Extravagant beauty

With full awareness of all that is ugly in the world, I am obsessing about beauty. I don’t believe these thoughts represent escapism so much as astonishment. A lesson that has unfolded for me over the past year is that nothing in this world is to be taken for granted. And so I’m trying to keep my eyes and my heart open and when I do this the beauty of life nearly overwhelms me, as does the impulse to experience, create, and extend this beauty, which represents Love. Continue reading

Introvert in a new neighborhood

You know how I thought we were too isolated out there in the woods and that it was time to move to a city neighborhood? Well here we are in the new neighborhood, close to friends and strangers alike, close to downtown events and restaurants, surrounded by the hum of activity and you know what? Not that much has changed.

I should say, I haven’t changed. Continue reading

Moving in, moving out

Today I took a break from unpacking boxes and moving furniture and packed my bags for Congo. I leave in three days.

We began moving into our new home nine days ago and yesterday it began to feel like home. Our daughter had played house, arranging furniture and rugs, and her husband had moved extra stuff and boxes upstairs, while Ethan, the two-year-old Entropy Machine, scattered cars, trucks, and improvised light sabers faster than we could collect and stash all the stuff of our existence. Hazel, 6, picked daffodils that popped up on a warm day and explored all the nooks and crannies. The house felt blessed and broken in by their presence. Continue reading

Don’t cry for me


It helps to be out of the country.

It helps to get the news in one fierce shock rather than watching it unfold over hours like a slow-motion train wreck.

It helps to get the news in the morning rather than in the middle of the night.

It helps to get the news in hot sun rather than cold rain. Continue reading

The trip that wasn’t

IMG_3913This is not my passport. It is my husband’s. I thought a passport was an appropriate image for this post but I don’t have mine right now. It is somewhere in the bowels of the DR Congo embassy in Washington, DC.

I hope I will get it back someday. I certainly will not have it by Wednesday, which is the day I was supposed to leave for the DRC. Continue reading

Color tour


This trip happened because of a fight. I thought my husband had agreed to meet me in North Carolina next month after my week of Wisdom School with Cynthia Bourgeault. We could do the B&B thing, I could share all my newly acquired wisdom with him, yada yada. Belatedly he happened to remember that he had a choir concert on the aforeplanned weekend. For some reason I took this to mean that I did not come first in his life. We fought. Or rather, I blew up and he looked puzzled. Continue reading

Celebrating compromise

trees verticalThe snow has been here for so long that I feel like we need more vocabulary for it, like the people of the north do. Light and fluffy, heavy and wet, settled snow, crusted snow, plowed snow, dirty snow, melting snow. Patterns of snow melt. Do you notice that it melts first around the bases of trees? A pocket for each tree, perforating the puffy snow duvet like knots in a comforter. It must be because the dark color of the trees absorbs what little sunlight there is, heating a bit, prompting the first melt.

Sunlight. The days are longer and the temperatures bump up now and then, but not enough to bring spring. One longs for real sun, real warmth. I just dawdled away an entire week planning a vacation in the tropics. It helped me get through the latest blizzard. Continue reading

Protocol angel

This morning, near the end of our three-and-a-half weeks in DR Congo, I completed my first article about the ordinations I’d come to write about–deadline day after we return– and then I declared an end to effort.

I asked our friend Suzanne to drive us several blocks from her pleasant Kinshasa apartment (where we slept very well last night) to the Jeffrey Travels office, where I could arrange for “protocol” not only for our flight home tomorrow evening but also for the check-in downtown tomorrow morning, which I’d assumed we would handle ourselves.

I don’t feel like handling anything more for a while.

Protocol–procedure–is an important concept here. It has a special meaning when it comes to airports. Hiring protocol service means paying someone to get you to or from the airport and shepherd you more or less all the way to or from the gate. Just how necessary that is was driven home to us yesterday as we prepared to board our flight from Lubumbashi to Kinshasa.

Before arriving in Lubumbashi several days earlier we had signed onto a protocol service because 1) we didn’t know the airport; 2) we were arriving late at night; and 3) we didn’t know how far our guesthouse was from the airport. As it turned out, the airport was a breeze for arriving passengers and our protocol guy (henceforth named Protocol because I didn’t ask his name) met us outside and simply drove us to our guesthouse, 20 minutes away. For this we had paid $100 for the two of us.

