Mud in Black and White

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“The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.” E.E. Cummings

Mud is two very different elements coming together. Earth and water. Rained on dirt. Water soaked soil.

No longer liquid, but not quite solid. Until baked by the sun into sinewy continents.

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Then it can become bricks.

Molded and poured, shaped and baked, turbid then opaque. Mud can make,

a house. An adobe abode.

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Mud can be worked.
But mud can be tricky and maleable.
Mud lays in wait for something or someone to change it.

When you least expect it,

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the rain can reign down and carve out crevices,
wash away walls,
and muddy your whole bloody life.

Just when you thought it was solid.

But you are not made of mud, although you melt in a puddle for a mired while.
Then your hero pulls you to your feet and tells you to breathe, but it’s hard.
Lots of doubt and mud-slinging. Can you feel it stick?

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So you walk the hard path together because it circles back to home.

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And you make better bricks from the fallen mass. Repurposed, relived, repaired.
Learned.

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Memories awash and days float by
as you play in the mud with abandon.

Mucky joy over all the possibilities . . .

the alchemy of life can bring.

originally posted at http://senegalease.blogspot.com/

Measuring a Year

 

 

 

during construction

during construction

It’s been a year since we came back to Senegal to live. A date on the calendar, August 12th, tells me practically that this time has passed, but I perceive it more in the details of our ordinary life: the length of Sunny’s hair, the height of the banana trees in our yard, the changing light of a season returning with it’s own frank announcements– the rain, humidity thick on the skin, green, everywhere, green soothing over the fissures of a typically parched land. The scent of mangoes, hanging heavily from trees along the roads, tells me the rainy season has circled back around. Mangoes the size of a child’s forearm, with the fluid aftertaste of coconut and pineapple. They are plentiful and cheap and find their way into almost all of our meals.

I sense the passage of time in the ease with which I walk through the village where we live, if not quite looked on as “one of us,” I am by now a familiar face, “one among us”, not African, but no longer a stranger. Seynabou, Maty, M’Baye. There you are. We know each other. “Nengadef, How are you?”

Mbour fish market (Gulpoppy, Nov 2007)

Mbour fish market (Gulpoppy, Nov 2007)

I frequent the fish market, which once terrified me, with its long, crowded, narrow allies, navigating through rain puddles, blood-soaked ice crates, discarded heads and scales, tangled fishing line with shards of lures. I am no longer shocked by the potent, briny smell, the din of loud bargaining over waves crashing into the port just beyond, shouting over tables, fish passed over heads, flapping sea water. Who has carp? “Madame Americaine,” someone is tugging at my sleeve, “come, come, urchin, monkfish, carp, pas cher.” Women crouched on low, rickety wooden stools, expertly gut and fillet my fish before I can count out the now familiar papery bills. I pick out the coins, recognizing them by color and weight. I thank the vendor in Wolof and move out from under the rusted tin roof into the hot sun, pushing past on comers and barefoot children selling plastic bags. It is my last stop before the bakery to get bread and my canvas bag is now heavy. This has become a familiar, natural routine. I don’t think much about our surroundings, our daily lives, and this also tells me that a good deal of time has passed, that our lives have settled upon us. Then there are the subtle negatives of absorbing time. The talibes, the young boys who beg for alms and food to pay for their religious education–when did they stop tugging at my heart and become a common detail in my day? At what point did I begin to regard the many sellers who approach me with their wares as a nuisance? It takes a year.

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Keur Leah

 

 


Construction on our house is coming to an end. In a few short weeks, Richard and the earth team will stop the building process and begin the laborious procedure of covering the walls with layer upon layer of lyme and palm oil. The long awaited rainy season is imminent. It will give clues to it’s arrival, they tell us, with thicker air, softer skin, fewer micro-dust tunnels whirling down the open corridors, and skies that will fade from blue to a full spectrum of grey. It will tease those who have planted their crops, anxious for the first drops to inaugurate the growing and feeding cycle. The abundance of produce will help relieve the absence of money from tourists. One day someone will say “today, it will rain,” and inevitably, it will. We will be gone by then and so our job is to protect what we have built so that, when we return, we can continue. The growth will resume.

