Transition

Written August 7 2014

Transition.  A word that has snuck into my life with gusto, uprooting the life that I’ve finally settled into and sending me forth into uncharted territory.  Language is a beautiful thing, one word representing such a spectrum of sentiments.   It’s more than the shifting of old to new, of past to future.  It’s a process, a journey.  It’s a mourning for what was, an eager anticipation of what’s to come, a renewed appreciation for the life, the people, the land that you may have taken for granted.  It has no designated start and finish.  It begins long before the physical act of moving and extends past the moment of relocation.  For me it began several months ago, this realization that I am hovering at the precipice of such drastic change.  I’m in limbo, stranded between past and future, struggling to grab hold of the present.  I exist in two separate worlds, not fully belonging to either.  Africa, Swaziland, is part of me now.  It always will be.  I will never be the same.

Stay present.  That’s what everyone tells me and for the most part, I’ve been able to do so.  But part of this presence is allowing my mind to wander, stepping back to recognize how far I’ve come.  Life and work in community can be suffocating at times.  Every day brings a new battle, motivating counterparts to assume responsibility, staying patient with the process, keeping calm when the kids beg for sweets or the women pinch your love handles.  Simply living can take its toll, operating out of a bucket, living in a space that serves as your bedroom, your toilet, your kitchen, and your gym.  It’s difficult to see the bigger picture when you’re struggling to stay afloat. 

As my projects come to a close, I’ve entered a period of simply being.  It has been a time of reflection and of healing.  Blessed is the only word that comes to mind to describe the past month.  I’m finally beginning to understand the magic of Africa so often romanticized by travelers who likely haven’t fully immersed themselves in the less-than-magical realities of this continent.  Lately I’ve been soaking it all in: the morning runs through sugar cane fields beneath the rising sun, the silhouettes of barren acacia trees against the glow of dusk, the unpolluted clarity of the Southern Cross and stars at night, the orchestra of roosters, goats, cows, and birds each morning, once abrasive to my ears, welcoming the new day.  Swimming in the river with a gangle of girls eager to see how the umlungu  fares in water, detouring home through the bush in search of giraffes in the bed of a pickup beneath a starry sky, sharing meals around a smoky fire with my closest friend, laughing as we recall memories, crying in anticipation of goodbye.  Even the absurdity of public transport has redeemed itself with a certain charm: marriage proposals from a mute bus preacher, face to face encounters with cows through the khumbi window, the live chicken flailing in a plastic bag on my neighbor’s lap.  I’m romanticizing it too, I know that I am.  It doesn’t detract from the moments of frustration, despair, rage, and homesickness that I’ve experienced over these past 26 months.  Those were real, and I won’t forget them.  If I do, I have 3 journals chalked full of tirades to remind me.  But I’ve needed this time of bliss, of fully experiencing the peace of unrushed life, of embracing the relationships for what they are without the pressure of my work-related agenda.  My departure from Swaziland does not mark the end of my time in Africa.  I will be back, probably intermittently for the rest of my life.  The Lord is using this period to heal my heart for Africa, for Swaziland.  To remind me that despite all of the disease, corruption, violence, and injustice, He is bigger.  He is in control. Someway, somehow.  Swaziland shattered my idealism long ago, but I leave hopeful, and more so grateful for all that I have experienced in these past two years, the good and the bad.  For the countless times I failed, for the afternoons spent learning traditional dancing, for the women who have inspired me with their strength and resilience, for the sleepless nights I spent questioning it all, for the incredible friends I’ve made along the way (Swazi, American, Portuguese, South African), and for the family and community that has welcomed me as their own, that has humbled me, fed me, forgiven me, and reminded me of our common humanity.

The transition does not end here.  But for this step of the journey I am grateful.