signposts

It’s Thursday again. This morning I had to “endure,” as I do every week, the lone stupid segment on NPR Morning Edition – some lame three-minute local production called Star Watch. I mean, who really cares about black holes and life on Mars when wars and famine and disease are plaguing us on this planet, right now? Anyway, sorry for the grumpy rant. But I guess today, amid switching off the radio in my typical annoyed huff, I realized that for months now, silly little rituals like this have become signposts in my life, one of many perpetual benchmarks of the passage of time.

Who knows what my subconscious calendar is really measuring, but I do know I make a deliberate (etched-in-stone type) mental note for recycling every 2^nd and 4^th Wednesday of the month, and every Tuesday most restaurants have specials, Thursdays is The Office night (on DVD if not on primetime), and every Sunday I plan to go to church but usually go to brunch instead (sorry, God).

So, I guess what I’ve begun to wonder is… is this really all there is, passing by one insignificant mile-marker after another and trudging along like I was on the AT trail of life? I mean, I know it’s not, per se, but is this really what it’s like when you (that being me) lead a life of excruciatingly (and slightly unexciting) routine?

Maybe I’ve just been too blessed to have the last decade or so of my existence constantly interrupted by trips, and if it wasn’t trips, it was moves, and if it wasn’t moves, it was monumental earth-shifting changes and/or actual natural disasters (wait, did I just say I was blessed by those things? Ok, I guess I am).

But the past few months, as my work travel has abated, and I’ve cooled my jets for a bit, I’ve found myself sucked into some sort of vortex-esque day to day grind. And, by the way, whoever came up with that “grind” description of the daily get-up-and-go, had it right on –– at the end of most days, I totally feel like I began as a whole coffee bean but hour by hour I was chopped into virtually flavorless specks by tiny helicopter blades. Ok, so of course it’s not that bad, but it is Real.

Seriously, if it wasn’t for the dog, I probably wouldn’t move off my red chair most evenings. Whoa is me. But really, what I’m trying to drill down to is… this Thing, this monotonous hole of existence that I’ve tumbled into… aren’t I made for more? Aren’t we all called to something Better?

It’s not like God said, “Well, during this time period, I’m going to drop Bonnie Jean into big ole a rut. Let’s see how she likes that.” Quite the opposite, really. I know if I looked in a spiritual mirror I’d be standing here dirt-covered and holding a shovel. Day after day after day, I’d dig a little (with a bad attitude about some situation at work), then some more (skipping church), then even more (not making an effort to get out and do stuff) and … viola! What a lovely pothole I’ve created for myself!

Even with my writing, this blog especially, I bemoan how I’m “oh so busy, I just don’t have time” when really, I just don’t make time. It’s a choice. Writing ideas? Plentiful. Motivation? Not much of that going on right now. Day after day, for months now, I’ve gotten ground up at work (with measured success most days, but not with much Joy) because I’ve accepted my place, complacent among the other coffee beans.

I heard a speaker years ago talk about how once when she and her husband felt like they’d gotten into such a big rut of work, routine, and not enough fun, that she decided to get aggressive about getting out of it. On whim, she found herself standing at a Corvette dealer and soon sped away in a shiny, black Corvette convertible (albeit rented)… because she thought that if they were really, really stuck in that rut, then a Corvette could certainly help propel them out, and when it did, it would probably do so even faster than normal. (Her theory later proved correct.)

So, all that said, and all these confessions now written (it is good for the soul, right?), if you see me fly by in a little red (rented) Corvette sometime soon, don’t be alarmed. I figure if I’m going to keep passing all these silly signposts in life for awhile, I might as well blaze so fast that I don't even really notice that they're there... because I'm on my way out of this rut.

impact

marathon

From travels early last month to the busy-ness when I returned, hopefully, after reading this you'll understand why it’s taken me until now to write… Settle in, it's a long one.

April 25^th was World Malaria Day. If you by chance remember, it was this time last year that I’d just started my current job and by the second week was headed to an event at the White House, with a cute suit but no make-up. Looking back on that time versus now, it truly makes me thankful (is that the right word?) for all I’ve learned in the last twelve months, even though this year was, of course, not without its own folly.

Suffice it to say, the days leading up to it were insanely busy with preparations for a week packed with activities, many of which we were co-hosting, but all of which I had to attend. We also had two guests in from Africa to participate in various events, which added another layer of logistical management to my duties.

From media outreach, interviews, jetting from this activity to that event toting a projector, information packets, banners or whatever, to meeting with Congressional staffers from the leadership of the House and Senate (and others, too) and lingering just a few extra minutes outside Obama’s office hoping just to say a quick hi – it was a full-on crazy week, and one where I could have easily forgotten where I came from, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, one panel discussion we hosted on malaria eradication is even online, should you be having a bought of insomnia and need an instant cure. Just kidding, sort of…There were some exciting, non-scientific aspects to the week – we had packed houses at all of our events, distributed awareness posters all over Capitol Hill featuring photos that you may very well recognize, launched a malaria caucus with the First Lady as the special guest, and amid all the madness, I ended up going to Quincy Jones’ birthday party one evening. Random, I know, that I would end up at a swanky D.C. mansion celebrating the "We Are the World" producer with several hundred other strangers. My goal was to find either a rock star to charm or his daughter Rashida who played Jim’s old girlfriend on The Office and get some inside scoop on the show. Instead, I found Colin Powell and that kid Corky from Life Goes On. Again, random. I introduced myself to Gen. Powell, not to Corky.

That night turned out to be a pretty late one, so I got back to Baltimore and had only a few hours sleep before getting up and heading back to D.C. The First Lady event was the next morning, and like any White House-related activity, all was perfectly orchestrated. I even mingled around afterward and met some Congressional members who had joined the caucus. Good people, none had horns -- I was shocked. That evening, though, there was an event for malaria at MTV headquarters in New York City, and the inner teenager in me just couldn’t miss it. So, off I went, back on the commuter train, and after a quick stop in Charm City (aka Baltimore) to grab my luggage, I hopped back on the Amtrak and headed north. It was Thursday afternoon, and I was teetering on the edge of exhaustion by that point, so once I settled into my seat I fell sound asleep…

Clickty clack… clicktly clack… clickity clack...

“Doors closing…departing Penn Station…next stop Hartford.” Three hours later, the recorded woman’s voice was calm and soothing as it told me, unmistakably, that I was missing my stop.

I jumped up and snatched my bag from overhead and sprinted toward the exit doors, which slid shut in my face with a thud. I think I even pounded on the glass, but I was still coming to full consciousness after my long, hard nap. My heart was racing as I struggled to balance myself in between the shifting cars as the train pulled away. If sleeping through my stop wasn’t enough, my left contact lens suddenly falls out, as if right on cue for my own series of unfortunate events.

