Remembering.

I remember exactly where I was.

I was in college, and I was waiting for classes to start. I hopped into a computer lab, as these were the days before laptops and devices were a thing and there were big rooms around campus filled with desktop computers.  It was almost empty.  I remember only having one new email, back in the days before it was a primary mode of communication, and it was the one I expected, so once whatever it was I needed to do was done I logged in to a chat room for a band I enjoyed listening to.

There I was just scrolling through various song discussions and pop culture references, when I saw someone post something that said “oh my god look at the news, is this for real?”  I remember thinking geez, she needs to calm down. Then I saw another one, of similar sentiment and alarm.  I read something about buildings in New York, something about war, something about the Pentagon. I remember wondering what on earth is going on, is this for real? I stood up and hurried out to the hallway; certainly if this was a real thing, there would be people who knew what was going on.

I lurched out into the hallway, still believing it mustn’t be real, when just outside (had I missed it earlier? Had I been in the computer lab that long?) there was a TV in the hallway and about fifty students gathered around it.  We all stared in horror.

I remember looking around, wondering, what do I do now? Surely we don’t have to go to class.  I couldn’t watch the TV anymore, I moved down the hall to the student center where they had the radio loudly playing a news station.  I leaned back against the wall, and slid down it until my bum hit the floor, my forehead went to my knees and I just listened in shock and horror as they replayed everything they knew over and over.

I don’t remember if I called my mom or any of my family.  I remember thinking I had to go to class, so I did, where we all sat in a daze, whispering about what we knew and what the news was saying and would we go to war and if they started drafting us, which of us would go first? We were the right age; I was 20. The professor came in and said anyone who wanted to leave was welcome to do so; if we wanted to talk, we could also do that.  I did, though I don’t remember much of the class or the rest of the day.  I remember feeling afraid, really afraid, for my life and for my family and friends, for the first time ever. 

Because I was the right age and so were all my friends; the news anchors were talking about possible war and reinstating the draft and for the first time in my life a world event shook me to the core.  I remember going home and watching MSNBC for hours and hours; I remember Norah O’Donnell was the White House correspondent there, her face for some reason etched into my memory, and every time I see her now I remember hearing her say things like ‘the Taliban’ while standing in front of the White House, a word that had never entered my vocabulary before then. 

Its funny how certain things etch themselves into your memory like that.

I had a volunteer sitting in front of me today, when I was signing a paper for her and realized I was signing 9/11, I said do you remember that day? She shared she was in first grade, and remembers the reaction of her parents, but not much about the day.  Her life was not rocked.   She doesn’t remember being able to go all the way to the gate at an airport, carrying full-sized bottles of water, juice, shampoo or perfume in your carryon if you wanted with no one batting an eye.  She doesn’t look at the skyline of New York and feel like something is missing.  She doesn’t remember the radio hosts saying things like, “until the rubble is gone, we’ll leave our headlights on” and seeing every car with their headlights on in the middle of the day.   She doesn’t remember saying hello, how are you to the random stranger at the next gas pump over.  For some reason, the guy I greeted that day stands out in my memory. 

It was not a life changing event for her, as it was for me.  And that’s to be expected.  Soon, the volunteers coming through my office won’t remember it at all. Their lives will be rocked by some other personal or public tragedy, as all are; those moments that bring us to our knees in grief, in gratitude, in disbelief, in shock, and in sorrow.

Today I find myself on my knees in remembrance.  For those that started their day just like any other, but never came home.  The kids who lost their parents, those who have fought all manner of illness as a result of trying to help, those that died in the military action as a result of that fateful day.  

As our newsfeed is filled, it seems, with daily tragedy and heartbreak, its easy to just go numb; but as I tell my volunteers, I want tragedy, injustice, the anguish of my fellow humans to make me hurt, cry, lash out, or shout from the rooftops. I need to feel that, to keep it fueling me in my life’s work and mission and passion and heart.

I am glad that I can feel, because it means I am alive, and able to use at least one more breath to speak life and shine light into dark places and make the world a little bit better, for as long as I am in it.  

On limericks and peace.

We were in our final of four weeks of training; weeks of group projects, scenarios, discussions, lectures, theory, stories, problem solving, and what feels like a few hundred people met and committed to memory. It was a super beneficial time, to be sure; I was grateful to be there, to be learning, to be surrounded by supportive, helpful people who were bending over backwards to ensure I knew as much as my brain could hold and when that was full, that I would know who to ask for when I needed whatever spilled over.  But by that day, I had had enough, and when they sent us to big pieces of paper and markers and said work together to draw a creative representation of today’s activity, I just couldn’t do it.  I didn’t have it in me. 

