The Blog Goes On....

Hello everyone.
I am heading back to Uganda in 10 days. Stay tuned...
Love, Amanda

Tiny Drops

"We may think that what we are doing is a drop in the ocean; but the ocean would be less without that drop." Mother Theresa

In February, I visited New Hope Children's Center where 153 orphaned children live along the shores of Lake Victoria. I held Patience's hand as she showed me her dormitory, a large dark room with triple bunk beds cramming every inch of floor space. Each bed had a small metal trunk at its foot. One small metal trunk held everything Patience owned in this world. I knew then that I would do the best I could to fill not only her trunk, but her heart, mind, and body as well. This week, I opened an email with photos of the children at New Hope receiving their new school uniforms. It may be a tiny drop, but it made my heart feel full. We will be visiting New Hope again in May. I hope to spread more tiny drops. I invite you to join me. Visit my website for more information: www.witnessyourworld.com.

Much Love, Amanda

The Language of Dreams

I heard a writer from Queens being interviewed on NPR recently. He said he had tried to write stories about other places but, somehow, it just never felt right. "I daydream in Queens," he said. That simple statement struck a chord deep down inside me. I may live day to day in the mountains of Central Oregon, but I daydream in the South. In fact, most of my dreams have southern accents. I dream of pep rallies and football games, cyprus and magnolias. The South haunts me even in my sleep.
I spent quite a few years trying to pull up my roots. I remember my first few classes at Southern Oregon State when I painfully tried to hide my southern drawl behind a thinly veiled "You Guys." I have thankfully reinstated "Y'all" into my vocabulary. I have come to the realization that we may grow and bloom in many locales, but only if we honor and care for our roots.

I am (finally) proud to say that I am a Wanderlust at Heart, but a Southerner in my Soul. My road has been long and winding from Monroe, Louisiana to Bend, Oregon, with sidetracks here, there, and everywhere in between. I have searched the wide world over for something I had all along---my self. I will continue to wander the world, only now, I can truly say I am not lost.

Where are you roots? What language do you dream in? Have you spent any time with your self lately?

Sweet Dreams Y'all,
Amanda

Flight School

"All Things Want to Fly"
R.M. Rilke

Two days ago, my seven-year-old daughter broke her elbow. She is now proudly strutting the hallways of her elementary school with a neon pink cast. I feel sure that the novelty will wear off and the tedium will set in, but we can safely reassure her that her wing will heal and she will fly again---perhaps she can just work on the landing. The whole experience has got me thinking about flight. I love the Rilke quote from above. I can think of all the times in my life when I have longed to feel the wind beneath my wings---riding my horse Sparky as fast as his pinto pony legs would carry us, skiing in a tuck all the way down Strawberry Hill, riding my yellow Schwinn straight down the levee onto Myrtle Street. I'm not sure exactly when I lost it; all I know is that, at some point along the way, I lost my will to fly. I became a flightless bird, a big chicken. I lost my faith in myself. There is no neon pink cast to help that heal.

It has taken years for me to return to the tarmac, but I am once again flight-ready. This time, the joy I get from helping others is what lifts me off the ground. We all have to find what it is that lifts us up. Then we have to spread our wings and take that leap of faith. I work with teen girls because I want them to feel what it's like to rise up to their potential. This week, I asked them a few questions that I want to pose to you as well:

What great thing would you attempt if you knew you couldn't fail?
What is your special gift and how can you share it with others?
What impact do you want to have on the world?

We all have the desire to fly. What are you waiting for?
See you in the wild blue yonder,
Amanda

The Harvest Moon

I have spent the past 6 months tending to the garden of my soul. So many seeds were planted there while I was in Uganda. I have never considered myself much of a gardner. Weeding, hedging, pruning---these things do not come naturally to me. Growing wild, growing free---that's more my style. You should see my garden out at the farm, tomatoes tumbling across the ground, strawberries reaching through the wire mesh fence, and enough mint to provide juleps for all of Louisiana. So, how was I going to care for those lovely seeds that traveled around the world with me from Kampala, Uganda, to Bend, Oregon? It has taken great effort for me to become a conscious gardner for this precious plot of soul. Last night, I realized that we are coming upon the Harvest Moon this week. I decided it was the perfect time for me to share some of my harvest with you, my fellow gardners.

I have been working through the Women Like Us Foundation to continue to support New Hope Orphanage. We have received grants for new uniforms and have been able to provide bed nets for the entire surrounding village. I have begun a program that allows at-risk youth here to create and implement service projects in Uganda. I have also created Witness Your World Tours which offers travel opportunities for women that combine service, culture, yoga and self-discovery. Our first trip will be back to Uganda in May of 2011. There we will continue to sow the seeds of service. There we will surely receive more seeds to plant in our own gardens. If you are inspired to join us, please visit the website for a trip itinerary and registration information: www.witnessyourworld.com.