Somehow, though, I caught it, and with that finely-honed contact-wearer reflex, poked it (dirty hands and all) right back in my eye. The clickty clack clickty clack of doom echoed in my ears, just like last year, as the train veered slowly through the tunnels leaving Manhattan… I slunk back to my seat defeated, distressed, and still slowly waking up. It was then that I realized my left eye was still hurting, so I fumbled around for my make-up mirror and discovered that I had problems well-beyond missing the MTV event. My left eye was on the verge of swelling completely shut.

I donned my sunglasses and tried to pull it together, all the while chastising myself for not packing eye drops or hand wipes or saline or anything useful. (But I did have three pairs of shoes for no apparent reason.) I pondered my life ahead of certain half-blindness.

Soon, though, the jolly train conductor waddled by, asking for tickets, but finding me – now a stow-away of sorts – with a blackening eye headed unintentionally to Connecticut. When I shared my predicament, he apologized profusely for not waking me. Apparently, conductors are responsible for making sure sleeping passengers don’t miss their stops – who knew? He plopped down and began scouring a schedule for my return options, but none of them would get me back in time for MTV. I couldn’t help but smile at his kindness, though, while wincing in pain behind my sunglasses.

The train suddenly slowed as it rounded a curve, and the conductor perked up and peered out the window. “Oh yeah, this could be it, this is it, this is what we can do – follow me, ma’am!”

He snatched my bag from overhead and rushed toward the back of the car. I followed, confused and still blurry-eyed. We were nearing a small station, and he explained that the commuter trains passing through (we were somewhere out in NY suburbs at this point) had created a minor train traffic jam. But that little lag in time was all we needed, apparently, and as we passed the small platform, I felt the train jolt to a stop. The conductor shot me a grin as he mashed a button and the door (at last) flew open. Off went my bag and me, and on went the train (minus one puffy-eyed passenger) to Connecticut. I ran (again) and caught the commuter train on the other side of the platform back into NYC, still amazed that he had stopped the entire train just for me.

By the time I reached my hotel back in NYC to drop my bags, I looked like I’d been in a fist fight, and lost. But an ice pack and some Visine from a nearby pharmacy, plus lots of concealer, went a long way to improving my appearance, if not my inner frenzy. And I figured, hey, it’s MTV – if there’s a crowd where I can get a way with wearing my sunglasses indoors at night, it’s with them.

So off I went, shades and all, to an event that was, unfortunately, the least attended of the week. Bono and all his rock star humanitarian friends were not there, and a guy dressed in a giant mosquito suit ended up being the lone attraction. It was that boring.

The next day I could see the finish line, metaphorically and literally, as my eye was almost back to normal. A luncheon at the UN was the last hurrah of the week and was quite a cool thing to be invited to, and by the UN Secretary-General himself, no less! Lots of VIPs in global health (self-appointed and not) were there and pontificated well into the afternoon about their grand (and largely unfeasible) plans for the next few years. Perhaps I’m cynical, or too practical, or perhaps I’ll blame it on the book I’ve been reading. Whatever the case, the honor was being able to walk into a place that physically and philosophically represents all nations in the world coming together to work for the common good and being there as an invited guest, not just a random visitor. It was amazing actually, and humbling, and I'd say it pretty much topped going to the White House last year :)

With that final stop, though, the malaria marathon came to an end, and after a week of entirely too much hob-knobbing, I collapsed for awhile and then set out to reconnect with the Real World, which actually has nothing to do with MTV or Congress or aging music moguls. I did what any good southerner would do -- I went to a local fair and ate pulled pork barbecue sandwiches and deep fried oreos, two days in a row. Then I made a trek down into Virginia to see a true small town girl who knows how to keep it real wherever in the world she goes -– the great Dolly Parton, of course.

As I sang along at the top of my lungs to “Nine to Five” and “Coat of Many Colors” and so many others, I felt unmistakably grounded again. Nothing like a little dose of Home to remind you where you came from... and who you really are.

spring

Cold gray skies drizzled rain as I left DC today, just when I thought springtime was coming. Now, I find myself in the back of cramped flight with a French kid behind me kicking my seat. He’s part of what looks (and sounds) like a large high school tour group that I somehow ended up sitting in the middle of. And did I mention that someone nearby has gas? Jeez.

Anyway, as I finally find my writing time, the winter-like woes of travel far from overshadow the burgeoning spring joys of the past few weeks, and the journey ahead. It all started a few weeks ago with a new look…

Somehow during the past few years when I wasn’t paying much attention to it, my hair grew really long (again), so the need for a massive chopping was long overdue. During the customary pre-cutting chat, my hairdresser hesitated as she stood behind me, examining the fro carefully, and said, “You know you have enough to donate to Locks of Love if you want to.”

I couldn’t believe it. Was it really that long? She assured me that the required 8 or 9 inches of ponytail was there. And suddenly, I heard myself say, “Well, cut it off then!”

And off it came – those curls that have been perpetual bane of my existence are now on their way to being woven into a wig for a sweet, sick kid somewhere. It was one of the best things I’ve done in a long time – a tangible way to give/give up something for someone else. Plus, it was my own sort of tribute, a little altar of remembrance for those I’ve known who’ve battled cancer.

Then came the puppy… years of wanting, months of looking, and the single epiphany of knowing she would be put to sleep if I didn’t take her, and into my life came Miss Mississippi Masala, or Mazzy, for short – simultaneously southern and international. Nothing less for my dog.

She’s as sweet and charming as she is cute. A lab, beagle and maybe even Rhodesian Ridgeback mix with the heart-melting face of a brown weenie dog that couldn’t help but win me over. The responsibility of dog ownership has already been good for me – her “need to pee” dance gets my lazy self out of the bed in the morning, and her “so happy to see you/need to pee” dance welcomes me home in the evening, at reasonable hour even. Being forced to think of someone other than myself is an ongoing exercise in giving that I didn’t realize I needed so very much.

Beyond that, the responsibilities of puppy motherhood have humbled me as well. From christening my friend’s antique rugs to a bout of dreadful diarrhea that more than “broke in” my apartment, we’ve had some trials already. Yet, it’s her persistent sweetness and adoration (and cuteness) that tame my flashes of anger and my gag reflex, too.

It’s a new season all the way around. The daffodils have emerged for their annual dance of splendor, and just this week, I watched the leafless trees begin to blossom with color on my and Mazzy’s morning walks in the park. And gradually I realized that perhaps for the first time in the eleven years since my Mom died, I hadn’t secretly dreaded this time of year, and the anniversary it represents.

