Infinite

 

In a metal shell above the ground there lived a spirit. This spirit, a wandering, adventuring spirit, had been trapped on the ground for far too long. She loved to walk through the fields and flowers of the ground folk. Everyone knows, however, the spirit realm is found not on the earth or in the heavens but in the in-between space. This spirit had received a directive from the heavens to linger amongst the ground folk, to learn of and from their ways and to give guidance from her own knowledge and experience.

As the days grew shorter and a biting chill stole into the wind, the spirit had to retreat to her shell in the spirit realm, to find a place of love and healing and restoration. Her journey was a long one, but collapsing into the arms of her loved ones made the journey’s trials worth the while.

But her journey led her to a different sort of home than she was used to. She was faced with a culture that had never made itself known in her realm before. She was delighted to explore and experience. New sights. New sensations. New smells. New friends. Her nights were filled with flavors she had desperately missed during her time on the ground. Her afternoons descended into a restful state just after the noon hour struck as she curled up with a kitten in the sun.

The heart of a spirit, like that of an artist, finds inspiration in the simplest corners of the world. The kitten’s name was Shahrazad, like the great queen of Arabian legend. The origin of her name is the phrase “One whose dominion is free”. Like all spirits who wander the earth’s realms, this spirit longed to be free. Free from the corruption of love and dreams in human society. Her heart was that of a bird, struggling in vain with her mind and conscience.

The spirit came to understand that freedom is selfish. To free yourself from obligation and responsibility is to willfully abandon the ties of friendship, kinship and respect that link all the peoples of heaven and earth. Perhaps this is easier on the heart but in this vacuum, no fire will ever burn. No hatred. No discontent. No fear. No grief. On the other hand, there exists no potential for love, grace, compassion, joy and desire that burns a hole through your heart. To exist permanently in the spirit realm is to dwell in complete comfort and utter boredom…

In my humble opinion, the comfort zone is a construct. Walls we build around our lives. In Nairobi, Saudi Arabia, Wolfville, Moncton… It is a state of mind, not a physical entity. To my father, who grew up on meat and potatoes, trying Indian food was scary. To me, carrying on a conversation with a cashier strikes irrational fear into my heart. My comfort zone is my spirit realm. My cliff on Prince Edward Island, dancing, singing, praying. Cuddling with Pippin and Gandalf. Watching While You Were Sleeping with my parents for the umpteenth time. These moments center my heart, but that is not the real life, it’s just fantasy.

Real life is like the movies my mom doesn’t like to watch, basically any movie where Sandra Bullock doesn’t get the guy. Let’s take a recent favorite of mine, The Perks of Being a Wallflower. At the center of the story is the impact of human brokenness on children’s lives but within the artistry of the film, it is part celebration and part cringe-inducing. To me, this is human relations at their most authentic level. I hate the term “baggage”, probably because air travel stresses me out for about five million reasons. But to me, this word unceremoniously discredits human experience. I do not, however, believe that experience is a crutch, an excuse or a reason for throwing endless pity parties and NOT to be used as manipulation. Still, it is the colloquial elephant in the room that makes us fall hard on our butts. But, I still hate the term, “baggage”. Life is messy, not packed into appropriately sized containers. At sudden impact, it implodes. And, unlike physical luggage, it is glorious, triumphant and vicious in its explosion of color and emotion.

I am grateful that we are not infinite earthly beings. I am becoming more and more thankful for seasons of life and their eventual conclusion. Adolescence is exhausting enough once through. My Restoration Lit prof told us to avoid words like “Whilst” as we’d then have to write all our work in British English. I didn’t approve of this infringement on my creativity but as they say, “When in Academia, do as the academics do”.

These days are all about the ground, my roots, finding them strong or rotten. I’m gradually giving up my desire for perpetual flight. I miss Lamu weekends and Kibera attitude checks. But maybe a spirit’s character is not decided in soaring. It comes down to the plodding days of November. I’m not quite ready to return to this plod, but I’m starting to see its infinite value.

“It is wrong to face this world with one’s eyes closed, no matter how deep the weariness” – Chaim Potok, Davita’s Harp

Tangible

Every once and a while, one of my feet gets really warm. I don’t know why. Whether the boots (rain boots, short suede boots, tall boots) that I wear religiously are well insulated… Whether it’s possible for an 18 year old girl to have hot flashes that are isolated in her feet… Whether I’m sitting with my feet over a heating vent… The science of it all mystifies me, so in typical fashion, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to write another one of my infamous epistles. Okay, so they’re not infamous really or famous at all, but now I’m digressing… Let’s forget that this is distracting me from math midterms, history papers and paying attention in class and dive into my psyche for a few minutes.

