my mind

Besides The Giver (by Lois Lowry) - which Sara and I are going to read outloud to each other snuggled in our tent beneath maringa trees and moonlight - the only other book I'm bringing on our Niassa trip is Collected Poems 1957-1982, by Wendell Berry.

On the Hill Late at Night

The ripe grassheads bend in the starlight
in the soft wind, beneath them the darkness
of the grass, fathomless, the long blades
rising out of the well of time. Cars
travel the valley roads below me, their lights
finding the dark, and racing on. Above
their roar is a silence I have suddenly heard,
and felt the country turn under the stars
toward dawn. I am wholly willing to be here
between the bright silent thousands of stars
and the life of the grass pouring out of the ground.
The hill has grown to me like a foot.
Until I lift the earth I cannot move.

The Mad Farmer's Love Song

O when the world's at peace

and every man is free

then will I go down unto my love

O and I may go down

several times before that.

Awake at Night

Late in the night I pay

the unrest I owe

to the life that has never lived

and cannot live now.

What the world could be

is my good dream

and my agony when, dreaming it,

I lie awake and turn

and look into the dark.

I think of a luxury

in the sturdiness and grace

of necessary things, not

in frivolity. That would heal

the earth, and heal men.

But the end, too, is part

of the pattern, the last

labor of the heart:

to learn to lie still,

one with the earth

again, and let the world go.

Do Not Be Ashamed

You will be walking some night

in the comfortable dark of your yard

and suddenly a great light will shine

round about you, and behind you

will be a wall you never saw before.

It will be clear to you suddenly

that you were about to escape,

and that you are guilty: you misread

the complex instructions, you are not

a member, you lost your card

or never had one. And you will know

that they have been there all along,

their eyes on your letters and books,

their hands in your pockets,

their ears wired to your bed.

Though you have done nothing shameful,

they will want you to be ashamed.

They will want you to kneel and weep

and say you should have been like them.

And once you say you are ashamed,

reading the page they hold out to you,

then such light as you have made

in your history will leave you.

They will no longer need to pursue you.

You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.

They will not forgive you.

There is no power against them.

It is only candor that is aloof from them,

only an inward clarity, unashamed,

that they cannot reach. Be ready.

When their light has picked you out

and their questions are asked, say to them:

"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon

will come around you. The heron will begin

his evening flight from the hilltop.

Marriage

How hard it is for me, who live

in the excitement of women

and have desire for them

in my mouth like salt. Yet

you have taken me and quieted me.

You have been such light to me

that other women have been

your shadows. You come near me

with the nearness of sleep.

And yet I am not quiet.

It is to be broken. It is to be

torn open. It is not to be

reached and come to rest in

ever. I turn against you,

I break from you, I turn to you.

We hurt, and are hurt,

and have each other for healing.

It is healing. It is never whole.

        (Wendell Berry)

As is the African way, a few nights ago my Malawian colleague suddenly informed Sara and me that we would each need to do some preaching during the trip to Niassa, and would I also prepare some HIV teachings for each of the churches too?

This happens often. That I got a heads-up is the unusual part and lucky. How it usually works is: you're visiting a church, they ask guests to please stand, you begin to introduce yourself, they're smiling broadly and mysteriously, you begin to get nervous, and the next thing you know, you're extemporaneously making a case for, say, the power of forgiveness.

So I wasn't surprised. It will be good practice for me. Beautifully, Youngson also speaks English. For this I give thanks, because throwing it together on short notice in Portuguese is a task beyond me.

So I've been sitting here, yesterday and today figuring out how I am going to do this. When I'm focused, I think thoughts like, "The woman who bled for twelve years... why is that so compelling?"

When I'm unfocused: "Ha! That dirt on my ankle looks like Nixon."

Mostly, I have been finding it hard to focus, a problem that has plagued me for several months. Then I remembered something I saved on my computer several months ago: AfricaPraying: A Handbook on HIV/AIDS Sensitive Sermon Guidelines and Liturgy

It blew me away then, and looking at it again now, I am still amazed by what Ms. Musa Dube - "activist and community scholar" - created for all of us. It's an amazing piece of work.

This is the view out my bedroom window when I stay in Beira. During the night after I snapped this photo, the waves broke through the sea-wall and uprooted some of the trees shown here. I think the Indian Ocean is like that Ben Harper song: 

"She's only happy in the sun..."

Finally, I keep thinking about this:

"The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you are uncool." (Lester Bangs, in Almost Famous)

See you all in a few weeks.