Perhaps it was the challenges of the past many months that have grounded me more, helping me grab hold of the reality that my loved ones, especially her, are always with me. Maybe it was the many nights of dreams of her, after years of having none, and at last getting to apologize for being such a terror. Or it could be that, in a way, I’ve finally set up so many emotional, spiritual, and physical altars (my own little mental memorials) that my fear of forgetting has at last abated. Now, instead of the grave marker, I can look at the flowers growing vibrantly and beautifully beside it, and smile, just as she does.

The pastor at the Easter service I went to talked about how we all so often get stuck in a “Good Friday” mentality – the day of suffering and death, the day it looked like everything was ruined, like our time was wasted, and that all is hopeless and lost. That’s so often our modern perception of difficulties, both big and small, amid the craziness of our world. Yet, if we shifted our minds and hearts instead to more of an Easter morning focus, we’d find an entirely new perspective – a day when Hope emerges from the ashes, Joy follows suffering, and even death holds Promise for the future.

And I see those promises all around me. Maybe it’s because finally the fast and furiousness of my life of work and travel has somewhat (slightly) slowed down, long enough for me to breathe deeply, and appreciate the changing seasons, both inside and outside. The winter malaise is giving way to warmth and color. I spent Saturdays of art and jazz in the park with friends and my new puppy. My nephew Grey turned thirteen. And as I write, I’m in a new country, well on my way to 33 countries in my 33^rd year.

And with each passing day (and mile) I am continuing to find that those little blossoms of Hope, tiny though they might be, are all around me, year around...

relaxing on Easter Sunday

isn't she the cutest thing?

bliss

About two weeks ago now, Sharm and I went to hear the author of the Geography of Bliss read at a quaint local bookstore. Turns out, he’s from the Baltimore area, and after years of traveling the world as an international correspondent for NPR, he set out on a different kind of quest – to find the world’s happiest places.

He read mesmerizing passages about Bhutan and Iceland and explained how, according to the “Happiness Institute” in Amsterdam (who knew there was such a thing?), that the bliss he pursued actually had little to do with location, nationality, money, education, gender, race, climate, temperament, or astrological sign. It seemed that a key determinate of happiness could be summed up in the words of a Bhutanese wise man he interviewed, aptly named Karma, who insisted that happiness is 100% about relationships.

Like many “nuggets” during the reading, that notion brought new expression to something I've always felt was true. But it wasn’t until an unexpected reunion a few days later that I understood the "geography" part firsthand.

During my time in Indonesia, Amin and Manan were not just great teammates, they were incredible friends. Amin even joined our house full of girls for a few months (and spoiled us with his Indian cooking). Within days after I learned about the "geography of bliss," both boys were in the States, taking part in a conference for past and present tsunami psychosocial delegates in D.C. It was tremendous experience for them, and an absolute treat for their Americana friends.

Somewhere amid the perpetual laughter of our weekend reunion, as six former teammates be-bopped around Baltimore and camped out at my apartment, the truth of Karma’s words profoundly sunk in. In Indonesia, and everywhere, the blissfulness of life comes from bonds formed with those around us, wherever in the world we are. And even though more than a year had passed since we were all last together, the original joy (so geographically linked to Indonesia) easily found its way across oceans, simply because of the people.

And if that wasn’t enough to drive home the epiphany, the icing on the cake came last week as I prepared to leave for Tanzania. I received an urgent message from our travel agent, who was supposed to be getting my visa, saying instead that I had to get a new passport. Apparently, if it’s within six months of expiring, you have to get a new one before you can leave. So reluctantly, and hurriedly, I agreed.

Within days a shiny new passport appeared on my desk, alongside my old, overly stamped and slightly-faded friend of ten hard-to-imagine years. It was a compact journal of my journeys, with my fresh-faced 23-year-old picture always reminding me (while making others laugh) of who I was when I began this pilgrimage that’s now lasted a decade… I was clueless incarnate, with a red t-shirt, beaded hemp necklace and an expectant heart that never, ever could have imagined what was ahead.

But as leafed through those familiar pages as if it were a precious family photo album, I realized that the nostalgia I felt reminiscing over stamp and stamp was not about those *places* at all, but about the people I met there... Lucas, my star student in China. Lisa and I hitchhiking through the Israeli desert. Boubacar, the malnourished Guinean boy who was struggling to recover in a dilapidated hospital. The infamous bus ride with Jennifer through northern India. Elzat’s sisters in Kyrgyzstan. Alanou, the Ugandan mother, who is courageously raising (with a smile even) nine children in a refugee camp. Face after face flooded to mind, signposts on my map of memories, each one pointing me a little closer to where I’m blessed to be today…

And here I am in Tanzania, drinking an early morning coffee, while fishing boats traverse the harbor a few hundred meters away, trying to wait patiently for breakfast (it’s a virtue one must indeed have in Africa). I will leave here tonight after a relatively short trip, taking home conversations as souvenirs, memories of chatting with the lovely and fabulous "princess of Africa" Yvonne Chaka Chaka (with a name like that how could you not be a true diva), and of Reuben the farmer’s tiny Artemisinin crop (I am not sure how much he realizes the lives the medicine made from his plants will save – he just cares that his family is surviving), and of bumping along the dusty roads of Arusha National Park with my new friend, William the French photographer and our lovely driver John, on a pristine Sunday morning, looking at giraffes, zebras and monkeys...

And I could go on, because of course, there’s more, much more… but my breakfast is here and today's journey awaits. May the steps of your day (the geography of your life) find you in blissful company. And thank you, for helping me find my way here...

Driving into Arusha National Park

Reuben's life-saving harvest

cutie pie kids near Reuben's village

the blissful Baltimore gathering -
Sharmila, Manan, Elizabeth, Amin and Bon

yes

hopeful

I started scribbling my first 2008 blog entry well over a week ago, but like most things, it’s somehow taken me a disproportionate amount of time (and at least three half-written drafts) to find a few stolen moments to actually sort of finish something. Where have I hidden myself away, you may ask? Why, on an airplane, of course!

It’s not another African adventure, just a quick trip to London for a few days of meetings. Comparatively, I may as well be flying to Texas – that’s how easy it feels, in both my luggage weight and anxiety level. I speak the language, it’s only one six-hour flight – no problem!

But this need to “write in ’08” has lingered like a fog, and honestly, has been quite distracting. During our few lovely days of springtime warmth amid a bleak Baltimore winter, I literally couldn’t stop staring out the window at work, thinking of metaphors for “the naked winter trees stretching their finger-like branches upward against the cloudless sapphire sky” (it was a poetic moment in the most lifeless of seasons – I couldn’t help it!) Yet, aside from a few metaphorical lines, when I tried to actually write, my thoughts would repeatedly turn to one of the bleakest of blah subjects – politics.