Revelation of the week. My heart and soul wish to be the heart and soul of a romantic heroine in the tradition of Austen and Bronte and Hardy. I arrived back at school on Tuesday on a beautiful, balmy November day (yes, we have those in Wolfville). So, instead of diving into the research paper weighing on my brain, I threw some rubber boots and a T-shirt on and went for an excursion on the dykes as a strong, warm wind blew through my travel hair. I took the road less travelled and set off across the actual dykes instead of following the path like a good little citizen. So, I navigated a very muddy patch of the dykes safely and belted out various show tunes and anthems that passed through my iPod shuffle while the wind blew through my hair and I did my best “Maria in the Sound of Music” impression. This is my life, friends. Like I said, I’m a wannabe. My friend Kim told me that if she was more interested in physics, she would build me a time machine so I could go back in time and meet my Mr. Darcy. My friend Kim is equally wonderful and insightful. We’re starting an ecumenical convent together, but we can chat about that later. Why is this significant? Beats me… I just revel in an expression of self that engages in melancholy and romanticism and Jane Eyre.

Revelation of the month. As I put it in an email to my parents, “I'm turning into a bigger, badder feminist/socialist everyday.” And for all my conservative friends out there, it does not follow that I’m also now a worshipper at the altar of all things liberal and immoral. See, I don’t like hipsters. They bug me mostly because they turn a counter-culture movement into a mainstream movement and embrace the paradox therein. The reality is that I follow the original hipster. Yes, friends, the answer, as always, is Jesus. Okay, Jesus wasn’t snotty and elitist about his counter-culture. He just literally was everything that the world isn’t. So, I’m learning to embrace the counter-culture of humility and love to modern-day church religion because I think Jesus believed in equality of gender, equality of race, and economic equality and generosity. I think that our God dreams of a world where none of these issues repress or limit the hearts and souls of his sons and daughters. I think that part of bringing the Kingdom of God to Earth is being strong advocates for these principles in word and in deed. I don’t think Jesus is hip or cool or flashy or trendy. I think He asks us to join a counter culture that’s based in love and endless grace for the ugliness of our hearts. 

Revelation of the day. I realize these are out of order now, but this is my blog so deal. Sometimes, when you’re a dreamer, you don’t believe John Lennon is right and you feel like the only one… I like to put my headphones in, turn up my favorite party music and dance. If you’ve never done this AND you’re a country fan, try Rascal Flatts’ “Banjo”. It’s a life-changing experience. Why does this make me a dreamer? Simply, I dream in the same headspace that I dance, the headspace where I revert to happy-go-lucky childhood and all the innocence that that entails. And so I occasionally dream of meeting my favorite musicians and becoming their best friends (Sara Bareilles and I would be best friends, true story). Also, I dream of transforming the scene of social injustice with integrity and brutal honesty. Some days, I want to live in the cabin in a woods or multiple cabins in multiple wildernesses around the world. Actually, scratch that, I want to live in Lama and write about the stories, the people and the ideas that inspire me and change the world with my words. Which one of these is realistic? I don’t know, friends, but what I do know is that my number one fear is that somewhere along the way, I’ll lose the dream and I’ll become stagnant. So, this one’s for you and me, living out our dreams…

Revelation of the hour. As much as I protest otherwise, I do like a lot of things that are happening in my life right now. I like turning feminist rants into essays where my picky prof asks me to let my reader/him know that I’m concluding. So, in conclusion…. Ugh, I shudder just writing those words, but sometimes we sacrifice artistry for marks. I like that I have an opportunity to provide some leadership and organizational support in our Inter Varsity fellowship in the remainder of the school year. I like being on an Ultimate team with the weirdest people you’ll ever meet. Okay, I’m not mourning late night games in near-freezing temperatures so I’m glad we’re done before the snow comes. Speaking of which, I don’t like cold weather. Just to clarify, I will take Nairobi and 23 degrees every day of the year any day! I can drink tea and wear scarves in that kind of weather and that’s really all a girl needs to be happy. Wearing scarves to actually keep my neck warm is unnecessary. But, that said, I love wearing scarves. And today I’m wearing one of my favorites. It makes my eyes pop. I like being outrageous. I love candy canes and apple cider. I dislike rainy weather, but I like that I embrace my Austen wannabe status in all its glory and walk around without a hood on and literally feel the rain on my skin. Okay, Austen and Bedingfield? Sometimes even I can’t keep up with my train of thought. Yikes, this is getting out of hand! Basically, I still find plenty of things in my day-to-day life to get irrationally excited about.

