write. To be honest, I am totally struggling to keep this going, but I will persevere...(I think.) Somedays I'm on fire, and many others.....nothing. I have attempted two posts which I discarded. This is the third. Maybe I shouldn't be thinking so hard. My initial ideas are always personal...a little too personal and abstract to post here. Like I say to my friends, I very much prefer to write for my eyes only, so this is a real challenge!

I will plod along, however. I'm just thankful that even this is good enough!

As Without, So Within

On a whim, I stepped out of my hot kitchen into the balmy night for some air. It isn't something I usually do, and as I wondered why, the response came right on the tail of the thought...mosquitoes.
What a shame. There's so much I've missed.

I stared at my house, taking in the familiar yet strangely alien view enveloped in darkness. The soft glow of indoor lights, shadows playing peekaboo...here one minute, gone the next. In the darkness,  my garden looks larger, older, wiser. I sit there for a while taking in the cricket calls, the whispering leaves and the tiny darting insects flirting with the glowing lamp. I tried to shut my noisy mind down and open my soul up to feel like they do, wondering about the people that dwell within the walls. After a while, we all blend in beautifully. There really is no separateness. As without, so within.

Rejuvenated, I wandered back into my hot kitchen.

Being, not Doing

Today has been quiet. A gem of a day. I’ve had myself and my thoughts only because I had no power for several hours on account of a fault on the main line. So no music, no TV, no laptop and phone (which I did not charge overnight) and horror of horrors; no internet service! So what did I do today, the first day of our spring break? I read; and dozed; and cooked, and baked and stared at lizards and the blue sky. I listened to twittering birds, counted 100 breaths and daydreamed. 

Best of all, I did all of this with my fourteen year old son who had no idea what to do with himself. The daydreaming part was hilarious because he kept asking what I was doing, and I told him to just stare with me. I told him we had to learn how to just ‘be’. He thought I’d lost my mind.

All in all, we had a magical day of not really doing anything.

Common Destiny

Sitting in the waiting room at the oncology clinic with my mother always leaves me marveling at human nature.
Sick people suffering with dignity. Some in wheelchairs, walking sticks, leaning on others or trying hard to walk on their own.

Busy and not so busy helpers. Some sad looking, others distracted; yet others carrying on like everything is normal, or trying hard to pretend that wheeling a loved one at the oncology clinic is like walking down the aisle in a grocery store. Some are downright detached...like the young lady who sat right behind me. She had disappeared into her phone, while her old lady sitting on the bench next to me moaned and wept softly.
"Are you in pain, ma'am? Can I get you something?" I asked. I noticed she had called the nurse a little earlier to ask when it would be her turn to see the doctor...Those nurses.

Receptionist nurse. Busy hands. Dolled up, apologetic, warm manner.
Cashier nurse. Encased in a wood-paneled booth with a gaping opening like a mouth, out of which her hand shoots to take the money. "If you don't have enough money, you can't see the doctor!"  Unbelievably emotionless.
Vitals Nurse. Drill sergeant spitting out names of patients, forgetting it takes them a lot longer to lift themselves and all the energy they can muster to respond. I glared at her and held up my hand to stop her from calling out my mother's name for the 4th time. Really?

So I walk up to drill sergeant and ask her when the weeping lady will be seen to. "Her folder is the next one, we will call her soon." I go back and reassure the lady, wondering aloud why she is on her own.
"My daughter is behind you", she responds. I prod the young woman who lifts herself hurriedly and goes to tend to her mother. She hands her a bottle of water but doesn't soothe or touch her. The lady calms down and I turn around thinking....she wept harder when I spoke to her with compassion and showed I cared. Her daughter pretty much ignores her distress, and her tears dry up. Isn't that something?
My heart aches for sick people. hopeful one minute. hopeless the next.
But then we forget we share a common destiny.

Death's ladder is climbed by all.

Poverty in Riches

In conversation with a friend, I discovered again the truth of the paradox of poverty in richness....and vice versa.
We recalled the bad behavior of a family member; a bully of a man who expects to be treated with deference by the people closest to him. He is a man of some means, and loves to show it off by spreading it around; but be warned; accepting his largesse comes at a cost, as hewhomustbeobeyed will tolerate nothing but your groveling affirmations and undying fealty. He does not realize that his obsession with such unhealthy loyalty reveals the extent of his insecurity.

Curiously,  even this sad soul has a side to him that I don't think he realizes. Given the nature of his business, he goes through times when his money dwindles, and it is at times like these that his nasty side takes a back seat to a sweetness you'd never believe he possesses. He spends more time with his family, laughs a lot more, is kind to his wife and is generally just a much nicer person to be with.

Clearly, his riches aren't riches at all; yet without it to lose, would his beautiful side have a chance to be expressed? He reminds me of why I love my country Ghana. In the midst of abject poverty, people can show a generosity that is a rare commodity among so-called wealthy people.

No wonder our wise elders had a proverb which they named after a beautiful wax print design..."Asetena pa ma awirefi' (Good living breeds forgetfulness).

Treasure!

I've been waiting for the slice of life challenge to come by again...surprisingly, considering that I was on the verge of quitting when I began last year. Somehow through the stress and angst and pressure of having to churn out piece after piece, day after day, I found a beautiful treasure...and it was myself!

I look forward to wringing water out of stone, finding beauty in plainness, digging deep and finding gold...in other words, finding me again.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Name of wax print -
I dug the earth and found treasure

I dared to write...

I look back at my posts in amazement. Am I that melancholic? 68% of my posts had an existential theme, 14% were historical recounts, 11% were a fictionalized account of events from my past and 7% were personal memories. Goodness me. Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks (or in this case, the fingers type. lol)

I am pleased I took on this challenge. A friend introduced me to it, and dared me to stick with it till the end...Thanks, Juliette. I would never have stuck with it if you hadn't pretended to have no faith in my staying power (although you weren't far from wrong).  I almost quit several times,  but you kept spurring me on. Most days, I sat in front of the laptop with zero ideas and a blank mind...or so I thought. As I persisted, thoughts started pouring out from I know not where day after day, and now I know there is much more bubbling up where that came from. I had no idea this challenge was to be the perfect outlet for me. I have never written this much about myself in my fifty plus years, and I've loved every minute of it.

Thank you TWT and the few slicers who graciously stopped by to offer their encouragement and kind words. As I kept telling my friends, I didn't get a lot of comments, but that was not why I wrote. I dared to write to air my soul, to explore my ideas and to challenge my thinking. I did this for me.

The Field

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase “each other”
doesn’t make any sense.

An excerpt from 'A Great Wagon', by Rumi

That field. That wide expanse that holds all ambiguities and tensions. You challenge everything I know about myself. Actually, you confirm what I’m afraid to admit about myself. You fill me and surround me, so you know me inside out. Even when I lie to myself I can’t lie to you. You are my secret self. The self I am free to be, and yet the self I am afraid to be.

You are there as a constant reminder, a humbling presence that at once confuses and clarifies. You are an opening, a metaphor, a paradox, a lesson, an awakening, because you are the ground that holds the tree that bears the fruit of my knowledge of good and evil. The fruit may ripen and fall, but even then, you embrace it all.

The sooner I accept that I am one with you and with all things, the sooner I will be worthy of the very flesh I inhabit, and the world I have been gifted with.