Rain

It's been raining in port au prince.

The trees swell and sway. There's a rhythmic beating of rain on tin. A melancholy tapping. As all things in Haiti, there's a heartbeat, here, in this storm.

The wind offers a reprieve from the sweaty and sultry heat. It's always welcome, to me. This rain.

The sounds calm my nerves and I count the drops on the flat of my feet.

We're all a part of this.

This near, and this far.

The weather is god's gift. We can watch the drops of rain hit the palm of our hand. And we can stare, miles away, at the rain clouds gathering over the ocean. Over the mountains.

The sky turning black, and the raging clouds. 

And we're a part of that too.

Sometimes, I think I feel everything. 

And sometimes, I know that I never could.

And for that, I am thankful for the ever changing weather. 

Good Morning

Fluctuation

I sat on the balcony of my room, and stared up at the sky. For the longest time tonight.

I watched the sun disapear into the ocean, and the mountains melt into shadows. 

Have I ever been, entirely still?

I don't know. 

It rains here. Every afternoon. And when the storm clouds clear, the hummingbirds visit the tree that engulfs my perch. 

They shift their weight and dart in and out of the blooms, stained deep purple.

Have they ever been, entirely still?

I don't know. 

My mind hasn't been my own, since I arrived in Haiti.

There's too much.

That's changed.

And too much, that's stayed. 

Exactly the same. 

Is God ever, completely still?

Or is everything- always.

In constant motion. 

Dear Lord and Father

I've been asked to be a Godmother again. I'll now have two sweet God babies.

Kedira is the baby of my first Haitian friend. I met him on my first trip to Haiti. We were both doing construction, excavating the foundation for the new St. Joseph's home. Kedira wasn't born yet, but Marc Arthur, who we call 'Africa' and I became fast friends. Kedira was only a few months old when I moved to Haiti permanently last November. He's now a walking and gurgling machine, and we spend a great deal of time together, aimlessly walking the streets, eating sugar cane, and throwing pebbles.

When I went to St. Joseph's on Friday, it was my first trip down the mountain since arriving back in Haiti. Careening down the mountain by taptap, being dumped in Petionville, once again all alone, once again the only white girl in sight, I prayed that muscle memory would take over. that the habit of navigating the market would kick back in, and while I was rusty, after four casual months stateside, it did. I recognized all the sights and sounds. Turning and weaving, dodging motorcycles and basket clad heads, I hitched my second taptap on Delmas street. The rain was torrential, and it dripped through my eyelashes and stung my eyes. Sitting on the last available sliver of bench, exposed to the elements, I was glad to be going home. Excited to see my boys, and feeling like I was finally getting my bearings back, I hollered "mesi" and banged the side of the truck with my fist. The driver slowed to a roll and I hopped off the back, handing the moneyman 10 Gourdes, and smiling for the hell of it, I began the march down Delmas 91, to St. Joseph's home for Boys.

THIS is my neighborhood. I know the fruit vendors, I know the soccer players. I know the crazy man who doesn't wear enough clothes. I know the laundry ladies and the gang members. I know which tents my friends live in and who likes who. In reality, as close as I have become to the St. Joseph's family, I've come to love this group of neighborhood friends just as much. We drink beers on Friday nights and listen to music. I bring my coffee out on Saturday morning, I sit on the street while the women peel green beans, and I watch the boys play soccer. In the afternoons, I throw on my formerly shiny blue and white sneakers, which have now been well worn and assaulted with dust and mud and clay, and I play too. We skid and we holler. I scream for no reason when everyone else screams. We shake our fists at the cars that go by, demanding we move our goals. We catcall at the church ladies, and we pull on the pony tails of the little girls. I walk down the street and I pick up whichever kid arrives at my feet first, twirling around with them, and throwing their little bodies upside down under my arm like a football. I set them back on their feet and we march on in stride. At night we play cards and dominos. We crowd around one television in a single level cement room, we pass around beers and make nickel bets on the winning team.

On Friday, I  tried to pace myself down the steep and windy street. I couldn't temper my steps. My excitement. I was ready to be there, to see them, to be back, in this home. This place that was built out of tarps and rubble. This place we had made our own.

And it was gone.

Walking past the turn that would enter into our tent city, there was a wall. The houses were demolished, chickens stood on piles of debris and most of the neigborhood was barricaded with tall sheets of tin.

Gone.

One lonely tent sat in the middle of it all. No walls, just a roof, and 4 poles. A handful of my friends were still there. Not my closest friends, but men and boys I recognized.