Revelation of my life. I miss home. By home, I mean the place (Kenya), the people and the state of being. I miss leaning into my daddy’s hugs after a long, rough day. I miss giggling with my mom. I miss throwing things at/generally pestering my big brother. I miss the regular routines of the DesRoches household. I miss Beka and the way we never walk next to each other without our arms around each other, our arms linked or a shared set of headphones. I miss Cammie and her hugs. I miss Carrie and sitting on her kitchen floor sharing my life while the water boils. I miss Malindi Chai Lattes. I miss Michelle and her advice about love and boys. I miss throwing raves in blinking security lights with Cara. I miss tea whacking with Jenna. I miss twirling and adventuring with Kara. I miss Katie and I screaming at each other when we see each other. I miss John the Taxi Driver and his incredible laugh. I miss Lady and her weird bark/whimper. I miss the sound of the weaverbirds on a Saturday morning. I miss the smell of Nairobi post-rain. I miss almost dying while driving through downtown Nairobi’s weird overpass systems. I miss butter chicken and bajias. I miss Jessie and eating Debonair’s pizza. I miss the boat ride from Manda Island to Shela… That chapter of my life has come to an end, as all good and bad chapters do, but I continue to miss and mourn for everything I have left behind. The travel bug in my blood itches to explore and exist in other parts of the world, but for now, I am here.

These are just glimpses of the tangible truth that has been spoken into my life recently and this is also where my written ramblings come to an end. In my personal opinion, every worship service should end with a benediction. Numbers 6:24-26 is one of my favorites. As I’m not restrained by any theological/denominational affiliation and am not ordained for any sort of formal ministry, I get to decide the source of my benediction for this post. Blessings, friends!

“And I never saw you coming. And I’ll never be the same. This is a state of grace. This is the worthwhile fight. This is the golden age, of something good, and right and real.”

Mountainous

Let me tell you a story-

Last weekend, my dad came to drop off my puppies with their foster family. On Saturday night, we ate dinner with this family and then decided to have some quality father-daughter time. So, like the average father-daughter duo, we snuck into the campus chapel after hours, taking advantage of its incredible acoustics. We sat in the dark, failing to find the light switch. We sang worship tunes. We sang Adele. John Mayer. The Eagles. I added a sometimes cool, sometimes funky harmony to "Love Will Keep Us Alive". Then, we sat and cried. My dad broke the silence with, "So, why are you crying?" 

I'm sure you are all familiar with the classic spiritual analogies of mountains and valleys. If not, valleys are dry times when God feels distant. Mountain are high points, when God is tangible and present. In a Bible study tonight, we talked about valleys as fertile land while mountains are rocky and tough to cultivate. So, tonight I'm going to explain how God can be tangible and life can be crazy tough simultaneously. You know convention and I have a complicated relationship, so this should be amusing.

I'm in a valley. Literally. It's called the Annapolis Valley. It has wonderfully gooey mud, so I"m content. It's beautiful, but my campus is on a hill. So you go downhill to get to class, then uphill to get back. Or uphill to Mealhall and then stumble down the hill, stuffed. Or, you walk down to the local Save Easy and lug your milk cartons and baby carrots back up the hill. Okay, maybe that's just me. I am obsessed with baby carrots.

So that's the literal, but where is my heart geographically? The position of things in literature is used to powerful effect in defining power structures and relationships. If I were a poet, writing a poem about the state of my soul, my heart would be a seal on top of a mountain. Out of place. Making loud, weird noises. Enjoying the beautiful view. Feeling the breeze on my weird, seal skin. Okay, this metaphor is getting out of hand but hopefully you're starting to get where I'm going with this. I'm having one of those tck-in-the-West, seal-on-top-of-Mount-Kenya experiences of university.

Don't get me wrong! I love it! I love every mind-twisting calculus problem, every proof of set theorems, every passage of poetry I mark up with pretty colours, every collapse into laughter, every crazy, hyperactivity fueled shenanigans, every giggle for that really cute boy you can't quite make eye contact with. Don't doubt that my 14 year old self still makes regular appearances. Dignity? That's a foreign concept. 