I’m usually a rule follower but with a spark of rebellion, I went to a quiet corner of the room with a bit of paper and a pencil, and in about five minutes came up with my creative representation of that day’s activity. 

In Zomba we had to work fast
The crises were varied and vast
We worked as a team
Respect was the theme
(and) Not one single team came in last

It was silly, but in those five minutes of solitary creativity using my preferred tool (words, not markers), I felt a spark of life in me I hadn’t felt in quite a while.  It’s the same spark I feel right now as I’m writing this.   And I realized in that moment why I had felt so out of sorts, so over this training even though I knew how important it was, so uninspired and tired and going through the motions. 

Writing feeds my soul.  Solitary creativity with words, whether it be an essay like this one or a silly limerick like the one about Zomba (the fictional country we worked in for the day) or even just a really well-written, clear, nice-to-look at email fills me with joy and peace and that everything-is-alright-now feeling that is beyond explanation or description.  After being grouchy for a few days before the Zomba activity, after just five minutes and some word craft I felt like an entirely different person.

I knew I needed to write about it, and I knew I needed to make writing a more intentional part of my life… and then I sat on these words for three more weeks before actually giving them the time and space they deserve.  But it’s never too late to do the right thing, so I’m sitting here tonight, my fingers grateful to get these words out of me into the world where they belong.  It doesn’t even matter if anyone reads them, what’s important is the offering. 

My work is all consuming, and I love it.  But as I’m settling in and finding my space here for more than just a sprint, I know I need to allocate time to things that will keep me healthy for the long run.  Sometimes I think it'll be writing about life here and there and wherever I find myself. Sometimes it'll be writing a silly limerick. But whatever it is, as long as it brings life, I need to give it the space it deserves. 

So here we are. 

-K

Taken from the top of the Watergate Hotel on 18 August 2019

On figuring it out.

Well here I am, a week into my new job and home and life in South Africa.  I can hardly believe a week ago I was still in DC; it seems like I have been here much longer than that.  This morning is the first morning since I flew out of my north woods hometown that I haven’t had to get up to an alarm; relishing in the leisurely enjoyment of my coffee while the sun rises into yet another beautiful day.

I’m lying on my borrowed couch listening to the fighter jets flying overhead; nothing to be concerned about, today is the presidential inauguration in Pretoria, and the whole city is putting its best foot forward.  All the streets in the area have been repainted, the sidewalks and streets cleaned, new flags strung up on every flagpole and a general sense of hope for this new government is in the air.

My couch is borrowed because my house isn’t ready yet, so I’m in temporary quarters, which is totally fine; a few less things to figure out in the first week is not a bad thing.  And that’s what’s been filling every minute of every day since starting; figuring things out, learning, trying to remember what the acronyms mean and what my role is in this or that and what exactly we are talking about anyway?

This job is so big, and my counterparts in other countries tell me it’ll be a year or two before I really feel like I know what is going on most of the time.  My driven, perfectionistic side doesn’t like that, and I’m working to silence that persistent whisper suggesting I’ve already failed or disappointed everyone because I don’t have it figured out already. Ridiculous.  But at the end of every day I know more than I did at the beginning of it, and I keep reminding myself no one is expecting the superhero I expect of myself.

And also, I’ve kept myself alive in a new place for a whole week. Let us not forget to celebrate that fact.  I’ve driven every day on the left side of the road in what feels like a backwards vehicle and I haven’t hit anyone or damaged anything.  I’ve gotten to the grocery store, I did laundry, I bought and used an iron, I made it to work on time every day without getting lost (thank you google maps), and a whole lot of other things that seem menial but can also be a big deal in a new place. Figuring out how to work the appliances, the vehicles, banking, internet, traffic circles and a zillion other things ever day isn’t a small thing.  So just know if you need a round of applause for keeping yourself alive another day, you’ll always get it from me.

Work has been one meeting, briefing, introduction, and orientation after another. I’m relieved to have a few concurrent minutes this weekend to read up on some things that need my attention but I’m still not really sure what we’re even talking about when they are brought up.  But overall, I really like it, and look forward to going back.  That’s a good sign.  I’m not only going to work this weekend, I’m also going to a market, a mall, hiking, exploring, and hopefully meet up with a friend for coffee.  The weather is gorgeous, beautifully sunny skies over cool mornings and afternoons around 70; a much more enjoyable winter than the one I just experienced in my north woods hometown.

So that’s the update for today  All well, I’m so happy to be working again and using my brain, the last several months of boredom and waiting were good in a lot of ways; but really, the best version of me is busy, slightly stressed, juggling several different things, and learning and growing and stretching and being brave and letting myself be seen every day. It seems I’m in the right place. 💜💜💜

Celebrating keeping myself alive... and South African wine is amazing. 