As Autumn approaches, I intend to spend more time in this little patch of my garden. I hope you will continue to bear witness for me. In other words, I hope you will bear with me and my blog blathering. I also hope you will begin to share your world with me. What have you harvested? What seeds are you still nurturing in your soul?

Many Blessings on all of Your Gardens, Amanda

Gift Exchange

“One must know not just how to accept a gift, but with what grace to share it.”
Maya Angelou


This past week has been a bit of a blur. After two mechanical errors, an unexpected overnight in LA, and a scenic detour through both Seattle and Portland, my plane finally touched down in Bend approximately 66 hours after I left my hotel in Kampala. My family didn't recognize me at first as I entered the baggage carousel area in my new "I Heart LA" sweatsuit, a desperation purchase in the LAX Airport Hilton gift shop.
After a quick nap, I figured I'd be a as good as new or maybe as good as slightly used. Anyway, I thought I'd be fine. Jeff and I both took a nap. When we woke up an hour later, I was fine. Unfortunately, Jeff was not. At first, I thought it was just a "Man Cold," a psychological virus designed to solicit sympathy, guilt, chicken soup, and a back rub. One visit to the ER, a round of MRi's, catscans, blood tests and a spinal tap later, it was confirmed that Jeff had shingles, meningitis, and a bleeding ulcer. He is home and healing. I am playing nurse, a much easier job in Bend than Kasana.
I had intended to write a heartfelt grand finale blog to share with you all. I wanted to wrap up all of my experiences in a beautiful package, tie it with a bow, and send it out as a parting gift to the universe. Jeff's crazy quarantine has kept me away from my computer. Perhaps that has been his gift to me (there must have been an easier way, honey), because it allowed me time to realize that the universe isn't looking for a thank you gift. Patience, Faith, Miriam, Bubeera...the gifts the universe so generously shared with me while in Uganda cannot be wrapped in paper or witty one liners. The universe showered me with the gift of stories, so many heart-warming and heart-wrenching stories in their original unedited, uncut versions. My gift back to the universe has been to pass them on, to create a bridge between these worlds with my words. This week, I unpacked my dirty duffel bag and began washing the red clay earth from all of my clothes, but the stories are still folded carefully inside my heart. They are stained with blood, tears, sweat, jackfruit juice, and rich red clay. They smell of life and of death. These are the stories I will continue to tell, the gifts I will keep passing on. I am realizing that "witnessing the world" can mean listening with our hearts and speaking with our hearts as well as seeing with our hearts. I am reminded of the Maya Angelou quote from an earlier post, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." I am hoping together we can relieve the agony of so many untold stories, the stories of Patience, Faith, Miriam, Bubeera intertwined with the stories of you and me. A neverending story, an everlasting gift.

Homeward Bound

“Other things may change us, but we start and end with family”
Anthony Brandt


I've spent the past 11 hours in seat 52B watching the little airplane on the mini-screen in front of me as it headed away from England, passed south of Iceland and Greenland, inched across Toronto and Ontario, and slid down the west coast. I was at 33,000 ft and moving at 850 miles an hour. I began to wonder whether modern travel has diminished our appreciation of the journey. 24 hours ago, I was in a third world country where more than half of the population lives on less than $1.25 a day. Now, I find myself sitting in a pub in LAX eating bad fish & chips and drinking a $10 glass of chardonnay, listening to Madonna, and watching Tiger Woods apologize on CNN. Jet lag and culture shock are quickly settling in. Suddenly the trip feels strangely like a bungee jump. I am dangling here unable to remember anything after the initial leap or the free fall that followed. All I know is that in 6 hours I will bounce back into the arms of my family.

Leaving on a Jet Plane...

My plane left the tarmac in Uganda 13 hours ago, but part of my heart is still there. I am sitting in the Heathrow airport waiting for the next leg in my journey home. An 11-hour flight to L.A., a 4-hour layover, and another 2-hour flight to Bend, where the rest of my heart is. All in all, it is 30 hours from Kampala to Bend. How will I bridge that distance when I am home? Of all the Ugandan seeds that were planted in my heart these past two weeks, which will grow and flourish in the high desert of Central Oregon? What kind of gardener will I be? I was just reminded if a passage from Paulo Coehlo's novel,

Brida:

"In life, each person can take one of two attitudes: to build or to plant. The builders might take years over their tasks, but one day, they finish what they’re doing. Then they find they’re hemmed in by their own walls. Life loses its meaning when the building stops.
Then there are those who plant. They endure storms and all the many vicissitudes of the seasons, and they rarely rest. But, unlike a building, a garden never stops growing. And while it requires the gardener’s constant attention, it also allows life for the gardener to be a great adventure.
Gardeners always recognise each other, because they know that in the history of each plant lies the growth of the whole World."
I must admit that I am now sobbing in the passenger lounge of Heathrow's terminal 5. I have planted a new corner in my garden, but I know in my heart that there are many more rows to hoe. I am tired physically and emotionally, but I am also inspired. I am returning home to my amazing family and friends, those lovely gardeners who helped to till the soil in my heart in preparation for this horticultural adventure. In 17 short hours, I will be soaking in their smiles and their hugs, their love and their support---those very things that fertilized the dream I have been blessed to live the past two weeks.