But, the struggle is not that I don't love it. It's that I don't have a kindred soul to share that love with. A friend who understands my struggles with a foreign but not culture and sees the excitement of my heart for all the new. Wait a minute… Let me go back to the mountain. It's tough… Sometimes, the missing of home leaves me panting for oxygen. Sometimes, I get so frustrated with blending in. But even when the cold, harsh wind pierces through my clothes on the mountain's peak, there is warmth and comfort in another Friend. A Friend who has walked with me for much longer than even my best friends. Who knows me better than even my parents. He comes in the moments I least expect him. When I pause to breathe as I begin to lose control over my tear ducts. When my math teacher begins to talk about optimizing 200 variable equations. When we sing familiar hymns in church. When I join church choir and use every sight reading skill in the crevices of my brain. When I walk home alone after dark on a balmy Indian summer night. 

Let me interrupt the narrative voice and interject here. If this is your first time here, let me just point out that although this takes the form of a blog, it often turns into a expose of my soul. I realize that such frank sharing should perhaps not be placed on the Intraweb but I think sincerity and honesty are two things this world needs more of. Also, if you haven't figured it out, my faith/spirituality is a passion that I've been cultivating for many years. If any of this makes you upset, I would suggest you stick to 9gag. Otherwise, feel free to love/hate it. This is just an outlet for the thoughts that pour out on paper when they've been sitting in my head too long. 

Okay, interlude's over. I'm happy on my mountain. It's cold and sometimes lonely and difficult, but I'd rather be in a place where the Spirit of the Living God is tangible than lost somewhere in the valley where the wind can't reach me. 

"Hold me fast, hold me fast, because I'm a hopeless wanderer. I will learn, I will learn to love the skies I'm under."

Unashamed

I make it a habit to look back through my blog posts, Facebook posts and other writings… It usually takes approximately 10 minutes before I begin to feel ashamed of my past self for sounding childish or for using the term “butiful” (which saves you all of two letters, by the way… hooray for modern efficiency!). And then I remember… No matter how I embarrass myself, all of my shameful turns-of-phrase, rants and Internet lingo came from a very sincere part of my adolescent, hormonal self.

So, let me walk you through this blog post really quickly. I am unashamed of how quickly the tears come when I think of Kenya and all that I’ve left behind. I don’t mind that I still hurt for the careless words and actions of people there that broke my heart. I am a little ashamed of the hysterics that marked my last couple days in Kenya and my first few weeks in Canada. I am, however, unashamed that my first source of comfort these days is a cuddle with my two beautiful retrievers. I celebrate exuberantly the moment when my exam marks appeared and my mother and I lost our wits in a moment of pure joy. I am unashamed of my newly gained IB knowledge that translates into crash courses in Statistics with the family and a knowing nod while reading through judges comments in a magazine’s poetry contest (syntax and meter are good friends of mine).

I am unashamed of how loud I am. Seriously, all you people who give me weird looks as I sing, blabber and rant my way through life… Give it up. Your disbelief will not contain me. Still, I do get kind of bashful when I remember all the weird looks I have earned from waitresses/waiters in the first world. It’s a steep learning curve, people! I freely admit that the week I spent with my dear friend Carrie on PEI was one of the most bittersweet and beautiful memories of this journey of mine. I am unashamed of my childish delight in all things Anne of Green Gables, no matter how touristy. And, Sara, I’m so glad you were around to scream and do 360 turns at Sandspit in the rain. I am unashamed of my running commentary on life which is equal parts obvious, sarcastic, random and annoying.

I have learned to lose any sense of shame as I worship. I don’t know why it took me so long to learn this particular truth. Honestly, that whole “worship in spirit and in truth” should have stuck a little earlier. I celebrate that God’s presence overwhelms the senses and fills you up with a warm, fuzzy feeling that even a cup of tea can’t touch. I am unashamed that my first concert was Oliver Jones, a Canadian jazz pianist of legendary fame, and I was riveted to the complexity, skill, rhythm and beauty of an art form that doesn’t often coincide with my daily life. I am unashamed that tears formed as he began a Gershwin medley with “Rhapsody in Blue”. I am still less ashamed of the river of tears that flowed down my cheeks when his guest vocalist, Ranee Lee, began to sing Joni’s “Both Sides Now”. My world continues to expand as I learn that spirituality and the divine’s presence are not just confined to worship music or words that originate in a religious context.