As you join me in reeling in disgust at such a notion, maybe I should try to share what I think I’ve traced it to, my own 2007 metamorphosis of sorts = I started working as an advocate, and somewhere along the way, I think I may have actually become one.

The objective of my “day job” is to raise awareness about malaria and educate those holding the global purse-strings about what’s working so they can allocate resources so those programs can continue and grow (ah, it sounds so simple when I write it!). But for me to do that with at least some credibility, I needed to be educated as well – thus one of the main reasons I spent much of last year traipsing around Africa. The cumulative effect of these experiences was a jarring realization of the inequity in our world – not to mention the personally riveting impact of specific aspects like, well, the desolation of refugee camps and overflowing hospitals bursting with people sick from preventable and easily treatable diseases, just to name two…

Yes, I’d traveled and lived abroad before, but largely in a post-disaster context, in a place where, frankly, people really weren’t doing too bad before the unthinkably awful tragedy of the tsunami. And as infrastructure and housing were restored, people were (economically at least) often doing even better than they were before. Extreme poverty (in all its ugly manifestations) was not and had not destroyed their society from the inside out. So, this past year, when I spent extended periods of time in villages and cities and countries with such incredible deprivation, I couldn’t help but be dramatically impacted by it.

As the months flew by, and I settled into my new work, my new life, little by little between trips, I increasingly found myself turning (albeit subconsciously) to books, to magazines, to the news and world events, looking for something (anything!) that could help me understand what I had been seeing and experiencing, and to grasp why when I came home, it seemed like most everyone around me (most people in our great country) had no idea what was going on in Africa and really didn’t really seem to care.

And that’s where I’m at. Needless to say, I’m still searching and questioning and praying and don’t have very many answers yet, but one thing I do know for sure is that every single one of us can make some kind of an impact. Sure, it may sound cliché (“the power of one”), but let the truth of it sink in for a minute… We have, in America, so many, many blessings and privileges that millions of people (dare I say billions even) around the world do not = education, resources, access to the mass media, the power of our vote – just to name a few. We have the choice of who leads our country and how (if we don’t like it, we can vote them out); we can hold those elected officials accountable through and with the media (think: letters to the editor, blogs, etc.); we have an equal opportunity educational system that gives everyone (really, it does) a chance to succeed and excel; and we are the wealthiest country on earth, overflowing with resources of all kinds… but so often (as individuals and as a nation) our “wants” get in the way of being truly generous and helping to lessen the gap between us (at one end of the have/have not spectrum) and them (at the other).

For me, last year, I put a face and a name and a place to that enigmatic “them”… and because of them, I may never, ever be the same.

So, all of that to say, I have started paying attention to politics, among other things, as part of my own commitment to make an impact. And despite how infuriating some politicians are, it’s regular people (like our neighbors in Iowa) who remind me to be hopeful, who can demonstrate to all of us (and the rest of the world, who’s closely watching) that there are Americans who are demanding something different from our leaders, who want change in our country and a positive impact on our world.

So, if you needed the reminder in ’08, here it is = you can make a difference. Every little act of service, every contribution of time or money, every effort made to speak out, to look beyond yourself, your life and your own little bubble (we all have them) and attempt to understand our complex world better – it all matters.

But for goodness sakes, if you do nothing else at all, at least vote! It’s an election year – it *really* matters! There are candidates on both sides of the aisle that seem promising, some more than others (I dare you to read this article and not have your interested piqued a bit). But personally, I am too much an independent thinker to be convinced this early in the process. We shall see how that changes by November…

All in all, I guess I’ve emerged from the strains of a little learning last year to a lot of resoluteness in ’08. Some questions, some struggles (like the battle against malaria, for one) do indeed have answers and solutions. For the rest, we can only continue to search, work, and pray. But I fully believe that change is in the air, and really, not all the news is bad these days (or so I was recently reminded). I have a new favorite CD playing softly in my ears, and though London’s likely to be rainy, I’ll have fresh memories of last week’s spring-like poetic days when I’m in the land of Wordsworth and Coleridge. Things are looking up...

And so thick thoughts like London’s fog
lifted with the sunrise of letters against a page
shaped upon a weightless canvas
a placeholder among moments
almost forgotten

detours

A three-quarter moon glowed orange and hovered low over the horizon as the plane touched down in Casablanca. Hours earlier I had at last ended an unexpected five-day stay in Paris, another of the world’s beautiful, intriguing cities. But circumstances as they were, I far from relished my time in either.

I left the States last Wednesday, headed to Bamako, Mali, for an international meeting of advocates, even departing early to help get ready for the big event which my project was sponsoring. The plane landed as scheduled Thursday morning and I meandered around the Paris airport for several hours, waiting for my connection flight on to Mali, in West Africa.

Only when it was at last time to board did the most dreaded word in air travel begin flashing on the screen above my gate = CANCELLED. I couldn’t believe it, nor could the thousands of other people who soon found themselves in the same situation. The flight crews of the airline, Air France, had just gone on strike, leaving passengers from around the world caught in the middle of their discontent ….

And so began my five day saga of coping with (or attempting to) my worst travel debacle to date. Thank God for debit cards and Blackberrys is all I can say. Without those modern conveniences and kind people at my office back home, I would be among the thousands of stranded travelers still lining the terminals, with luggage carts piled high beside them and no flights home anytime soon.

Sparing you the details, and to stifle any online ranting on my part, I’ll boil my dreadfully detailed experience down to the following oversimplified list, minus figures of money and angst (which were both freely spent).

Number of days spent in Paris = 5.5

Number of different re-booked itineraries in three days = 4

Number of hours spent waiting in line for Air France = 12

Number of hours spent waiting in line elsewhere = at least 10

Number of hours spent in transit dealing with the above = 5

Number of hours spent on Blackberry also dealing with above = 7+

Number of different hotels in four nights = 3

Number of hours spent enjoying Paris, excluding eating = about 7

Number of it would have taken hours to fly directly from Paris to Mali = about 7

***************

And now, here I am in Mali. After starting this entry days ago, we’ve since wrapped up our conference and I’m spending the weekend catching up on piled-up work, planning site visits for the next few days, and having a bit of fun, of course. But to add insult to injury, after surviving the Air France travel nightmare, I was here less than a day before finding out that local officials decided this week was the perfect time to close the airport to repave the runways. So again, I found myself surrounded by stranded travelers, but at least this time they were my colleagues, and I got my wish to spend a little extra time here.

