Words

It has been awhile since I’ve blogged

Lately words don’t seem to cut it.

Words have always been something that I have relied on whether it is through lyrics, books, or conversation-I have depended on them.

I am lacking words.

What I desire to tell you can’t be explained in words. What I want you to feel won’t be felt by reading these words. But once again I’ll try my best.

For example, when I am asked how I feel about coming home next week I have no answer. A word hasn’t been created yet to describe that feeling…and no, bittersweet is not the word.

But here is what I can tell you. I am choosing to get lost in this world. I have been pushing back the pangs of sadness that come right as I fall asleep. I know that there will be plenty of time to be sad once I leave here so I can’t waste anytime I still have.

I am allowing myself to get caught up in spontaneity, which is something I am normally horrible at. I am being carried away by World Cup fever and the shutter speed of my camera. I am stretching every nerve within me.

Last week I decided to leave the wooden shelter I was standing under and play football in the pouring rain on the pitch that was quickly turning into a sinking mud bath. For an hour I kicked that ball with one of the U10s players (joined later by another volunteer) until we realized we were wading in sewage water. Mud was being flung onto my face each time the ball was kicked.

I then attempted to walk home at 6:30pm in that rain but it started falling so heavily that I could no longer open my eyes. (This kind if rain can’t be described using words-it is something you have to experience before you understand). I got stranded at a friends house for a couple hours until I eventually had to wade knee deep out to a taxi who graciously took me home for free while water poured in through the doors of his car. Most of Accra was knee deep in water.



On Sunday I went to Koforidua, a town 2 hours outside of Accra. I went to visit Edward (one of the boys living in my group home) at his all boys Senior High School. I watched the first Ghana Black Stars match of the World Cup with him at his school. After being mauled by 1,000 boys when Ghana won their match I attempted to go to the street and get a taxi back to the tro station to head to Accra. But what I found at the junction was hundreds of Ghanaians parading through the town of Koforidua in jubilation.

I could have waited an hour and then gotten a taxi but instead I asked someone where the station was; when they pointed in the direction where the crowd was headed, I joined in the parade. I was running alongside the locals that had their faces painted, flags wrapped around them and metal cans to make as much noise as possible. Apparently words couldn't express their happiness and pride either. They were singing, jumping, and shaking their hips. I ran with the parade for 45 minutes celebrating Gyan’s goal/Ghana’s win until I ended up at the tro tro station and got a car back to Accra.

I wish that the United States could have unity and pride like these people.

I hope that words come back to me soon. Until then...

A Yearning Heart

Ever since I was a little girl my mom has told me that she believes I feel emotions more acutely than other people in the world.

I have been accused of being too excited, loving too much, being too sad, caring too much, being too angry…and the list goes on.

So I am going to attempt to explain one of the emotions I feel so deeply that it creates a physical response within me.

The act of yearning: 1) to have an earnest or strong desire; to long for something 2) to feel tenderness, be moved or attracted

This is something I regularly feel in Ghana.

The word itself is something that when spoken can actually be felt...it is a word that carries with it a slight twinge of pain along with desire.

Sometimes I think I can truly feel my heart yearning; I feel my heart move closer to the surface of my chest where it sometimes feels like it will burst through. It is a longing so strong that I am actually physically MOVED.

At times it can make me feel sick, it seems as if the contradiction of what my heart yearns for and what is actually happening causes a painful reaction within me.

My heart yearns for the boys living in my group home to break through their devastating past; it yearns for the other children left at Osu Children's home to survive in a place where hopes and dreams are too frequently snuffed out, it yearns for the boys at Cantonments to succeed in whatever they choose for their life, it yearns for the people of Ghana, for the people of Africa.

But the words above are just words, they can't express the strain I physically feel inside of me when I wish for these things.

They don't reflect my occasional sleepless nights and tensed muscles I acquire when I yearn.

The words can't reveal the sacrifices I would be willing to make to change the circumstances.

But I am yearning and its OK, cause deep down, I know that this is what gives me the understanding that my work here has meaning.

And when it seems these emotions become too much for me to handle I will remember the comforting lyrics of a song that my friend played for me:

"You were blessed by a different kind of inner view: it's all magnified.
The highs would make you fly, and the lows make you want to die."