I am a little bit ashamed that I continue to walk barefoot on a part of our path down to the shore where rose bushes have been mowed down recently and the 20 rose thorns that have ended up in my feet have not taught me to do otherwise. I am unashamed of the number of times I have ended up in the ocean without my actual bathing suit on. I apologize to my clothing that has endured the frigid salt water of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. I delight in watching my puppies learn how to swim and grabbing their paws when they come anywhere near me so they don’t scratch my skin off with their frantic doggy paddles.

Finally, as I look towards my fast-approaching brush with collegiate-ality, I am unashamed of my very real fear that covers everything from maintaining my academic standards, to fitting in socially, to finding a new place to get my eyebrows done to learning how to apply my lifestyle and beliefs to a mob culture. It’s a wee bit shameful how excited I was to hear that I may be able to take second year calculus (for the first and last time, “THANK YOU IB”).

To close? An anecdote that really accomplishes nothing of value. I am unashamed that my brain reverts heavily to the thought processes of an adolescent girl. When I was a little smaller and we still lived in Mozambique, the Mercy Ship Doulos docked in Beira and we attended a service on board one Sunday evening. I remember nothing notable except that we sang a hymn of sorts that took some words and ideas from that one verse in the Bible… Which verse in the Bible, you might ask? How on earth is this relevant, Davita? You crazy, girl? I understand completely if these thoughts are running through your head. You and me both, friend! But here it is…

ROMANS 1, baby. “I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes.” It sounds all very first century martyr-like but then I remembered that the primary feeling I attach to things that make me look foolish in front of my peers is shame. Maybe this blog post is all about trying to convince myself that I am indeed not ashamed of the many things I listed. But maybe my writing it on an Internet blog means I’m really not… Unleashing my soul on the two or three people who actually read this… Whatever, it is 11:29 at night now and my inspiration is wearing thin.

Instead of my usual quote, I leave you with this… Listen to at your own risk. It may stir the soul.

Immediate

Over the past three summers, I had mentally coached myself to try and adjust to Canadian culture as the scary word “Re-entry” hovered on my life’s horizon. After several summers of hanging out with family, working at camp and just generally enjoying Canadian summers, I was convinced that I would most definitely miss Kenya but I would cope better than your average tck with the insanity that is re-entry. Well, it’s not over yet but I can say that in these last three weeks, I have come to know intimately the pieces of my heart that have been lost forever to the brokenness and beauty of the African continent and the people I’ve met there, as well as the many others I have met who live across the globe.

In this time of discovery, I have pinpointed one of the things I miss most about life in Kenya. Everything in Kenya (and to a certain extent, Mozambique) is immediate. The beauty of a sunset over the Mara or the stunning smile of a child is immediate. Poverty. Corruption. Crime. Dirt. Goats. Everything in Canada is so stream-lined. Highways (traffic lights are weird). Even rough neighborhoods have the appearance of cleanliness. Government buildings. Airports. Fast food restaurants. Aesthetically, everything seeks to draw your attention and even dull your mind to the prickles of reason (hello, advertising!). Perhaps it’s the innate disparity of social classes that is seen so clearly in the couple kilometers between Kibera and Muthaiga, but I miss the constant, everyday reminder that life is not streamlined and, in my opinion, should not be streamlined.

One of my “bosses” at camp constantly joked about me being from a third world country and I laughed along with him because a piece of me wishes I had more than seven years of memories to tie me to Kenya. I’m the girl who stood up at Camp Wildwood’s 100 year celebration during staff introductions and introduced herself as “Gelato, 17 and from Nairobi, Kenya” in Bouctouche, New Brunswick.

Don’t get me wrong… I’m not complaining. There were pieces and aspects of my life in Kenya that caused me great stress and pain. I am ready to move on and find another chapter of life. However, I am not quite prepared to deal with a narrow-minded, materialistic culture as I mourn the seven most essential years of my life. So, I’m praying for extra patience and grace and wisdom in the months and years to come while still praying that I never lose what I’ve learned and what I’ve become.

Until I achieve any level of normalcy, life is not actually immediate for me. It’s going to be a lot of work, a lot of digging and moving past facades. If there’s anything I’ve learnt facades can be good but there is never a façade so established that it is no longer appropriate to challenge it. So today, dear patient and gracious reader, I challenge you to challenge the pieces of your society, culture, government, and even yourself that are not quite as immediate and honest as the red-stained concrete of Kenya that just can’t avoid the mud. Do not be stagnant in your understanding of any aspect of this world. It's easier than you'd think.

