Tuesday, November 27, 2012

on disappearing

As you might have noticed, I've disappeared lately. I've come to think of it as a hazard of my particular way of being in the world that I periodically have a difficult time sorting out my thoughts enough to write them down. I have been writing a little on a private blog regarding my time in Haiti and you can be added to the list to get notifications for that if you're interested. Just email haiti@kotakot.org if you'd like to get in on it. (We have to guard the information we give to people in order to keep our ministry and our friends in Haiti safe.) Writing for this private blog is about all I've been able to grind out these days.

I've been sick since I returned from Haiti, and that might have a little to do with my writing issues, but if I'm honest I'd have to say that it started long before this trip. (Incidentally, did you know that they call the stomach flu Norovirus these days? Also, did you know that an intestinal parasite can masquerade as Norovirus and that the only way to tell the difference is through a stool sample? You're welcome.) Anyway, I could blame my disappearance on illness or on being busy, but that's not really what's going on here.

I think I'm depressed.

I used to think I needed a really good excuse for saying that I'm depressed, but I've learned that depression doesn't wait for an excuse to come strolling into my house. It just invites itself in and rearranges all the furniture whether I like it or not. It usually takes me quite a few weeks or even months of tripping over the mess before I notice my unwelcome visitor. (I'm not that bright when it comes to these things.) It's a little embarrassing since I'm a counselor and also teach others to counsel. I should be way beyond this (or so I tell myself). It doesn't help that the first symptom of depression for me seems to be extreme fatigue and an annoying fogginess of mind. It's hard to muster the energy required to even notice what's going on, let alone do something about it. That's the demonic strand of depression. It's hard to care.

I basically just wake up one day and realize that I've become a zombie. (I won't eat your flesh, but I do look a little like an extra from The Walking Dead.) As you might imagine, this is quite concerning.

Today was that day for me.

So I'm gathering all of the little bit of energy in me in order to have a cup of coffee with my untidy houseguest to find out what it wants. It's no use trying to evict it. It just gets all pissy and whiny and stubborn when I've tried that in the past. It's best to just get quiet and listen and try a little gentleness and encouragement. So I'm listening in the nicest possible way. And I'm writing down what I hear.

This is me writing it down.

Monday, November 12, 2012

descending into haiti

I'm sitting in the Fort Lauderdale airport with the rest of the team, waiting to board the flight to Haiti. Our travel plans didn't quite work out, so it's taken us a day to get to this point. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm tired already. We've been up since 3am, and the schedule craziness has me confused about what day it is. But I'm glad to be on our way, at last.

I always think of this process as descending into Haiti. As I travel there, my body is decompressing, bracing itself for the heat and chaos, the assault on the senses. The woman behind me is speaking creole and I get the gist of about a fourth of what she's saying. She's chattering about her breakfast and about how tired she is. I can relate.

I haven't been back to Haiti since the summer after the earthquake. I only saw Port au Prince briefly from an airplane before I flew to the South to see the girls. This trip we'll be spending a couple of days in Port. I've heard it's very different now. I'm a little anxious about that. I wonder if I'll recognize it with so many of the familiar landmarks destroyed or altered. I've heard the palace has been demolished and I'm dreading seeing the ruins of the cathedral first hand.

You might be thinking I'm not looking forward to this, and I can understand that from the way I'm talking, but I'm actually eager to get there and begin. For all my fears and sadness, I feel at home in Haiti in a way I never do in America. Especially in the South, the pace suits me. People have a warm way of greeting one another and they always ask about your family and your health and how you slept. They do this because they actually care. The heat has a way of slowing you down. The language is like a musical refrain.

And so we begin.


Friday, November 9, 2012

as i leave for haiti

I'm leaving for Haiti early Sunday morning. Every time I make this trip I struggle with anxiety mixed with anticipation. It's like these two emotions are arm wrestling for who's going to take up residence in my chest. Haiti is such a strange place. I love it and hate it. Everyone who has ever spent any length of time there feels the same way (or at least everyone I've ever known). Sometimes I can't stand the pain I feel or the weight of helplessness that envelopes me. I want to wave a magic wand and make it all good, but it is light years from good. And trying to do something worthwhile there is like trying to dig a hole on a beach where the surf keeps crashing in and filling your pathetic efforts.

And still, I keep going back. I can't unlove the people who I have come to call my friends and mentors. I can't say no to the things that God has asked me to participate in. I can't disentangle my heart from this tiny piece of land that has seen more suffering than anyone can fathom. I don't keep going back because I'm so good and righteous. I keep going back because I don't really have a choice. My family lives there. They ask me to come, so I come. I don't pretend to know about any grand solutions. Smarter people than me have been gnawing on that bone for a very long time. I just go and try to stay focused on the little piece that God has placed in our laps. That's all.

I go because I love Olkine and Francianne and Mina and Loudana and Marianna and Aurore. I go because Madame L. is tired and needs us to encourage her. I go because Pastor P. is ill and says he's thirsty for our company. I go because my friends in Port au Prince are discouraged and need someone to laugh with. I go to introduce some of my friends from America to the people I love so they can understand the words that flow out of me like water.

I go to share my pain and love because alone they are too much to bear.