As things settle more or less into a routine here, living and working has become, well... routine. Things that seemed so exciting at first have turned into simple facts. At first, walking to work through scary neighborhoods was just terrifying, but then it became exciting. Now I'm struck less with feelings of awe and interest than I am with boredom and, at times, frustration. It isn't that I ever enjoyed seeing all the used syringes, broken glass, empty liquor bottles, etc, so much as at first it was new, and new things are always exciting (to me). I was struck, more or less, by the novelty of it all, and felt so fortunate to be able to experience a new and very different place. Now I find myself feeling angry at people leaving dangerous substances and objects on the street, disgusted by the amounts of trash, and both angry and disgusted with the people (usually young men) who yell things at me as I walk by their homes, businesses, etc. I find myself having conversations with these men in my head, yelling at them for suggesting the things they do, explaining that I have a degree from a very well respected college and have chosen to live far below the poverty line this year in order to serve the homeless in this city, explaining to them that I have every right to be in this neighborhood because I LIVE here, telling them that they can kindly go to hell, etc. etc. These mental conversation rarely use polite language.

Community living has also lost some of its initial charm. Like anything else, living in an intentional community is most trying when other things aren't going well. It's one thing for us to all get along (in the Voluntary Service unit, as well as RHHP residents as a whole) while we're all feeling fulfilled and loved and happy, but it is quite another to respect and respond to everyones needs when we just want to be alone, or to watch something on TV, or to use the computer, or to make food, or to take a long shower, or anything else that might (and usually does) clash with someone else's needs and expectations. But we're learning.

I guess I've been thinking a lot about times that I remember as being better and easier than life seems now. I miss college like crazy, especially having my roommate to talk to and hang out with all the time. I miss the feelings I had while living and working in Nicaragua and Kenya. I miss the feeling that I was experiencing and a part of something truly great, something that made a difference, something that would change me and the people I was working for and with.

When I'm honest with myself, though, I know that while I was living those times in college or Nicaragua or Kenya, I went through the same honeymoon-to-routine transition that I am going through here and now. Sure, most of what I remember (or don't, haha) from college are the nights going out to Froggy's or the cow, wine nights at the Tavern, whispering with Angela in the back of art lecture in Dittmann. But there were also so many nights I cried myself to sleep, was angry at friends, was up until 2 writing papers, spent hours and hours drawing dead babies... I just chose not to remember those times, because they weren't the ones that mattered the most. I remember taking long naps in the hammock on the porch in Nicaragua, walking through the village and hearing little kids yelling "Margarita! Margarita! Maggie! Hola!" and waving enthusiastically. I remember the mangoes. Oh God, the mangoes... and from Kenya I remember making balloon animals at orphanages, swimming in the Indian Ocean, going to prayer services where 4 or more languages were being used simultaneously, but I chose to forget the rough times. I have NEVER felt so lonely as I did in Kenya, I have never been so sick as when I had dysentery and an internal parasite, and I have never been so spiritually confused and angry as I was seeing the slums. But even the bad things that I do remember I tend to chose to view positively- the slums were horrible, but taught me to seek (and find) Jesus in the midst of living hell. The hospital with the dirt floor and dead children lying on cots and people openly bleeding from various wounds was disgusting, but showed me where my heart REALLY is when it comes to "the least of these" (far away).

So now as I stay awake, listening to gunshots and sirens, worrying that I'm not smart enough, strong enough, or good enough for my job or community, I remind myself that no time in my life was perfect. Weren't there tears? Wasn't there pain? Wasn't there horrible, horrible diarrhea? The answer is, inevitably, yes (though not to ALL of those questions in every situation). I also take comfort in the fact that, weeks or months or years from now, when I'm longing for the greatness of community and inner-city living and direct service to homeless, I will remember the good times more than the bad, that I will start to see the bad times as good times, and that I will appreciate all of the pain and anger and disgusting things as opportunities that shaped me into a more well-rounded person.

Maybe if I tell myself enough that one day I'll miss, or at least have learned from, the syringes and gunshots and cat calls I will be better able to deal with them now. You have to take the dysentery along with the mangoes.

addendum: if you have or are recently recovering from dysentery, you should not, under any circumstances, attempt to eat a mango. i'm am using that as a figure of speech. if you have or are recovering from dysentery, please eat plain rice, plain bread, and bananas. also, take as much cipro as you can get your hands on. try to be discrete about asking your kenyan host father for prayers about it because, culturally, you maybe shouldn't be talking to him about shit, least of all copious amounts of it quickly leaving your body. lastly, you should be lying down and crying, not reading my blog. thanks.