Seen during driving practice. This is just a couple miles away from my office! Amazing.

Snapped from my window seat as we were coming in to land at OR Tambo airport.

Finally.

It’s been a quiet season; a season of winter, of waiting, of wondering and hoping and longing and relaxing.

What I thought would take a few months has taken a few more, and I’ve been waiting, waiting, and waiting.  I’ve done my best not to waste the time, embracing it for the gift it has been!  Since leaving Liberia, I traveled to France and to Canada, and then returned to Minnesota to clean out my grandmother’s house which sold in a manner of days.  I surfed and loved a month of la pura vida in Costa Rica and a week of paradise in Hawaii.  I spent a couple long weekends in Boston, ran an anesthesia course in the Democratic Republic of Congo and relished in the springtime in New York City.  I’ve spent time with my siblings and their families and watched hours of Law&Order marathons.  I’ve exhausted my travel fund and savings account and returned back to my hometown in the north woods where winter hasn’t quite given up yet.  And finally, finally, I get to share what I’ve been waiting for!

I’ve accepted the position of Director of Programming and Training for Peace Corps, South Africa, and will be moving to Pretoria in a few weeks’ time.  And I’m so, so, so excited.  

I’m also nervous, and guarded, and gun-shy, and hoping with all hopes this will be a good, good thing.  I think it will be.  Everyone tells me it will be.  But if you’ve followed my blog for awhile, you’ll know this is the third ‘really exciting announcement’ I’ve made in less than two years… and obviously the two previous ‘dream jobs’ didn’t really work out the way I had hoped.

But in the same way I refuse to resign myself to being miserable and staying in a place that isn’t a good fit, I refuse to make decisions based out of fear of what might or might not happen someday. So I’m putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward into what feels like the most right thing I’ve tried.  It might not work out. But it’s still worth trying.  It might be (and I really think it will be) really amazing, for a lot of reasons.  But either way, I keep reminding myself, this is what it looks like, this life to the full; one foot in front of the other, as best I know how.

And the last two things? They were worth trying.  I thought I would love working in academia, I couldn’t know the realities of it without trying first.  I thought I would love learning a new field and working in child protection, but I couldn’t have known how much I missed working in and how passionate I was about global health until I wasn’t doing it anymore.  As one friend lovingly reminded me; this is what it looks like, trying to figure out yourself, your passions, what you were created to do.  Sometimes it happens in your early 20s, and sometimes it doesn’t.   I don’t regret one second of those experiences and am grateful for the person I’ve become because of them.   And I have certainly clarified what I love, what I don’t love, and what I need to flourish personally and professionally and be the healthiest person I can possibly be wherever I am and whatever I’m doing. 

And I believe this next thing checks every box. 

The Peace Corps.  A US Government agency that sends volunteers across the globe for two years of service in a developing nation.   Started by John F. Kennedy, there have been 235,000 volunteers since it’s inception and currently there are 7300 volunteers serving in 62 countries.  I served as a volunteer in Benin, 2009-2011, my first Africa experience, one I’ve never recovered from.  It ruined me for ordinary and I’ve stayed in Africa with various roles and organizations ever since then.

I remember when I was a volunteer looking up to the person who was the DPT; she was such an inspiration to me, and a little seed was planted way back then.  She was someone I wanted to be like.  And that was a role I’d love to do, someday.  It’s always been in the back of my head as a possibility for the future, but I’d been told numerous times how hard it was to get a job with the Peace Corps; it’s SUPER competitive, with amazingly talented people applying all the time who have super impressive resumes and education and experience.  It also takes years to get through the application process, I was told.  So I always held it out there as a dream but never really thought I’d get to a place where that dream could be reality. 

When I accepted the fact that the Liberia job wasn’t working, after talking with several close friends and advisors, I decided to throw my application into the pile with Peace Corps. Honestly, I didn’t think anything would happen, it was a long shot and a good motivator to get my resume in shape to apply for ‘real’ possibilities.  And even if they did like my resume, the process would take years, so I figured I’d find something else for a few years and then maybe be considered for the DPT position.

And just a few weeks later, I had an offer.  To South Africa.  What a dream!

I love the Peace Corps. I have since I joined ten years ago.  I know it well. I have several friends in this role in various countries, many of whom I’ve worked with to develop volunteer projects in collaboration with Mercy Ships and Orphan Relief. I’ve never known anyone who hasn’t absolutely loved the job.  It’s a big job with a steep learning curve, and South Africa is a beautiful but incredibly complicated place with challenging racial, economic, cultural, and political histories and structures. It’s not going to be a walk in the park, but I do feel like this is a lot smaller of a leap of faith than the last two things I tried.  And I’m SO EXCITED that all the clearances have come through and I can finally get started!  