We decided to save money on the way back and just get a taxi to the airport ($30 plus a $10 “fee” to the guards at the gate).

We arrived two-and-a-half hours before our 8 a.m. flight. Inside the airport door, three men sat at a table. We asked them what we needed to do because there were no signs. They grinned and said, “Café. Buy us some coffee.” They seemed to be posted at the door exclusively to collect “tips.” We stepped aside and watched someone else pay them a few francs and proceed on his own to the next step, a “check-in” desk on the other side of a partition. We didn’t pay.

We fumbled and inquired our way through the baggage-checking process and then to pay for the “Go-Pass,” an exit fee required at every airport in varying amounts depending on your destination. Someone told us it was $50 each but it turned out to be only $10, plus a $5 provincial tax.

Finally we were motioned toward a ramp, on the other side of yet another partition, that seemed to lead to a boarding area. But we did not yet have boarding passes. These were apparently being issued at several windows alongside the ramp, where people were apparently facing long inquisitions and discussions. A man whom I will call Traffic Control was letting passengers into this area one at a time.

It was still early. Traffic Control told us to wait to one side. An earlier, international flight was apparently being processed. But hardly anyone was going through because it was taking approximately 20 minutes to process each person at the four windows. People were gathering around us on the waiting side of the partition, pushing forward but not going anywhere. But other people were pushing their way through, being admitted by Traffic Control, and sometimes even breezing past the windows.

Some of these people seemed to be on our flight, not the international flight. Some seemed to be accompanied by protocol guys. I made several attempts to ask Traffic Control what was going on, as it got later and later, but he ordered me to “wait until I give the command.”

It was now 7:30, half an hour before our scheduled takeoff, and none of us on the wrong side of the partition yet had boarding passes.

Suddenly I spied Mr. Protocol himself, the guy who had taken us to the guesthouse three nights earlier, leading several people past Traffic Control and up the ramp. A few minutes later, when he hurried back down the ramp, which was now seeming like a stairway to an impossible heaven, I stopped him. “Can I hire you?” I asked.

He looked at us for a second and grinned. “Oh sure. You’re the people I took to Bougain Villa. Come with me.” He led us to the door guarded by Traffic Control, who put his arm out and stopped Mr. Protocol. Protocol expressed shock–he had, after all, gone back and forth with impunity several times minutes earlier.

Traffic Control, however, was not about to lose face by letting some pushy foreigners through whom he had just ordered to wait their turn. He jammed his arm across the doorway. The volume of his argument with Protocol attracted the attention of several security officers further up the Stairway to Heaven. They descended and joined Protocol in trying to dislodge Traffic Control, who refused to budge.

Finally, several men wedged themselves between the fuming Mr. Traffic Control and one side of the door, making a small opening for us to slip through. We were hurried up the ramp to the still sparsely populated Heaven, the boarding lounge.

Protocol had our passports, tickets, and hard-won Go-Passes. To our consternation he headed back down the ramp and into the crowd. But at that point we had no choice but to wait. And trust him.

We discussed whether this was another mistake, how the authorities would manage to process all the waiting passengers, whether Protocol would ever reappear, and how much we should pay him if he did.

Ten minutes later Protocol breezed by with more passengers, nodded to us–“Patience!”–and accompanied them out to a waiting aircraft.

Fifteen minutes later Protocol reappeared, all smiles, with our passports, Go-Passes, tax receipts, and tickets bearing the stickers that served as boarding passes.

I resisted the urge to hug him. I asked how much he would like for his services.

“Nothing,” he said. He didn’t even say the usual, “whatever you would like to give me.” Just, “Nothing at all.”

He asked why we hadn’t called him to take us to the airport. We explained that the arrival had been so easy that we thought we could handle departure by ourselves. He laughed. “The departure is something else.” He wished us bon voyage and disappeard back down the ramp.

Suddenly the lounge began filling up. Some bottleneck in the boarding pass area had broken. All the madding crowd seemed to make it on the plane, which left less than 30 minutes late.

But I didn’t regret asking Protocol to help us. My do-it-yourself days are over when it comes to Congo airports.