"Hello," I exclaimed.

They turned to look at me. A ghost. Gone 4 months. And everything else gone with me.

"You're back," one said.

"Yes. What happened? Where is everybody?"

"They're gone."

"Yes, but where? What happened?"

"Everyone had to go."

"Why?"

"No more houses. Destroyed."

 Fini.

"That's it," he said.

"Well, where is everybody?"

"Different places."

And so it began. I spent my Saturday doing reconnaissance on my long lost friends, far and wide.

And I found so many of them. Marc Arthur, his wife, and Kedira are down the street and a few turns away. Some have gone to live with siblings, moved into rooms with friends, or moved into new neighborhoods all together. Some seem to be living amongst the rubble, crowded into homes together, unsure of what has happened or how to proceed.

But I couldn't find everyone. Hell, I didn't know everyone's name. When you build your life around an entire neighborhood, no single aspect of the day was better than any other.

I can't go out and find the woman that I always spent a conversation in mock bartering over bananas before she gave me one, and I gave her a cup of coffee. I don't know how to find the orphan boy I called tiny who waited on me every friday afternoon outside the doors of st. Josephs. Sitting patiently, waiting for prayers to end, for me to come out and play.

I don't know where the boys who had the shop and sold beer are. I see their friends, but they haven't come around.

And I'm lost.

We lost each other. An entire neighborhood, vanished.

Kedira's home is gone.

I spent Sunday afternoon with him. I held him to my chest and prayed silently. I sang the song that I sing to Elli Mariah when we're going to sleep.

On Monday I went to visit the orphanage in my neighborhood, to catch up with a couple of my friends.

Have you heard the nursery rhyme about the crying infants, deserted and malnourished. Half dressed. Puddles of babies, draped on the floor. Nine babies. Sick, and dying. Maybe, dying. And trying to live, laying on mats on the floor. Cool and shivering. Damp. Staring vacantly through the balcony bars of this second story nightmare.

Covered in flies, and being cared for by twelve and thirteen year old orphaned girls, these babies don't even cry, really, only whimper.

I spent the whole of my afternoon with them. I picked up each baby, I held their bodies close to mine. Sticky and dirty, leaking urine onto my shirt and smelling of sickness and rot, drooling and crusty mouths. and glossy eyes.

I stare into the eyes of these babies. I remind myself that God loved us before we were born. That we cannot know the plan. For my friends from the neighborhood that's gone. For these babies that stare into the depths and clench their jaws. Languid hands falling against my chest, resigned and resolved. Placated. Miserable.

These babies.

These old, old faces.

I held them close to my chest, and I prayed silently. I sang the song that I sing with Elli Mariah when we're going to sleep.

Elli Mariah Johnson will be my second Godchild. She is the daughter of my 'brother' for all intents and purposes, Matthew, and his wife Katharina.

On November third, she will be baptized. The congregation will whisper her name under their breath. They will vow to love and support her. They will affirm their faith. They will show her Christ's love. They will promise her, that they will show her Christ's love.

I have loved Elli since before she was born. I was at her house watching over Attie while she was coming into the world. In fact, we didn't know she was going to be a she. I bought her Goodnight Moon. My first gift to my sweet new niece or nephew. I signed it "to baby." It was dated a day early because she took her sweet time joining us, but all the while, she was loved. She was already loved.

Elli is one of the dearest human beings on this planet. We're genuinely good friends. We crack each other up. We go to the river together, taking long walks. And I tell her about all the things I used to talk about with my dad, on long walks at the river. We throw rocks that splash and hum soft melodies that disappear into the breeze as soon as they've left our mouths.

At night we rock in the rocking chair. I hold her close to my chest, I pray a silent prayer, and I sing the song that I sing when Elli goes to sleep.

"Dear Lord and Father of mankind
Forgive our foolish ways
reclothe us in our rightful mind
in purer lives thy service find
in deeper reverence, praise. "

the long and short of it all

The day before I moved back to Haiti, I met the man that I'm dating at the river for a coffee, followed by a late farewell dinner with my dad at Balliceaux. We then played the minimum amount of acceptable games of ping pong (three) a mere five hours before we had to depart for the airport the next morning.

We were tied with one victory each and when I lost the third game he ACTUALLY made me pay the twenty dollar bet, prior to heading off to a third world country. Can you believe it? My mother has no sympathy for me as she finds it ridiculous that anyone would place a twenty dollar bet on a game involving two wooden paddles and a bouncing plastic ball, but as we like to remind her...she may be a Whitmire, but she doesn't have the burden of being born one. It's in our blood!