To cap this blog post off, I’d like to type up a piece of a prayer/rant I wrote down directed at God one night at camp. This is my prayer for the next couple years, coming directly from the center of my heart (just in case it coming from the center makes it more sincere ).

“God, I want out. Out of the relationships that damage as much as they delight. Out of my doubt in my adequacy when I look in the mirror every morning. Out of my established high school niche. Basically, I want to start afresh and that’s why I’m in utter awe of your sacrifice on the cross because it is not only a call to one-time salvation. Instead, we are called to daily resurrect our walks with Jesus. But right now, I’m not content with something small. My dreams, since being crushed a few months ago, have lain dormant in a corner. So, here it is, on paper and on my heart (and now on my blog). My dream is transformation. Maybe leave me in my cocoon for a month or two but I want to be a butterfly”

So maybe the title of this blog post is misleading. Essentially, I miss how immediate my life used to be when I was a minority but not a stranger. I’m no longer an ethnic minority but I have never felt more like a stranger. Unfortunately, like my good family friend Vince Gill likes to say, “There ain’t no future in the past”. Country music is truth, my friends. It really is. So, I apologize for a misleading title, but I hope you’re as fascinated by my thought process as psychologists will be in a couple of years (Jokes). It’s been an interesting three weeks in this weird, at-times cold, Northern land. God has been faithful. He brought me Molly Jones last weekend and a sense of belonging to a family even while being so far away from my beloved three. She also brought me microwave popcorn and Oreos which heal many wounds. He gave me moments of joy and crazy in ministry at camp with words of wisdom from the young and the less young. He provided moments of painful and great growth which I’m not always grateful for but He doesn’t seem to be concerned with my comfort. Until then I hold on to His promise in Psalm 139 and I urge you, dear fellow tcks, to hang onto the words of Sondheim…

“There’s a place for us, somewhere a place for us

Peace and quiet and open air

Wait for us somewhere”

Overflowing

Tears, that is. Life is overflowing with tears. Sorting through drawers of old notes, old written prayers, and memories. Babies being born on Bones and well, just about every episode on that show. Glee this week (I won’t spoil it for those who haven’t seen it yet). Recognizing that at long last, I’m starting to sort through how to cap off this era of my life. Not being able to sleep last night and instead, writing a lengthy list of thank you letters that need to be written in the near future. Remembering the wonderful, wonderful people who have shaped me over the last 17 years. Today’s blog post is going to go in two different directions. I have a personal epiphany and update to give to those who I haven’t spent quality time with for a long time. I also have something to get up on my soapbox and preach about. You can take the girl out of the Christian school, but you can’t take the Christian school out of the girl.

                Like I mentioned above, I just watched Glee’s two episodes from their Nationals build-up and competition. Now, I have been a loyal fan of these kids since Day One, although Season Two had me hoping that we were going to find something redeemable in the mess of it all (cue “For Good” on the Wicked stage and I was back on board). So, I’m here to say. Cut the hate. People either love this show or bash it. While I respect you’re right to be a Glee Scrooge, let’s be honest. Those actors/actresses have more talent than any of us regular, old earthlings. Unless of course, you’re one of my remarkably talented acquaintances in which case, ignore this. Still, I triple dare you to sing “Don’t Rain on My Parade” at the Tony Awards and see how much hate is left.

 Look, I get it. The entertainment industry is not fairyland. It’s an ugly place at times and people who shouldn’t be in the limelight are. And, I’m guilty of just as much hate (see my earlier rants concerning Twilight). Yes, I think Robert Pattinson is ugly, but really I just have a feeling that all of the cast members are a little too intelligent to be buying into this franchise. Yes, I’m looking at you, Kristen Stewart, who must have a brain behind that brooding glare. Although I admit my hypocrisy, many of the young people (including the much hated Biebs) actually do have talent and have worked their butts off to put that talent on display for the world. If you cannot respect anything else about a popular artist, respect their dream. They had the guts to go out and do something about it. Most of us just sit on our butts all day in front of a computer screen. Don’t for a second think that you are better than someone because they make money off of what you call “terrible music”. Bottom line, you’re not better or worse, but you definitely aren’t as rich. Respect. It’s a simple word, but so often forgotten.

