I’ve been waking up for one month now, in this new bed, in this new house, in this unfamiliar village. And I think of the camp I grew up going to every summer. It isn’t as if I wake up and think I’m at camp - it’s more of a longing for a return to that place, mixed with a sense that there are similar feelings found here - but then accompanied by a realization that maybe I’m just rediscovering that sacredness within myself.
On my first Sunday here I went to my host family’s church. My host father was in a hurry and I rushed to follow behind him, past five or six houses and up a rocky path that steadily climbed. All of a sudden the sparse trees cleared and the path leveled out on to a large flat stone that looked like it’d been carved out special. There stood the church, small and rectangular, ready for take off or to stand as a lighthouse in the middle of a storm. The view showed off my small village and the roaring river in the distance. As I sat there in a back pew on the women’s side with my head covered, I felt it for the first time since being here. The same rocky climb, the same overlook on water, the same hot breeze. I was back on Chapel Hill in the hill country of Texas. Moments like this have continued to happen here, where faith rushes in and a piece of home returns. I’m not sure if these subtle connections make it harder or easier. They do make me feel safe and that in the midst of all the solitude I’ve found here, that camp is a bigger part of my identity that I had originally thought. What if instead of this new place drastically changing me - it just brings to light the truths of myself that are already there?
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This dirt. This land. This breeze. This time. This country. This peace. This solid ground.
Zambia speaks in movements of the sky. Stagnant clouds meet gently rolling waves of wind. Waves that turn violent, wind gushing, spiraling, blowing dust into eyelids, into crevices between cooking jars, under lament floor mats. Just like an undertow, pulling bikes off course, chickens astray. And the heat. Days when nothing but sweat moves down your body. When the trees frown and the ground cracks and splits open like a bloody lip after a fist fight. This hotness stifles and creates an atmosphere that just must be akin to Mars. The Sun screams, this land is strong. This country is faithful. One day rain will come. One day soon. That day I’ll write about how the water meets this land, this dirt, this ground where I’ll stand barefooted, listening to Zambia sing in loud praises. Because one day the rain will come. |
Author's note:Hi, I'm Helen. Welcome to Lifted ~ I write to lift myself up. Archives
March 2021
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