Mali is the real home of Blues, a shocking statement coming from a Mississippi Delta girl, I know, but the last few nights I’ve heard the musical research validated for myself. What these bands may have lacked in wailing harmonicas, they made up for in added percussion – from drums of every shape and size to xylophone-type instruments made of wood and string. The lyrics in French and Bambara (the language of Mali) may have been incomprehensible, but the fusion of strings and beats was as familiar as Muddy Waters, B.B. King or any of the soulful sounds drifting from juke joints along Highway 61. I think I’ve found an African home…

In the coming days, I’ll be spending time exploring outside of the capital city, Bamako, so will surely share some sights and sounds from those days as well. But in the meantime, here’s a few glimpses from my few fun hours in Paris....

hmm... guess where this was?

the Louvre

looking down the Seine River

the throngs at Notre Dame

looking down a lovely, typical Parisian street

the fall colors were amazing...

... as were the parks

in pere lachaise cemetary, i finally got to pay my respects to an incredible poet and musician

And when i at last left the "City of Love," i realized that (even after my horrendous experience with the airline) perhaps we sometimes give French people too hard of time... because if i lived somewhere as incredibly beautiful, artistic, historic, and enjoyable as Paris, i'd probably be pretty indifferent toward everywhere else, too. (Just kidding, I know many wonderful French people, but you get the point...)

Without a doubt, though, I couldn't have picked a better place to get stranded.

uganda

The flight was almost two hours late and no one seemed to notice. I stood in the hot, baking sun of a northern Ugandan afternoon, behind my sunglasses my eyes rested closed while my arms and face soaked up the surprisingly comforting rays. The fatigue of almost three weeks of travel was catching up with me and I honestly couldn’t get out of there soon enough. But at the local airstrip (not an airport), I had no more control over my life and destiny than the people I had just spent the past few days visiting with in the refugee camps. My only choice was to stand beside that dirt runway and wait for whenever the tiny plane decided to show up… to wait for my own sort of deliverance.

Uganda was (and is) a complex place. Not that I’m an authority on any kind of history, but I am an observer of people, and cultures, and whatever evirons Life seems to find me in, and since I’m always more of a “documentarian” than an “intervener,” I try to at least learn from what I see (the sights, sounds, smells, conversations) and share it and grow from it.

So, this is what I saw = Kampala, the capital, was immensely accessible (aside from the hellacious traffic that haunts any capital city) and is renowned as one of Africa’s safest major cities. It was big, but not too big like Dar es Salaam or Nairobi, and people were quite friendly. English is the country’s official language so it was spoken everywhere, which makes everything just a heck of a lot easier. I stayed at a normal hotel, had lots of meetings with people in their normal offices, talked about normal work issues and what not. I might as well have been in Milwaukee.

Throughout those conversations, though, I learned that most organizations were doing work “in the north” which didn’t mean very much to me until later, when I was actually there, and experienced the radically different environment for myself. I didn’t know much about Ugandan history (and am far from a scholar now), but I did know a little about Idi Amin’s reign of terror in the 1970’s (as depicted in the movie The Last King of Scotland). What I wasn’t aware of was that other terrifying leaders followed, along with fierce clashes among people groups that continued into the late 1990’s, primarily “in the north.”

Even though the “peace process” has brought calmer times here in the 21^st century, an estimated one million Ugandans are still living as refugees from decades of civil conflict. They’re known to relief agencies as IDP's, or internally displaced persons, and are clustered together in “camps” by the thousands, many within only a few miles of their original homes. But even now, because of continuing “security restrictions,” they are stuck – forbidden to venture outside the camp perimeters to farm or have their own livelihoods. They depend largely on UN rations for food, international organizations for medicine and supplies, and their own government for not much at all. After living like this more well over a decade, many people I talked to have accepted these camps as their fate, saying these cramped communities are now their homes, and especially their children’s homes, since it’s all that the younger generations have ever known.

The living conditions in these camps were truly some of the worst I’ve ever seen. Nothing certainly compares to the aftermath of the tsunami, or even Hurricane Katrina, but as you take in your surroundings in this kind of situation, Something Inside you knows that man’s neglect is an equal or perhaps even greater tragedy than nature’s wrath. As always, though, I moved around an incomprehensible environment as unflinchingly as possible, taking a few photos here and there and asking easy questions about mosquitoes, when I really just wanted to scream “OH MY GOD WHAT CAN I DO TO HELP YOU GET OUT OF HERE?”

The mud-brick huts were built so closely together that the edges of their straw-thatched rooftops often touched, creating shady places for relief from the heat and, in the rainy season, perpetual puddles that were breeding havens for mosquitoes and disease. The people I interviewed were ultra-polite, often shy, but others stared stone-faced, especially the women (the hardest working yet most depreciated group in rural African society), and no English was spoken. There was little grass inside the camps, only dust and dirt or mud, making for dark-skinned children whose hours of outdoor play made them appear gray, even ghostly, the shade of ground. Some giggled when I passed, others shrieked in horror, but everyone, of all ages, turned and watched me closely.

Back in the main town, where the airstrip was, I had seen sign after sign pointing the way to aid agency offices, most of them familiar names of organizations I knew from Indonesia or before. Yet, when I was actually in the refugee camps, I saw little evidence of their presence – children looked extremely unhealthy, their clothes were ragged (if not nonexistent); families had few possessions, except an occasional mosquito net, a cooking pot and a sleeping mat. I just didn’t understand where any real help for these people was…

And then the tiny plane landed on the dirt runway and carried me away from that place that I still can’t believe exists on the same planet that America does, or even the capital city in its own country for that matter. It wasn’t until I was safely home, relishing in the comfort of eating popcorn on my overstuffed red chaise lounge watching The Office season premier, that I physically shuttered at the contrasting worlds I had just experienced. Less than 48 hours before I had been standing amid a manmade catastrophe of poverty and civil war and neglect...

So what was it about me that I was the one that deserved to get on a plane and leave it all behind and return to a life of ease and comfort, of excess and options?