Parting ways at approximately midnight, I went to say a final goodbye to C. Three months is a long time to be away when you've only been dating for four, and we passed an hour, sitting on a brick wall in the fan, talking about the summer, about the upcoming fall, and trying to make light of what was to come. How much we would miss each other, and just how intricate the complexities of relationships are. of navigating the next step, of doing the good work, and all of the whys and the doubts. all of the emotions and decisions.

And in all those things, I knew, that I only had one. Prayer.

The only combatant of doubt.

My second to last impossible goodbye down, I headed home, to the inevitable 'final few things' I needed to pack away before I could sleep. It's amazing how those minor details always take much longer than expected, and even more amazing, as my mother would note, is that I always seem to recognize and accept said difficulty when I'm setting an alarm for 4:05 a.m. and it's a leisurely 3:40. It's not like I haven't been on one OR ONE THOUSAND trips, she would say. and she'd be right. But there you have it. Fortunately for both of us, she was in D.C. with my sister, and my father sleeps like the dead.

I don't mean to make light of my mother's absence at all. In fact, heading to a third world country by myself, without saying goodbye to her is one of the most difficult things I've ever done. It's amazing, what the physical presence of the ones we love can offer. Why a hug is more powerful than a phonecall. Why a held hand or a wiped away tear or a squeezed shoulder matters. Actions speak louder than words. I think it's always been so. My mother's actions were non negotiable. My sister was sick and had been hospitalized- in and out of three surgeries. She needed my mother. My mother had to be there, and I had to grow up. Just a little bit more, than ever before. A baby step, if you will.

When the alarm went off at 4:05 a.m., dad and I stumbled out of bed. He turned on the coffee and I splashed some water on my face. Had it only been 25 minutes ago that I laid down in my bed for the last time?

Bags thrown in the car, coffee in hands, we griped and poked at eachother. He, that I micromanaged the cream and sugaring of my coffee. Me, that it would be ironic to die on the highway on the WAY to Haiti. He, that my bags weighed more than 50 lbs (they did.) Me, that he looked like an eco-friendly nutcase carrying the stain remover, Woolite, yoga mat, and sunscreen that I'd hastily pulled from my bags to get them under 50 lbs. He, that that was in fact, my fault (it was).

I said it was always hard to tell, right before I went back, if it was the right thing. I said that things in Richmond always seemed so good, right before I had to leave. I played a gig on Friday night. It went really well, and I was asked to play more. I'm dating a guy I really like. The fall is coming, the folk fest is coming, and some things about living a normal and daily life appeal to me. I'd like to bike to work, go to the gym, go to concerts, go to church, go to yoga classes, go to dinner, and so on and so forth. I knew Haiti was a 'good' thing to do. But did that make it the 'right' thing? And if there are SO many good things to do, what does it matter which one you choose. The next step. Always rattling around in my brain. And time, always moving to fast.

My father pointed out that all of those things would be waiting for me if I chose to come home in December and stay. If I came home in June and stayed. If I came home when I turned 29 and stayed. That my kids missed me, and that he had a sneaking suspicion I was really talking about leaving one person in particular, and that the work I was doing in Haiti was good.

We said a blurry-eyed goodbye, and I walked through airport security. Alone, again.

I don't know if this ever occurs to you. But sometimes. When I'm traveling alone. When I'm moving to a different country. When I've packed all the things I need to exist into two bags and a guitar case, when I tell my mother I love her on the phone, and hug my dad, barely able to look back as I walk through security, I think something along the lines, ' Who on earth is driving this thing?'

It's just me. I'm responsible for myself. I'm traveling alone. This isn't a guided tour. There aren't arrangements being made for me. There's no parameters being set. This life that's being lived. This open ended, universal, time we have on earth. It can be and do anything, and I'm in charge.

But I've lived in Haiti now, for some time. I've made my choices, and I've taken the reins. And to some extent, it's true. I have to put one foot in front of the other. I have to make decisions, step by step, and plot out my life. But to some extent, it's preposterous. Who we meet, where we cross paths, the things we see and the events we experience. The things that happen to us. To the people we love. The things that dont' happen. In all of that, there is so much that is outside of our control. It's all a wondrous gift. And what's more- we didn't necessarily do anything to deserve it- the good, or the bad. And in all of that, I have only one thing. Prayer. The only combatant of entitlement.