So once again I find myself transitioning to a new place full of new things and new people and new challenges, but with the added advantage of having visited there several times, knowing the organization I’m joining and the work I’ll be doing, and even having some friends living nearby. I’m working through piles of paperwork and lists and logistics, buying various household items and packing up and organizing what I want to take with me. They will ship my household goods for me, so it’s the first time I’m not constrained by the size of my suitcases, which is really fun!

It's been a frustratingly long season of waiting and wondering and winter.  Springtime is coming. Finally, new things are blooming. Thank you for sticking with me as I navigate this crazy life of mine. Expect to see things pick up a little here on the blog as I have more than just vacation photos and complaints about the north woods snow to share!  Also, I’m posting one photo per day over on Instagram, which I started on Jan 1 this year and it’s been really fun to be able to keep track of my travels that way.  Follow me @krissyonmercy if you’d like!

--k

New York City spring blooms

Where and why.

I have a super exciting job waiting for me that I can’t wait to start, which I’ll be happy to be more specific about eventually… but it requires a functioning US Government to jump through required hoops and clearances and red tape before I can pack up my bags and start over in a new place once again. When I got the offer in November, we thought I could probably start the beginning of March, but then the government shutdown erased those plans, and now we’re not really sure when I’ll be able to start.  Hopefully April, maybe May.  

I knew I needed about a month to clean out my grandmothers house, which was accomplished and is already sold (wahoo).  And then… what?  An excellent question. 

So I find myself on the Pacific beaches of Costa Rica, spending my days surfing and learning Spanish and doing yoga and embracing la pura vida.  Because why not? 

~~

I’ve surfed before, here and there throughout my life; I was never very good, enjoyed it enough to keep trying but needed some consistent instruction and practice to actually train my body in what it is supposed to do.  

It’s incredible. 

It’s giving up control to the waves, the tides dictating our departure, which this week has been at 6am.  It’s heading out, sleepy but excited, with eight or nine likeminded adventurers, before the winds pick up and the sun makes its full arrival over the horizon.  The sand is soft, and smooth, and packed; we practice a few pop-ups on the shore before heading out into the sea.  The water feels cool on your dry skin but warms up quickly; no wetsuits required here.  Your surfboard slices along the top of the water as you head out to where the waves are crashing in.  

I’m sharing an instructor with one or two other people, and he gives us a few pointers before telling us to get going.  It’s hard.  It’s trying over and over and over again; throwing your full body into it, and falling, and getting pummeled by the waves with salt and sand packing your sinuses and stinging your eyes.  It’s your muscles shaking and aching but getting stronger each day. It’s the giant smile that explodes across your face when you catch that wave, when you stand successfully, riding strong and sure and free.  And then you do it again.  And again. And again. 

And then just as you wonder if you have the strength for one more try, they say it’s your last wave, and you put everything you have into making it a good one; riding it all the way to the beach, shouting encouragement and congratulations to your fellow students, packing your board up and rinsing off the salt water and chattering about this wave or that crash and getting excited to do it all again tomorrow. 

~~

It’s kind of a similar cycle with Spanish, actually.  I came in knowing about ten words, and the first class felt like I was drowning a little. And then you try again, forming a sentence and conjugating a verb and ensuring the adjective agrees with the noun or the subject or whatever it’s supposed to agree with.  Sometimes I get it all right, and it’s like riding that wave; sometimes I end up crashing and feeling a little frustrated with myself but getting back out there and trying again. 

One of the remarkable things about this time is that I don’t have any expectations or requirements or any reason to stress at all.  I’m learning Spanish for fun; I don’t have a test to take at the end or a level I’m trying to achieve, in fact I don’t know when the next time is I’ll need to use it.  I’d like to be comfortable traveling in Spanish speaking countries, but that’s my only goal. Same with surfing; I’m not prepping for a competition or trying to achieve anything, I’m just here to have fun and get better at a different sport.  If I never get past the bunny hill, it doesn’t matter.  And it’s something I keep reminding myself; to not compare my surfing or my Spanish or my anything to another person, to be me, to do what I feel up to and want to do, for me, and for no one else.  It’s not easy, to be honest; I’m a natural achiever, but it’s a good thing for my ego to be doing things I’m not naturally gifted at; no one would call either my Spanish or my surfing impressive, and that’s okay. They don’t need to be.    