In the quiet hours since then, I have realized that the Ugandan refugees did get on the plane with me, and followed me home, hidden away in my subconscious like stow-aways in the cargo hold. They are here with now as I type, along with my cup of freshly-brewed coffee and air conditioner and closet full of clothes. For years, I think my eyes have taken in more than my heart has ever begun to process. But that’s ok… in a few days, I’ll be back at work, back in the routine, back caring about all the little things that really don’t matter. Breathing deeply again. But for now, while jetlag awakens me into night’s dark hours, I will remember… the people, the sounds, the smells, the conversations in the radically different world that exists just a flight away.


walking into one of the camps - kids everywhere, laundry drying on rooftops, mom's working, a local food like low-quality potatoes lying out on mats waiting to be pounded in mush for porridge

a family portrait - eight of the nine children belonging to this unusually happy mother appeared for a photo

local kids clamored around me at this camp - both boys and girls were usually bald, most likely because of malnutrition

i was amazed with this little boy's toy car because i've so rarely seen children playing with anything like this

To learn more about what's going on in northern Uganda, here is a link to a recent speech on the situation. Or visit the UNHCR or Doctors Without Borders websites to understand the plight of the 33 million refugees in the world. I will eventually write about the good things about Uganda, because there were indeed many unforgettable moments, but these were the impressions I needed to share first, hoping we can all grow and learn a little bit from getting a glimpse of what goes on in parts of our world that really aren't that far away...

tanzania

Ok, so I have about a two hour flight ahead of me from the capital of Tanzania (Dar es Salaam) to the international airport in Uganda (Entebbe, though Kampala is the capital), and surely in that time I can spill something onto paper about the last nine days before I embark onto another phase of this journey, promptly forgetting all I’ve seen and done here.

Tanzania’s in eastern, southern Africa (am sharing this because I didn’t know either) and is home to Lake Victoria and the Serengeti plains in the north (think Lion King) and a gorgeous oceanic coastline in the east. The exotic island of Zanzibar is also just across the water from the lackluster metropolis of Dar.

All that said, it’s also one of the world’s poorest countries (annual household income of less than $300) and they’ve got a pretty terrible malaria problem, thus the reason for my visit. A U.S. government program that’s funded by your tax dollars has put millions into the fight against malaria here, beginning with successful efforts in Zanzibar two years ago. Mainland Tanzania is immensely more complex in size and scope, but they have still made strides against the country’s number one killer, and I’m here to document how.

After working in the malaria field for a few months now and traveling lots already, I have seen NOTHING like I saw in northern Tanzania, one of its most severely-affected areas. Sick people of all ages, packed hospital wards, empty shelves where medicines should be but supplies were completely depleted. It was all a truly shocking situation, because it wasn’t even rainy season yet when infection rates are always highest, so it’s only going to get worse. For perhaps the first time, I personally felt the sheer gravity of the disease and the urgency to do even more to help fight it.

And that message has already spread to others as well. In the relatively small town I worked out of the first four or five days of my time here, I connected (through a series of random, completely unplanned events) with another group of Americans, two of whom you’d likely recognize for winning an Oscar together years back – they went on to star in lots of movies and grace tabloid covers everywhere. Anyway, no names necessary, but suffice it to say, one was very nice and impressive, and the other, not so much. But I’m very thankful they both came to see firsthand what the realities are outside of the Western world, and I was able to end up spending a day with them as their “malaria expert” (ha!). Hopefully, they’ll use their spotlight to raise awareness for the ongoing plight of the suffering and struggling in Africa and beyond.

Almost as interesting to me, was that one of people traveling with them was the inventor of the ONE campaign, which I have loved and supported for years. My life is just so random …

I learned quickly on my travels around the countryside, that Tanzania’s topography is immensely varied. Within an hours drive, I went from the fertile shoreline of Lake Victoria (the world’s second largest inland lake) to one of the most bizarre landscapes I’ve ever seen as I traveled east toward the Serengeti -- rolling hillsides spotted with gigantic, haphazardly-placed rock formations. Many resembled larger versions of Stonehenge, but not quite so systematic, and they perhaps even looked like moon rocks, too (if that even makes sense) but set against the back drop of open fields and traditional huts. It was very, very strange and made me think that people who don’t believe in the Flood should really go to northern Tanzania and see these crazy rocks. I just can’t imagine how else they got there….

Aside from the landscape, I must confess that I wasn’t nearly as enamored with Tanzania as I was with Ethiopia. Some African countries that I’ve visited seem to have a stronger sense (or display) of their own cultural traditions and history than others. For example, there was no clear Tanzanian food that I could find, except for fish from Lake Victoria. They boasted chapattis as their own, but we all know that’s an Indian thing, though there are indeed lots of Indians in Tanzania. The only traditional dress that I could discern was that of the Masaii people, who you may recognize as those whose men wear long red plaid cloaks and are often pictured standing stoically with spears and shields. But the ones I saw were more likely to be holding cell phones. Apparently, lack of rainfall and other environmental factors of recent years have forced the Masaii from their nomadic lifestyle of the past millenniums, and thousands have now flocked to the cities looking for work. But not leaving the red traditional robes at home…

Yesterday was last day in Tanzania and I had returned from the moon rock-laden countryside to the capital to visit (among other things) an urban larvaciding project. Sounds fascinating, I know, but this is indeed my life now. So what they do in this one-of-a-kind-in-the-world project is kill the mosquito larvae before they hatch. No mosquitoes = no malaria. But since Dar is a city of about three million people they have to do this on massive scale, thus making it so unique.

Anyway, I went with the mosquito experts all around town, visiting mostly small swampy areas in densely-populated residential areas. But then we stopped at an area that was reportedly one of their biggest challenges to treat – massive sewage lagoons that are no longer in use, but can still collect rain water where mosquitoes breed. So, we get out of the car and are walking across a muddy, open area toward the large, mostly-empty man-made ponds, when one of the guys turns and says something to me. Since accents can often hinder ones understanding, I thought he said something about a field, and innocently called back to him, “What about the field?” He and his colleague chuckled aloud, and the other guy, who spoke perfect English, stopped and said back, “He was telling you to be careful because you are walking on feces.”

Now, what does one say to that, or even do in such a situation? I knew they were partly teasing me and the sewage had been treated and buried, just like any old landfill anywhere. But still! I paused only for a moment, looking down at the over-sized white boots they’ve loaned me (God only knows why they have white boots for such a nasty job), and thinking of the semi-heavy camera bag on one shoulder. I knew the odds were in my favor for a fall any second – either from stumbling in the big rubber boots or the shock of now knowing what I was *really* standing on.

And it was at that moment that I tapped into that part of myself that so often kicks in and overrides my natural inclinations, making me be able to do what I do and go where I’ve gone. And in the best Swahili I could muster, I looked back at them, shrugged my shoulders and said, “Hakuna matata.” No worries. And I kept right on walking…


But here are just a few glimpses into Tanzania before I go...

a child hospitalized with malaria

the Stonehenge/moon rocks jutting from behind a traditional hut

cute smiling faces everywhere, as always

sunset over Lake Victoria

ethiopia

I just spent 12 days in 1999. No, I’m not time traveling now, or having delusional episodes – but it’s still 1999 in Ethiopia, according to their national calendar, the result of a centuries old squabble with the Catholic church. So, I just arrived home to Baltimore from almost two weeks spent amid the throes of preparation for another new millennium, which dawns on September 12th. Aside from some minor chronological confusion, it was my favorite kind of work trip (unlike the last one, which was all meetings) – this was solely documentation, with me, a film crew, and colleagues who quickly became new friends – traipsing around the countryside recording the successful story of malaria prevention efforts there.