As I turned the last corner into the terminal and my dad disappeared from sight, there was a moment of clarity. A thousand 'next steps' don't change the fact, that the most important thing to me is love. Who I love, and who loves me. Love, which can be lost, because it is had. I walked away, and I knew, I only had one thing. Prayer. The only combatant of fear.

Arriving at my gate, gum, water, coffee, and banana in tow, I strolled through the magazine aisle, realizing I may or may not be doing some consumer therapy. Normally, I'd get three. Vogue, Instyle, and Glamour. Fall fashion secrets, people! Great hair, great shoes, an inspiring editorial piece, and the latest celebrity novel craze. But as I looked at those polished faces, the colors that were hot for Autumn, and the boots I'd probably cut off a pinky toe for, I thought- how ironic. I'll be in Haiti for the duration of the fall. Not only am I not taking boots, I'm not taking a hairdryer, and what's more, the whole idea of fall fashion doesn't apply to this place. And so I marched on- one step at a time. Take what you need, Elizabeth. And for the first time, in my whole life, I didn't buy a magazine for a flight.

If you heard me speak at the ECW or the Sunday morning forum, I'd go out on a limb and say, you may have been inspired- because the people I work with are so inspiring, and it's been a life changing thing, this time in Haiti. And maybe you even gave a donation to support me in my mission. If you're one of those people, I bet you're wondering why you gave money to support some bimbo who is grappling with magazine purchases at the RIC, but read on, people, for there are highs and lows in everyone's walk, and there are battles- both small and large. baby steps, if you will.

In fact, I'd like to belabor the magazine point even longer than I already have. If you know me well, you know that in some ways, it's ironic that I'm working in Haiti. I am a material person. My parents still talk about how they had to limit the amount of BAGS I could take to church on a Sunday morning. Not 'dainty pink little girl purse' bags, but Ukrop's grocery bags. I've always surrounded myself with the things that I like. Pretty things, and shoes, keep sakes, and boxes. Old photos and drawings. Letters, and jewelry. I am my grandmother's girl, and while this has put me in a position to find beauty in everything I see, it's also made me a consumer. I like new clothes, I like pretty things. I like expensive dinners and extravagant parties. I don't like to miss a thing, and in fact, I like to buy something to remember it by.

In Haiti, I live in an alternate universe. I wear the same simple things, I don't dry my hair. I don't get pedicures. Hell, I rarely have electricity. My face looks exactly how it looks, and so on and so forth. There are no luxuries. You come, as you are, and you stay that way, or a little worse off. And it doesn't matter. It just doesn't. Because I can be this person too. Simple, and basic. Hard working, frugal.

When I get back from Haiti, I'll get a pedicure, and probably buy some new boots for Christmas, but in the mean time, I don't need a magazine to get there. And I can feel it. It's probably an obscured point for you all, and it's subtle.  A baby step.

A middle ground, between necessity and luxury. Something I've grappled with my entire life, and will continue to do so. The eternal extremist, I can live in Haiti with nothing, or I can live in Richmond with an insatiable appetite. But what makes me the happiest is moderation. And I have to fight for it. It isn't built into my bones. But fortunately, we are evolving creatures, and I know that I can pray to be the things I am not, and to not be the things that I am. I can try. And I can pray. The only combatant of excess.

Prayer. That is, in fact, all I've got for you tonight. I can't talk about Haiti yet. The sorrow or the joy. I don't want to write about missing C, or my parents. My friends, or the folk fest. Playing music at open mic on Thursday nights or the gym. In fact, I can't really believe that I ate at balliceaux on Saturday night, splitting a bottle of Malbec with my dad and talking about the seasonal decor.

I don't want to think about the next step, or the right step. the baby steps, or the decisions. Being on our own, being alone, being brave.

I just wanted to tell you about prayer. And how I've come to find it is the most important thing.

The fifth first time

Well,

It isn't any easier.

I'm not braver or stronger.

The cold water is in fact colder than I remember,

And the sixty one degree air clings to my skin and lays thick and damp on my sheets.

I'm afraid.

Of what, i'm not sure.

The eternal fretter, as my mother would say.

To know it's good to be here,

But to not know the why or the how

The future.

Anything.

God, a simple prayer tonight, because I've got nothing left.

Save me from myself, and my fears. Let me delight in your will, and walk in your way. 

I am trying, I am trying, and I just don't know.

Tomorrow is a new day, and I'm doing laundry. It is the greatest need. 

And I think to myself, Lord, surely, I don't need to be in Haiti to wash clothes.

And I think, I don't want to wash clothes. 

And I think, I am afraid. 

Of what?