It’s so fun to be surrounded by likeminded people; world travelers here for a week or a month or three, from all over, who have been all over, and have fascinating stories to share.  It’s nice to feel like I fit in, because I often don’t, especially in America. Everyone knows what its like to be in a new place and not know anyone; friendships form quickly and plans for the evening come together in the afternoon and no advanced juggling of schedules or commitments are required. It’s easy, its chill; it’s what they call la pura vida, like hakuna matata; no worries, no stress, you do you, find what feels good.  

~~

And so, why not?  

I detest winter with every fiber of my being.  The cost of living is really inexpensive here.  It’s close, so if I need to get back to the States quickly for any reason, I’m just a few hours’ flight away.  It’s a new culture to experience, and a new country to explore.  What an incredible gift. 

Legacy.

I have spent most of January cleaning out my grandmothers house.

My beloved Nana, my mothers’ mother, central to all of my favorite memories all through my life, lived a full, incredible, inspirational 90 years before breathing her last in October of last year.  

When I was home in November I knew I would be leaving Liberia and wasn’t sure yet what I would be doing next, so I offered to come back and take care of the lifetime of stuff that needed going through and sorting and claiming and tossing, to be ready to put the place on the market.  I hate Minnesota in January (rightfully so… it’s -20 and falling outside right now) but I am never around for family things or to help out so the timing felt right; I’m not a particularly sentimental person and I’m also very much a minimalist, so getting rid of stuff didn’t overwhelm me at all.  It was a puzzle to be solved, with the goal to have everything done by the end of January.  And here on January 29, the Salvation Army truck came and took away the last of the things I couldn’t find a home for.  May they be loved and used and enjoyed, as they were by my Nana, and her mama and nana before her.

And I find unexpected tears in my eyes at the end of an era.

~~~

Nana was an incredible woman.  She married her high school sweetheart, raised three kids, and her husband unexpectedly died while they were still young.  She then put herself through college and got a teaching degree, and became a career woman, pouring herself into little ones in early elementary school.  She loved to travel, going to Florida or Palm Springs or Arizona almost every year for spring break or longer after she retired a few decades ago.   

I grew up about three hours away from Nana, but every family birthday, holiday, or long weekend would find us packing into the car and heading to Nanas house in the winter, or the Lake in the summer (and nana would always be there too).  She always had candy or treats for us, our favorite cereals in the cupboard, made the best egg salad, loved having all her kids and grandkids together, and always fretted we’d run out of food.  (We never came anywhere close to running out of food).

When I moved away and saw less of her, she always made sure I knew how much she loved me, and loved seeing me when I was able to come home.  I began to miss Christmases and birthdays and holidays as my life path took me further and further away, but whenever I came home, she couldn’t wait to sit down and ask me about my life, support me in any decisions I made, and was often more excited than I was about some of the big changes and moves and ideas and dreams.  One Christmas I surprised her (and most of the family), only telling my mom I was coming home from wherever I was in Africa, and walked in on her washing dishes in the kitchen.  She was so surprised, and so happy.  One of the millions of beautiful memories I have of my Nana.

For the last several years, every time I said goodbye I knew it might be the last time.  And then it was. 

~~~

When you say goodbye and a lifetime is reduced to making decisions about what to keep, what to sell, and what to toss, it gets you thinking about legacy.  In the piles and rooms and boxes of stuff that needed going through, we found zillions of photos; many of them photos of great-aunts and great-uncles, great- and great-great grandparents, and other ancestors long gone and nearly forgotten.   It reminds me of a conversation I had over beers at the beach a few months ago, when a colleague brought up the fact that most people cannot name their grandfathers’ grandfather, and indeed, none of us around the table could do so.  Three generations, and forgotten.   Our life decisions feel ginormous sometimes, but our actual existence is but a breath on the wind as time marches onward.  And as someone who likely won’t have kids and grandkids to remember me, I’m asking myself often, what is the legacy I’m leaving?

But also the practical fact: you don’t take anything with you when you die.  And someone will have to sort through it all, and honestly? The vast majority of the stuff that seemed so important and useful and needed will end up either being donated to a thrift store or tossed directly in the dumpster.  I’m already a minimalist, as I live out of suitcases, but if I wasn’t, this process would certainly put me on that bandwagon.

~~~

So it’s the end, of a lifetime and season and era; my last night staying in Nana’s empty home, where so many Christmas mornings were met with exclamations of “Santa found us!” and birthday cakes were consumed and Thanksgiving dinners eaten (pass the mashed potatoes please) and shopping trips planned and memories made and cherished and treasured.

Thank you, Nana.  I’ll love you forever.