                Now, don’t think that this is the only bone I have to pick with the world. This is directed to everyone who has jumped on the bandwagon for the hipster movement. It’s one of those paradoxical things where you establish your cool status by not listening to “cool” music and generally shirking the ‘mainstream’. It reflects on that whole “If we’re all unique, are any of us unique?”. Look, it’s your right to only listen to bands that no one (not even the band members’ moms) has heard of. But, don’t freaking judge me! I’m not buying into a capitalist scheme to turn us into clones if I publicize my guilty pleasure for belting Celine Dion songs. Or even my weird obsession for country music. I was raised by two phenomenal musicians; well a host of phenomenal musicians, as my early days are marked by early familiarity with Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” and Tracy Chapman’s songs. I know what good music is.

Half the music that isn’t mainstream isn’t mainstream for a reason. Let me be blunt. It’s not good music. Music is more than good lyrics. It’s more than a nice voice. It’s more than dancing ability. It’s more than marketing skills. It’s more than the look. It is, however, charisma, combined in equal parts with many of the characteristics I mentioned, although some of them aren’t always necessary. Also, don’t even get me started on electronic music. Don’t tell me that it’s better than all other forms of music; because I’m not even sure that digitally creating sounds and rhythms is music. It’s definitely an art, but while anyone and their dog can produce electronic, musicians play for decades to master the cello or the piano. Bottom line, I’m no expert but I can guarantee that you aren’t either, if you’re my age. And my peers who actually know a fair amount about music or have remarkable talent? This trait only shines through when it’s matched with humility. So, kill the judgment. I will be dancing to Michael Jackson until I bite the dust. There is a reason he was named the “King of Pop”. In return, I promise not to roll my eyes when you talk about your new favorite band which revolves its sound around an ancient Chinese instrument. I also promise to keep an open mind in regards to your musical preferences. When an artist establishes rigid boundaries and judgment, they lose the true spirit of artistry. No artist is an island. Art is derived from inspiration, sometimes from unlikely sources. Nicki Minaj proves that daily (that was a joke, so quit judging).

Geez that felt good! Look, no one’s perfect. I probably over-generalized in the above paragraph, but this is what I’ve seen in my surroundings in the past few weeks. If there’s one thing I don’t stand for, its people throwing judgments around when really they have no right to. For example, I hate that mathematicians named one of the applications of the chi-squared distribution, the “Goodness of Fit” test, but as I have not yet graduated high school, my protest against terrible grammar doesn’t really stand up in the face of the mathematician (with infinite doctorates) who created this test. Humility, my friends. It’s rare but so delightful!

So, this above return to my sassy, argumentative self is a good sign. I’ve found peace of some sort in the last few weeks. Yes, I’ve completed 11 out of my 13 IB exams. I also made a decision about university (I’m going to be an Axewoman and I mostly say that because I think it sounds hilarious; bottom line, I’m moving to Wolfville, Nova Scotia). I underwent some retail therapy at Amani ya Juu. Shopping at Amani ya Juu is equivalent to every natural high available times twenty. It's a wonderful place. Still, for several days, I sat in front of my computer watching TV show finales, alternately checking Facebook which is totally acceptable behavior for a girl who’s undergone a lot of stress for the last couple months. But, last night, I had an epiphany (after a nice long chat with the always incredible Carrie Mixon) as I sorted through the drawer I mentioned above. I read several pieces of writing that had been important to me in the last couple of years that I had written or someone else had written and I began to cry, as I remembered the people and memories that had brought me such joy. I realized that I have a lot of good and wonderful to say goodbye to. I got so wrapped up in the funk of these last couple months that I forgot the bittersweet joys of goodbyes. If there’s one thing that I’ve learnt over the years, it’s that goodbyes suck but they also mean that you have something lasting and lovely to carry with you. And you now have hundreds of couches to crash on all over the world. The nice thing is I’m not fighting the closure of this phase of my life. I have learnt that the rose-hued glasses we often use to view our pasts are misleading. People, places and events fail your expectations. Even the best moments are sometimes followed by moments of apathy or confusion or hurt. So, we remember and celebrate the good and file the bad away for a rainy day when we might need the wisdom gained from failing.