From uber remote villages to the bustling cosmopolitan streets of the capital, Addis Ababa, we maximized our time, at one point covering more than 1500 kilometers in less than six days! The drive could only be compared to mine and Jennifer’s infamous India bus journey with its wicked, slightly-terrifying twists and turns. But the scenery alone was well worth the fanny fatigue of marathon car rides, not to mention how successful the work aspect was. Ethiopia is, bar none, one of the most beautiful countries I’ve ever been to. The northern region (where we spent most of our travel time) is saturated with massive, spectacular mountains, vibrant green fields, and an immense variety of huts and houses scattered across endless vistas.

It was rainy season in most of the country, so it was pretty wet and surprisingly cold – averaging in the upper 60’s, but the altitude of most of the country keeps it temperate year-around. The people were friendly, charming and strikingly attractive. However, their bizarre tendency to *gasp* (seriously) instead of saying “yes” or “umm” or nodding their head was a bit disconcerting until I got used to it. We also ran across fluent English speakers constantly, even in tiny towns. Also, not once did I see a piece of garbage on the ground. To me, though, it was indicative of Ethiopians’ pride and patriotism, feelings that were well understood after just a short time there.

Ethiopia boasts one of the world’s oldest civilizations and is said to be home to the infamous Queen of Sheba, whose son with the biblical King Solomon is believed to have stolen the Ark of the Covenant and brought it back to his home in northern Ethiopia. We visited the dilapidated church in the ancient city of Aksum that supposedly houses this mysterious piece of history, only to find that it was viewable only by chosen priests once a year. Women couldn’t even enter the sanctuary where it resides, encased by heavy curtains in a design much like the Old Testament “Holy of Holies.” The male members of our team scoped it out and left uncertain… Obviously, it’s a job for Indian Jones himself.

With a biblically entwined history like this, modern Ethiopians are mostly Ethiopian Orthodox – a overtly-devoted type of Christianity that compares to ones practiced in parts of northern Africa and the Middle East. Cathedrals with bulb-type domes popped up on even the most remote hillsides, as did barefoot kids wearing more cross necklaces than Madonna in the 80’s. Ancient rock-hewn churches carved into towering mountainsides also remain as revered pilgrimage sites for Ethiopians and evidence of centuries of persevering faith. The iconography of these places of worship is uniquely Ethiopian – generations of artists have etched wide-eyed, almost cartoonish, biblical figures in an endless variety of scenes. I even came home with my own Ethiopian depiction of the Last Supper. Suffice it to say, Jesus is not a white dude. It’s a very favorite souvenir, along with my traditional coffee pot…

Which brings me to (what is to me at least) another impressive Ethiopian historical claim – it is the birthplace of coffee. Whether it’s true or not is still up for debate, but the country fosters its validity by serving up a java masterpiece at even the most inconspicuous stop. You won’t find Nescafe instant stuff here, only clay pots or industrial sized espresso machines, with no in-between. The impeccable taste likely comes from the beans themselves, which are grown widely on small, humble farms, cultivated solely by hand. In one of the extremely remote villages that we visited (a 15 minute hike down a mud path, after a 10 minute walk up a narrow dirt road, following a 45 minute drive along a deserted gravel road), we were invited to a traditional coffee ceremony by the community matriarch, known to everyone (including us) as “Mama.”

Mama wouldn’t take “no” for an answer and ushered our gaggle of ferengi (“foreigners” in Amharic, the language of Ethiopia) into her thatch-roofed hut. While we had been at her neighbor’s house seeing a brand new baby sleeping under bed net, Mama had already prepared a virtual Ethiopian banquet for us – coffee, fresh baked enjira (their staple food, much like an enormous pancake), and popcorn (half-popped, salted kernels actually, so very delicious). We’d eaten so much at lunch just before our trek, though, that I just couldn’t force myself to eat the mound of enjira that Mama had graciously served me, which was equivalent probably to five or six slices of bread. So, I nibbled on it slowly, pondering my dilemma. I didn't want to appear rude or ungrateful, or make another cultural faux pas (I’d made several already at this point in the trip, mainly by asking for coffee “too early” during a meal), so I waited until our group was laughing at someone else’s faux pas going on across the room then I quickly folded up the slab of pancake and stuffed it in my pocket. Thankfully, my Marmott rain jacket has many fantastic features, including very big pockets.

Though I could ramble on for hours with anecdotes of our misadventures, people’s kindness, and adorable children (or “pantless wonders” as we began to call them after seeing so many who’d forgotten their lower apparel), I will sign off for now since I actually have to write the entire experience up for work as well. I will try to have a link up to photos from the trip soon, so the images can speak for themselves… In the meantime, here’s Mama’s lovely coffee ceremony set up, and a few more to give you a glimpse into life in 1999.

geneve

Or at least that’s how they say it there – the French pronunciation of “Geneva,” which is where I was when I began writing yesterday. The new job has already taken me overseas, here on week three of work! I spent five days in Switzerland for meetings and arrived last night in Nairobi, Kenya, for more meetings and project site visits. Next, we’ll head to Lusaka, Zambia, for a conference and some additional field visits. It’ll be about three weeks travel in all and will (and has already) given me a great introduction into the program, the global public health scene, and how our work fits in with it all. It’s exciting, but I think I’d be much less excited if it was solely meetings without the prospect of being on dusty African road with my camera in just a few days…

It was a great few days in Geneva. Well, the meetings, confessionally, were excruciatingly boring at times. Seriously, the during first full-day of meetings, which followed a 13-hour day of pre-meeting meetings, I was literally nodding off so badly that I was almost falling out of my chair. Jet-lag? Not knowing what was going on? Perhaps a blend of both, but by the end things had radically improved. And I think no one saw me dozing off…

See, by week’s end, I had made some friends, and with me and everyone, that always makes things better. One Latina New Yorker who’d lived worldwide and most recently in Africa, pre-Geneva, invited me to a concert with her and some friends. It turned out to be one of the most fantastic music events I’ve been to in probably years and was salve to my live-music starved soul. The band was local Swiss artists, but the sultry lead singer was Argentinian and sang jazz-infused Tango ballads for hours, accompanied by a band that included an awe-inspiring saxophonist who could have easily joined up with Tower of Power or the Dirty Dozen Brass Band and fit right in. I’m digressing into over-description now, but it was fabulous.