Now that the mounds of dirt and wells of mud have reunited to form their walls as Richard intended, I can see a real house, imagine walking from room to room, living a life there. Before we leave, this house, which started as an idea and now has a presence, needs a name. There are no street names or numbers to identify homes here in Senegal. The wealthy French give their large beach-front villas monikers like “Eucalyptus Shores”, and their friends successfully pick their way along the sandy lanes until they see the large, bold letters on the surrounding walls outside the security gate. The locals simply identify their homes by their family name. “Keur” in Wolof means both “heart” and “home”, so a typical Senegalese house might have a small sign outside the front door which says “Keur Diop” or the heart and home of the Diop family. We first started thinking of names for the house when it was still Richard’s dream drawn up on paper, before we ever set foot in Senegal. But the hard lines of a computer rendered plan couldn’t possibly have hinted at the soul of this house, couldn’t have told me how I would feel standing in it’s rooms, envisioning it’s future.

When we first decided to come to Senegal, I remember calling my friend Leah to tell her. Senegal was a place that was important to Leah. Her love of Africa was immense and she wanted to discover as much of it as possible. Among her many accomplishments, she had served as Director of Development for Asheshi University Foundation in Ghana. She had done substantial fundraising from their offices in Seattle and had visited the University in Ghana as a strategic consultant. We had long, in-depth phone calls during which she reiterated her desire to be a political ambassador to Africa one day, a role I feel would have fit her perfectly. Ciss, her boyfriend of many years, was a native of Senegal (a lovely fact that has never been lost on me) and together, we concocted dreams of long visits split between his family and our house, converging the coincidences of her world. She was the most diplomatic person I have ever known. She was optimistic, pragmatic and yet a dreamer in the most extraordinary ways. That’s why I knew she would be a champion of our project. In addition to her desire to experience Senegal, Leah was very sensitive to the environment. Her dream was to one day build an eco-house with a small footprint, a house that was a responsible reflection of who she was–solar panels, geo-thermal heating, a green roof planted with water filtering species. A house of her own that was comfortable and beautiful on the inside, discreet and unpretentious on the outside. Much like Leah herself.

“That is just soooo cool,” she said when I told her on the phone. I could feel her smile. “An earth house, I’m just so impressed. When can I come? No, first I want to hear all about it.” I knew she meant it. She was the person who taught me how to listen–patiently, lovingly listen. She interrupted me only when she couldn’t contain herself and needed to know something in further detail. “Now wait. So explain how the bricks are made.” After an hour, I hung up feeling like we had made the best decision of our lives, her support and enthusiasm lifting me up to a place where all my nagging doubts lay in a puddle in the past. I could only envision our future as Leah saw it–and it no longer felt scary. She had brought sense to it, extracted it’s virtues and grandness and held them up for me to see.

This was perhaps Leah’s greatest attribute–her ability to break down what felt like huge barriers to our dreams and successes. How many people did she help realize their potential? I hope to find out one day. She made her living as a life and business coach, but those of us who were fortunate enough to know her as a true friend, or sister, or daughter, know that she served as a catalyst for great change in our lives at least once. Helping me put aside my fears about this adventure in Africa and promising it’s success was her last great gift to me. She passed away, suddenly and unexpectedly, on January 9th, three weeks after I arrived in Senegal.

There are days now, very few, when I don’t think of her. That’s what time and our ability to heal will do. Then there are those moments in the void, when I realize she will never come to Senegal, that I will never see her again, and I feel cheated, for me and for her. But mostly, I sense her spirit near, in the way I look at things differently since her death. I think less about what I have lost and more about what she gave me in the 25 years I knew and loved her. All those collective memories, conversations, shared experiences, inspirations that make up a friendship are like a pleasant aura that stays with me. All I have to do is turn to it and she is there, reassuring me once again that it will all be ok, that ideas and dreams are meant to be lived. I feel her spirit every time I sit down to write and the words just won’t come. “Well, you can’t just give up,” I hear her say. And so I don’t.

And neither does Richard when the work gets hard and the days get long. It all seems so obvious now in a way it couldn’t have before we lost Leah. Our house here, with it’s simplicity and bare beauty, it’s openness to possibility, feels to me like the essence of Leah, like I could turn the corner and she would be there, admiring the openings toward the sky. It is our sanctuary, her sanctuary in Africa. In her honor, and with the promise that its walls will echo with her laughter and its doors will welcome with her arms, our house will be called “Keur Leah”–Leah’s heart, Leah’s home. It was built from the earth, and one day, many years from now, when it is no longer inhabited, it will be broken down to it’s basic components, back to the earth. I think Leah would have liked that idea.

“When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.”
~Mary Elizabeth Frye