This sounds like a culmination of sorts, but I’m not done with this year yet. I graduate in a week and a half. Between now and then, I have multiple awards ceremonies to sit through (boo), various senior-related festivities, two French exams, and a checkout sheet to fill out (along with about a hundred textbooks). I also have mountains of paper to “dispose of” (BURN). As for words of wisdom from the girl who has almost survived the IB… Don’t do it. Unless your personal life is perfect. In which case, be my guest! I’m back to kind of understanding the concept of peace that “passes all understanding”. My future is still murky. It’s all very exciting and adventurous, really! Davita versus Eastern Canada, Round 2 (I was four the last time, so it should be an interesting ride).

Let’s get back to the point. Why is life overflowing? Well, I just suckered you into reading a really really lengthy blog post. So, you should be feeling overwhelmed at the huge overflow of thoughts and words. It’s probably because I can type it on a computer rather than in the evil boxes prescribed by the IB. There is an overflow of stuff, both physical and emotional that I get to sort through in the next few weeks. Mostly, I’m overwhelmed in the face of the promise that peace can be found in what seem to be the most trying circumstances. An overflowing peace.

"And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears 

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears

Get over your hill and see what you find there

With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair" 

Broken

There are days when there's nothing left to do but write. Today, even after a 30 page theatre project completed primarily by hand, is one of those days. As I look back on my childhood, I feel as if I was a more whole being, that I'm growing increasingly broken as I age. Dreams, hopes, wishes are shattered in overwhelming realities, in all their brokenness. I swear I was born with a hyper-sensitive soul. The pain in a begging child's eyes. The man crippled by polio or war. The hurt in a middle's school girl's experience of a world that dictates impossible standards of beauty and worth. It kills me. Every time. And yet, my sensitivity does not prevent my own actions that break pieces of others' lives. It's the cycle of human nature at its worst.

When I was a little girl, I attended church at a variety of Mozambican Baptist churches. It took me almost four years to embrace a style of worship that seemed too free and energetic for my self-conscious little self. Church had always been a solemn place for me. Now, I understand the beauty of their worship, singing and dancing with basic, homemade instruments. Where did they find beauty and joy in their poverty and brokenness? To me, it's not just a lesson in gratitude; it's a lesson in embracing things that don't work and rejoicing in the God who always works.

Today, I hate myself for being a dreamer, for putting my heart on the cruel admissions process line. Today, I hate myself for believing in the goodness of people and opening my heart up and trusting them with it. Tomorrow, when the rampant emotions of these last few months fade, I will see the beauty of my hurt as proof that the world's apathy has not yet conquered me.

I love fist-pumping anthems. What Doesn't Kill You by Kelly Clarkson. Fighter by Christina Aguilera. Lea Michele's version of Don't Rain on My Parade. Nicki Minaj and Rihanna's Fly. I can rap just like Nicki. I'm not kidding. Something Beautiful by Needtobreathe. It's not technically an anthem, but it speaks to my still living dreams all the same. I may or may not try to hit Idina Menzel's huge note at the end of Defying Gravity.

This may be my own act of attaching beauty and significance to my brokenness. I don't always apply what I sing to my attitude towards life but I believe it, with about 1000% of my heart. I believe not because I can see my life coming together in front of my eyes but because I know that there is One who will fix up my brokenness as long as I step back and let Him.

I've always wanted to be known as a strong young woman, fighting back hard when someone refuses to accept my worth. Today, my strength is diminished. Today, I'm discouraged more than I'm not. Today, I have nothing to celebrate. No Ivy League acceptance letter. No clarity concerning my future. Just a lot of broken dreams. A lot of pain as I begin to realize the implications of ill-placed words and ill-placed trust. A lot of painful growth as I realize that my assumptions are not always God's answers. It is a journey of building brokenness. My saving grace (besides, the obvious one, of course) is that I do not have to make this journey alone. No, I'm not talking about the people who come in and out of my life when it suits their schedule or the people who support me or trash me based on their mood that day.

I'm talking about the girls who sit down over tea and cry with me. The girls who come to my house on the night of my prom (but are not attending this prom) and do my hair and makeup. The guys who call me crazy and still let me rant and rage to them for hours. The family who puts up with un-quantifiable mood swings and snarky comments. The men and women who have taken on the role of uncles, aunts, and head cheerleaders in my life. They give me confidence. They inspire me. They put that smile on my face. It's not fake. It's not broken.

"It don't have a job, don't pay your bills

Won't buy you a home in Beverly Hills

Won't fix your life in five easy steps

Ain't the law of the land or the government

But it's all you need.

And love will hold us together

Make us a shelter to weather the storm

And I'll be my brother's keeper

So the whole world would know that we're not alone"