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.

Oh Mighty Isis...

"Oh mighty winds that blow on high, lift me now that I might fly" ~ Isis



I have dived into denial many times in my life, but today I did a canon ball into the River Nile for the first time ever. Egyptians believe the Nile floods each year from the tears of Isis, the Goddess of motherhood, magic and fertility. Yesterday, I celebrated motherhood, magic and fertility in a small birthing room in Kasana. Today, I was baptised in the tears of Isis. As a young girl living on the bayou, I never dreamed I would one day be swimming in the Nile---then again, maybe I did. I am grateful for the amazing group of women who are sharing this dream with me. You are all goddesses.

Birth Day

February 11th is a very special day for me. Twelve years ago on February 11th, I gave birth to my son, Charlie, and became a mom. My world was forever changed. This year I was in a tiny African village on February 11th, trying to find a way to honor the rite of passage I hold most dear in my life. When I was given the opportunity to work in a local birth Clinic, I decided this was the perfect way to celebrate Charlie's birth, as well as my own birth into motherhood.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I experienced. We entered the birthing room, a small cement square with two birthing beds separated by a fabric curtain. My senses were immediately assaulted by the smells of shit, sweat, blood, and tears. It smelled strongly of both life and death. A young 17 year old girl named Miriam lay on one of the beds. It was covered in a plastic garbage bag that the birthing women are required to bring themselves. There are no clean sheets, pillows, ice chips, or even bottled water. If you need it, you bring it---otherwise you go without. They go without a lot. I noticed that the metal stirrups were covered in rust and the floor was splattered with blood. Miriam was in labor, she was alone, and she was terrified. She spoke English and asked us to pray for her. She was certain God was not with her, that she had done something wrong, that she was going to die. I held her hand and assured her that God was there, that she was strong, and that she and her baby were going to be fine. A little voice whispered in my ear that this was Africa where things often go wrong.
I spent the next 4 hours determined to prove that voice wrong. The doctor told Miriam she would have to have a cesarean if she couldn't get the baby down further. In Kasana, a cesarean is often a death sentence. We convinced Miriam to climb off the birthing bed and start walking, squatting, swaying, breathing, singing---performing that primitive birth dance. Four hours later, I held her hand as she delivered a healthy baby girl and cried happy tears as another mother was born.
Later, she looked at me and said, "sister this is our baby." She even asked me to name her. I told her I had already named my babies and it was her turn. She giggled like the 17 year child that she is and said , " I want to name her baby Miriam after me." Then she asked for a coke. Seane raced to a roadside stand and brought back two cokes. Miriam beamed.
I have no idea what happens next in the story of Miriam and Baby Miriam. I wish I could write them a happy ending, but this is Africa where things often go wrong. Then again, we could prove that voice wrong if we all really tried.