My Soil Sisters

"I have got to the age now where I can see how short a time we have to be here. And when I think about it, it can seem strange beyond telling that this particular bunch of us should be here on this little patch of ground in this little patch of time, and I can think of all the other times and places I might have lived, the other kinds of person I might have been. But there is something else. There are moments when the heart is generous, and then it knows that for better or worse our lives are woven together, one with another and with the place..." Wendell Berry

My life has been woven together with 24 amazing women these past two weeks. We have become intricately intwined one with the other and with this place, creating a rich tapestry. We have shared the miracle of birth, the strain of hard work, the joy of song, and stories---so many stories. Stories that are heartbreaking, heartwarming, absurd and sublime. Some of these stories we brought with us from home, others have come to us while here. Together they tell the story of us, of how we came to be part of an interwoven one. We came here as strangers and are leaving as sisters--- bound with the red clay earth, baptised by the River Nile, and woven together by the stories we now share. Time to turn the page.

Building a Dream

"When we are dreaming alone it is only a dream. When we are dreaming with others, it is the beginning of reality." Dom Helder Camara

Only half of Uganda’s children finish primary school. Less than half of those children go on to secondary school, and less than half of those go on to university. I see those statistics and begin to feel hopeless. This week, I saw a rural village in Uganda come together to build a school and I felt nothing but hope. We arrived at the Building Tomorrow work site and were greeted by parents, grandparents, community leaders and, as always, plenty of children who instead of being in school, were showing up to build a school. There were songs, speeches, handshakes, and hugs. Then we all grabbed hoes and we got to work. We spent the next three days side by side in the scorching heat and in the pouring rain. We shared stories, sweat, songs, and laughter and, brick by brick, we built a school that will educate over 400 children each year. These children are not just statistics anymore. They have names and personalities; they have joyful hearts and eager minds…and now, they will have a school.
I have never met a child in the U.S. who has built his or her own school. I have decorated my children's classrooms back home, but I have yet to meet a parent there who has laid the foundation or dug the latrine. As I watched mothers with babies strapped to their backs swinging hoes and young giggling girls balancing bricks on their heads, I knew I was witnessing something more than just a construction site. This was a dream site. This community wasn’t there to build walls with us; they were there to build a dream. A dream that will grow day by day, brick by brick. A dream that will, hopefully, extend beyond those very walls and that small plot of land. A dream that could very well someday change the statistical landscape of Uganda. I feel honored to have lifted a hoe, laid a brick, and shared the dream.

Hope is the Real Thing...

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all.”
Emily Dickinson

I went to sleep feeling hopeless and helpless, a crazy emotional cocktail that leaves a nasty hangover. I found out last night that many of the children at New Hope are HIV+. What is the "hope" for New Hope? How can I make a difference? Is there a sustainable way to support them? I still haven't answered those questions, but I intend to. I read this morning that scientists have discovered that King Tut died in 1327 B.C. of malaria. That's interesting, but I would rather focus on the children who are living and dying today. King Tut's story is continuing to be told through the voice of scientists. Who will tell the story of New Hope? Perhaps the universe invited me here to tell this story. Two of the girls who I spent time with are named Faith and Patience. Faith, Patience, Hope...again, perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something. One of the lines from

Jayber Crow

just flashed across my heart, "I have been unable to shake the feeling that I have been led." Why was I led to a little orphanage on the shores of Lake Victoria? The children of New Hope have perched in my soul and I must find a way to give words to their tune.

As Etta James would say, I am T-I-D-E.

We are heading back to the Building Tomorrow work site today. My muscles, physical and emotional, are tired and sore. Like any muscle that has been overworked, my heart is beginning to show signs of fatigue. I wonder how far I can stretch it. I worry that my reach isn't far enough. I want to hold this pose as long as I can, but I know there are other postures that are just as important. I have children at home who need me too. They have warm beds, clean clothes, plenty of food, and wonderful schools, but they need their mother as much as any of the children here. They are part of the reason I am here. I want them to have dreams, I want them to know they can make a difference, I want them to witness their world up close---even the parts of it that aren't easy to look at. Our hearts can become weak and lazy if we don't use them enough. I will keep stretching mine as far as I can while I am here with the children of Uganda. Then I will return home and wrap it around my own children.

