playing the "last time" game

Almost every day when I go to Sala's house I take the same road. A gravel/sand path wide enough for a horse cart that breaks off from the main street. It cuts behind the rows and rows of shops selling tea, sugar, flashlights, and other basics. Winding back to run parallel to the wall that marks Lexeiba's cemetery. I've never been inside. Death is usually something that falls in the men's responsibility here and women often have little to do with the "funeral"-type arrangements. But if you stand on your tiptoes or glance through the breaks in the stones you can see piles of small rocks, sometimes actual signs, to indicate the graves of loved ones who have passed.

Walking along this wall you are heading towards the center of town. Piles of burned trash leave ashen scar marks in the sand and little kids sometimes run with homemade pull-cars or iron circles they keep upright by pushing them with a stick (think Williamsburg, Virginia, and you'll get the idea). It's here that, every day, I pass by the same tree. Caught between the main road and the graveyard, it stands almost barren. The branches twist, reaching desperately outward. If you catch it around noon when the shadows fall straight down it outlines the shapes of three different trees joined at the trunk. At the base, where the roots almost protrude, the soil is a dark brown red, brick colored from the daily slaughter by the nearby butcher.

He washes each sheep or goat deliberately the day before, letting it dry in the sun. Then early in the morning he brings them here, to the foreboding trunk of this dying tree, faces them east towards Mecca, says "Bismillah"- in the name of Allah, and quickly and without hesitation or suffering, kills them. Their blood stains the ground, their bodies will feed the people. He hangs the animal from a low hanging branch to skin it and when he is done, leaves the pelt to dry during the day. He will sell it to a leather worker later. As he takes the animal to his shop to sell, the tree hangs back. Who knows why the tree is dying-- or was, anyway.

For the last few months every time I walk by this tree I think to myself- I have to take a picture of this. Beauty in barrenness. The simplicity of the thick branches tapering into thin limbs without the confusion of leaves to cover things up. The implicit urgency of how they reach out like arm stretching after a cramped sleep or a lazy Saturday. The quietness of it all the loneliness of it all. It is my favorite tree in the village.

But just last week on my near-daily walk by one of my constants, there it was lying flat on the ground. Branches broken, torn from their sockets, the trunk cut cleanly near the russet sand. Every day when i walked by that tree I knew there was a chance it would not be there the next. But I still missed my picture. I still didn't appreciate what I had when it was there, and how much it brought to my habitual, monotonous routine. And it happened. Sooner than I thought for sure That part of my brain that knew it wasn't forever mumbled an "I told you so" to my lazy consciousness.

In lieu of this event, I am officially opening my eyes. Instead of waiting the short three months until I leave, I am consciously starting to miss this place while I am still here. I am taking pictures, I am writing more. I am trying to let the hard, frustrating, difficult and angering things roll off my back more easily than I usually allow them to. Because there's so little time left. Out of my near 26 month service, only about 10% remains. In this time I've watched my students at the Girls' Mentoring Center finish two grades. I've taught 100+ lessons and facilitated many others. I've seen the raod to my site be built. Two rainy seasons (almost three), two cold seasons, two hot seasons. I have, thanks to funding from the Gender and Development Committee, brought solar panels, a generator, and brand new computers to our center. I have been so happy I've cried, and certainly just as sad. I've been sick, homesick, tired, hot, and just vaguely uncomfortable for the better part of two years. And there is nothing about this experience that I would give up.

Looking at my service through a different lens helps me to see my impact, however small, on the lives of my family, friends, and students. If I ever doubted it, the good experiences I've had here have absolutely outweighed the bad. If I can do this, I can do anything.

So expect more in these next few months. I'm opening my eyes wider because I know I will miss this, even if it's difficult to see while I'm here.