Anyway, the next day, an old Red Cross acquaintance who’s now a Geneva local took me and some others onto a spectacular tour of the region – from the local wineries which were celebrating the annual “wine tour day” on the Swiss side of Geneva, to a quaint, picturesque town nearby where the Alps towered alongside the crystal clear lake, to the top of Mount Blanc in France where the smallness of the earth below was placed radically in perspective after a 15 minute cable-car ride thousands of feet upward. It was quite a full day of relishing in the beauty of the region, and I realized as it ended that I rarely thought about work at all… ahhh….

Something the American local resident pointed out in an extended positive response to my question, “Do you like it here better than in the States?” was how much simpler life is there, how less noisy. He motioned out the car window to the countryside along the French/Swiss border and asked what we saw – only lush open space, houses in the distance, and the magnificent snow-capped Alps in the background. “What do you not see?” he asked. And it was almost instantly clear – there were no billboards, no advertisements of any kind. Nothing said “buy me” or “eat this,” only Nature whispered, “appreciate the beauty of the landscape.” I couldn’t help but think of the cluttered mountain vistas along interstate 81 as the Smoky Mountains emerge in Virginia and stretch into Tennessee. Those hillsides with tragically-cluttered views advertising the next McDonald’s, Cracker Barrel or gas station. There was none of that in Switzerland, none in the French Alps we visited, and very little in a city as cosmopolitan as Geneva. The American local described it as a completely different lifestyle, one with exponentially less noise, and where you go into a local shop and are welcomed as if you’re entering someone’s home. Some of this I could grasp from my time in Indonesia, but after being back in America “the land of options” for months, my awareness of this less-chaotic, non-consumer-driven existence had waned. It felt incredible to be abroad again, like my mind and soul could breathe deeply amid all that quiet, open space…

And then there was yesterday. A day which annually accentuates a lingering ache in my heart. It began with a 5:30 a.m. cab ride to the airport with colleagues, then progressed into a pain-staking boarding and security process through the airport. I guess my (literally) six electric chargers for my array of camera equipment and other gadgets set off some sort of alert, and when I finally slunk into the boarding area for my gate, I felt emotionally frisked and deliberately harassed. Through all of this, at every stop, my colleagues had abandoned me – moving on about their business with little notice or concern for my whereabouts or predicaments. Perhaps I’m just very blessed to have traveled so much with friends that love me and look out for me (and vice versa), or perhaps my heart was a bit tender from the subconscious thoughts of Mother’s Day, but their indifference had only added to the airport’s insults and heaped more metaphorical weight into my 40 pound pack and camera bag.

I boarded the plane silent, heavy-hearted and sleepy and made my way to my seat. As I stopped beside my aisle and heaved my bag toward the overhead, I heard a quiet, calm voice from a nearby seat say, “Do you need help?” I breathed deeply for the first time all day, as I heard the simple phrase I’d needed to hear for last several hours. “No, I think I’ve got it,” I said, without taking my eyes off the bag that was still tilted upward. With a final heave, I stuffed it in and moved to sit down, and only then did I look and see the sweet-faced, middle-aged man that answered my unspoken prayer for help. And he was sitting with a Bible opened in his lap.

My heart and soul were saturated in comfort, as I smiled, knowing that God always knows just what we need.

Here’s a view from the top of Mount Blanc, and if you need it, may it help you, too, find a little perspective today…

surreal

If you had told me just over a month ago that I would be moving to Baltimore and working at Johns Hopkins, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you had told me even a few days ago that I would be having lunch at the White House and going to a Rose Garden ceremony, I definitely wouldn’t have believed you. But, as I’ve learned again recently, when things “fall into place,” they can do so rather quickly, and all of the above actually did come true.

And here I am, at the end of perhaps one of the most surreal days of my life, knowing that though I’m utterly exhausted, I absolutely had to write about it. So, how do I retrace the steps that led me to the White House lawn today? The short version is as follows:

One of my friends that worked with me in Indonesia took a job with Johns Hopkins right after leaving Banda Aceh. In early May, she invited me to her office where I met the communications person working on her program, who in turn told me all about the communications center at Hopkins and all the cool work they do. Since its all health based (as opposed to disaster relief), I really hadn’t heard of it before but was intrigued. They had no open positions to speak of, but we had a nice chat.

Two days later, she called me and said that a colleague had just announced she was leaving. That colleague called me the very next day, and I soon found myself in a fast forward interview process for an amazing, yet highly unexpected, job opportunity.

Long story short, I am now Director of Advocacy for Johns Hopkins global malaria prevention programs. I have moved to Baltimore into a great new apartment, and today, on Day 6 on the job, I found myself at the White House, listening attentively as George and Laura championed the cause for which I’m now advocating – a preventable, treatable disease that kills a child in Africa ever 30 seconds. Yep, that’s about a million people per year.

It was a surreal day, though almost typical of the whirlwind my life has become in the past few weeks – interviewing, weighing options (overseas vs. U.S. work), accepting the job, finding a place to live in a city I knew relatively little about, moving all my stuff from Virginia Beach in a U-haul the size of a school bus… and that’s far from everything. As you can imagine, it’s all been quite hectic and exhausting, yet exhilarating and surreal (there’s that word again).

But just so you know that I’m keeping it real and am far from getting caught up in anything (other than tripping over the boxes that line every inch of my new abode), I’ll share this snippet of my day…

I left late (of course) this morning to meet my new boss and catch the early train to D.C. and found myself sprinting (ah, the familiar dash) to the station in heels and a suit to make it on time. Which I did. But to my horror, as I collapsed into the seat and reached toward my backpack to get out my make-up and powder my spritzing face, I realized that I left my make-up bag IN THE CAR! Click click click goes the train, carrying me further and further away from my mascara and concealer. I’m going to the White House and don’t have on a drop of make-up. Any woman understands how mortified I was at that moment, but from somewhere deep, deep inside, that same Sense of Knowing emerged that led me to this point in the first place… Bonnie, it’s going to be ok.

And with that, I accepted that George, Laura, my new boss and all these new faces that I was destined to meet today would be getting their first glimpse of me a la natural… And I was somehow totally ok with it. So, off I went… to the fancy PR firm, to the White House, to the Congressional testimony, to the reception we hosted afterwards, meeting all these people, new colleagues, congressmen, “important” folks and such.... Nice suit, great top, and no make-up…

And it was a fantastic day.