Brick by Brick

It takes a village to raise a child. African Proverb

Today it took a village to raise a school. I was happy to be a small part of that village. We drove an hour out of Kampala to a rural community where the children either do not attend school or have to walk a great distance each day to do so. We were greeted by a group of perhaps 100 community members. We took turns making bricks, hauling bricks, and laying them down one by one. We worked side by side with children, parents, and grandparents. We watched a wall go up brick by brick, a wall that will one day be part of a school that will serve some 400 children. Today I felt like I was making a difference. I may be just one person, but I am part of a village, a world village.

THICH NHAT HANH:
People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child -- our own two eyes. All is a miracle.

I hope we can all open our eyes to the miracles surrounding us. Happy Valentine's Day. XO, Amanda

Emotional Jetlag

“Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.” The Wizard of Oz

I am lying in bed with what feels like motion sickness, or perhaps e-motion sickness. I am not surprised. We have spent the past week traveling down several Ugandan roads which were rough, unpaved, and full of potholes. Yes, I mean literally and figuratively. Yesterday, we took one turn way too fast and I experienced emotional whiplash.
We started the day at the New Hope School & Orphanage located about an hour outside of Kampala. The children greeted us with song. This is a ritual I will miss, the singing. You could see the curiosity and excitement in their eyes. It isn't everyday that a big white tour bus full of mzunga yogis shows up with new mattresses, school supplies, flouride treatments, soccer balls, jump ropes, clothing, and love. Until recently, these 80 children didn't have clean water to drink. Our funds were able to provide a new water filtration system. We were also able to start a garden which will, hopefully, be able to provide them with better nutrition. It may sound like a lot, but it is never enough, never as much as they deserve. The director, the teachers, and the children all thanked us. One 13 year old girl named Florence said, "thank you for the mattresses; now we can sleep and have dreams." I just hope some of those dreams come true.
We spent the day dancing, doing yoga, playing soccer, giving flouride treatments, reading books, and moving new mattresses. One little girl named Patience stayed close to my side the whole day, squeezing my hand, giving me hugs. When we left, she told me she would cry for me. It breaks my heart to think I may have caused her yet another disappointment. I wanted so badly to say I'd be back, but I was careful not to let my heart make promises that I can't keep. I climbed back aboard the yogi bus, cracked open a chilled bottle of water, and felt my spirit deflate. I have said goodbye too many times on this short trip. This felt like the emotional straw that might break my heart.
I didn't have time to adjust to this new emotional zone long. After a brief layover at the hotel to wash up, we were back on the bus heading to a New Moon Celebration at a local yoga studio. We passed the slum areas, the market stalls, the roadside bars and pulled into a walled, gated compound of luxury homes. We were greeted by members of the Kampala yoga community, ex-pats from Austria, England, Australia, and America. We were lead across a manicured lawn to the Shala, an outdoor gazebo furnished with meditation pillows, candles, Buddha statues, Celtic ritual elements---all the necessary spiritual accessories. We began with an intention-setting ceremony which was quite lovely. Maybe this was a nice balance to the day after all. The group leader, Gavin, spoke of the need to heal the scars of Uganda's violent past. I looked around at the 30 or so people gathered in the Shala, there were only 3 Ugandans and 2 were our guides. Hmmm. Then we were asked to lie down for a guided mediation. Here is where my day took a sharp, unexpected turn. New-age music filled the air, and a soft voice started speaking through a microphone, "when I count back from 5 to 1, your mind will go blank and you will find total relaxation..." By the time he got to 1, I was pretty sure I had been abducted into some cult. I wondered whether I could scale the compound walls. As you all know, I love to create stories. Sometimes this works against me. I was creating all sorts of crazy stories in my head as the little Yogi Oz spoke to us from behind the green curtain.
When the meditation ended, I was relieved to find that none of us had been brainwashed as far as I could tell. The ex-pat yogis from Ugandan Oz prepared an organic, vegetarian feast for us. I didn't drink any kool-aid, but I decided the wine was safe, and necessary. Then we climbed aboard the magic yogi bus. The gates of Oz closed behind us as we headed back down the bumpy, congested yellow brick road to our hotel. There's no place like home, there's no place like home.
Before I fell asleep, I thought of Patience and all the beautiful children of New Hope---Faith, Nicolas, Philip, Mary. I doubt a meditation circle will heal their scars. I'm afraid there's nothing in that bag for them. But I prayed that they would all have dreams that night, and that maybe a few of them would actually come true.