Showing posts with label Blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blog. Show all posts
I started going for lunch time mass at Christ The King, a
while back when I was a bit troubled. I could not get my mind to settle. I
would describe my mind at that time as Monday morning traffic chaos in
Kampala just before the traffic policeman/woman calmly arrives to start their
shift.
So I took myself to the one place my mother taught me to go. Church. I had hoped I’d have a better chance of finding Him
in his house rather than in mine. I wanted God to be a good traffic police man
and set everything back in order. I
wanted him to arrive on his police motorcycle with the orange light rotating
and flashing, whistle in mouth, clip
board under the arm, black boots
polished, white uniform freshly ironed,
ready to magically unlock all the confounded cars and taxis in my mind
stuck in grid lock.
Church helped. The familiar pattern of mass helped still my
mind, so much so that I somehow rekindled one of my ‘bad’ habits. From a young age I have always loved the idea
of mass, the ritual of the movements, the rhythm and repetition in
the priest’s voice and the congregation's, the predictable
silences, the familiar hymns… I could go on…but for now let me stick to my
‘bad’habit. When I get distracted from
my prayer, I love watching other people pray. There is so much you can learn about a person just by looking at how they interact with God. I actually think that people
are at their most vulnerable in church, because church has totally different
social cues. For one you enter silently and sit, no need to greet your
neighbor, no need to introduce
yourself, no need to tell people who you are. After all you are here to
talk to God, and he already knows who you are.
So this habit of studying people in church, resurfaced
during lunch time mass. And since my mother was no longer around to nudge my
shoulder, or gently bow my head in prayer when my mind faulted, I settled back
into my habit of studying people as they arrived, took their seats, and knelt to begin their private
internal conversation with God. (I know...I know... it's a terrible habit which all story tellers need 😉 )
Some
really interesting occurrences happened since the first time I attended. Today I have decided to share just three on
this blog. Three that to this day have remained in my mind.
THE FIRST STORY: So this didn't happened in church, but it certainly surprised me. One time I stepped out of office to get a boda boda to church. I waved
down one, and asked him the price to Christ The King. He seemed vague about it, so I assertively told him ‘ 1000ugx, that all I have!’. He didn’t
quarrel, I hopped on, and we whizzed off to church. When we arrived, he parked his boda boda, I proceeded to pay
him and to my surprise he refused to take
the money. He took off his helmet and calmly walked off into the church
for mass. And that was my first and last free boda boda ride to church. 😲😲😲
THE SECOND STORY: I was late, it was
lent season so the inside of the church was packed. I spread out my scarf and sat on the circular steps that surround the
entrance to the church. As we got busy
saying the apostles creed. A bare footed women in dirty clothes approached the church. she was
lamenting and crying to herself, and to anyone who would listen. She had a stack
of tattered leaflets with her and she was trying to give them to people but they would
twist their faces and move out of her way. You know the bronze statue of Jesus
with the big feet outside of Christ the King? She stopped before it and knelt down. I swear
she prayed straight from her heart with so much humility. I could feel it,
remember I told you I have experience in
watching people at church. I can tell who’s authentic. At one point she got up
and flipped though her leaflets and picked
out the best ones she could find, the glossy ones with the least amount of dampness from her tears. Then she lay them at Jesus’s feet. She gave her offering. Her best offering. Remember that story in the bible the one with the sick women who just knew if she touched Jesus , she’d be healed. What about that story when Jesus mentioned the greatness of the poor lady's offering in the temple verses the rich man? This reminded
me of that. Because as she prayed she didn’t seem so tortured by her personal
demons anymore. Then after five
minutes, she got up and carried on walking, returning right back to the state she
entered our presence in, lamenting and handing leaflets to strangers. Never saw
her again. But I’d like to naively think she has many regular conversations with Jesus.
THE THIRD STORY: It was another lent season, I was sat
outside on the steps as usually. I wasn’t alone there were other late comers
like me. Around Fifteen minutes into
mass, as they were reading the second reading . We see a short thin woman hobbling closer to us trying to reach the steps at the entrance
of the church. She can barely move her feet because of the unusual heavy bundle on her back and the aged handbag and blue & green mukeka in her hands. the bundle is wrapped in a lesu with a common
picture of the virgin Mary on it. When she reaches the steps , she balances herself, lays out the mukeka, places down her bag, then slowly and cautiously manages to put her bundle down. The bundle starts to move and unravel itself. It's boy, a boy with
a head that is too big for it's body. The size of his head informs us that some special operation must be done to fix it. We all know in Uganda that will cost money, and from the looks of the lady she doesn't have much to spare. So where did she turn to? Church. God's house. The lady doesn’t make any
eye contact with anyone, she knows we are all staring at her, and the boy .
Despite all this, she joins in the prayers with us, because I am sure she is used to our reaction by now, we can’t be
the first group of people to stare, possibly judge and then pity them. When mass is down she asks for no help, puts
her son on her back, balances her bag and mukeka, and leaves as she came. For three days , everyone who sits
outside with me at mass, we watch her come and say her prayers and leave. Then
one day when it is time for the offertory, every single one of us takes our offertory and places it on the mukeka next to her. She is so shocked that
we see her cry silently throughout the rest of mass. Like I said earlier, during mass
the social cues are different. In the street I mind my own business, but in
church this women could have fitted quite comfortably into anyone of Jesus’
parables, so at mass she becomes our business. After Easter, I never see her or her son at
mass again. I don’t think we helped her much, in fact I think her faith and
determination to get to mass everyday with her son actually helped us. It
helped me put a lot into perspective. I
think bronze Jesus with the big feet sent her to teach us something. My mind
went very still that day. Things were crisp and clear like that first breath of fresh air during an early morning walk.
We become different creatures on the way to God’s house and also while we are in it.So maybe God didn’t arrive in a motorcycle, lights flashing,
whistle ready to blow. He arrived the way he does. Unexpectedly. And I got the message.
(btw find me on twitter @mariajulietrose 😀)
(btw find me on twitter @mariajulietrose 😀)
Love is a REALLY powerful.
But is it's strength really that useful?
I don’t know. Romeo and Juliet killed each other. Didn’t
they send a whole army of ships after Helen of Troy? I hope she was worth it…..
I feel so defeated
saying this, but I must confess. I have let people get to me.
I have let the worst
possible people get to me. I have let them ruin a fundamental part of who I am.
The part that believes in love. I am at that
point in my life movie where I want to chuck the bottle into the sea and never
look back. Literally. Please God don’t send that troublesome two-timing lying
bottle flowing back……
What if it’s just too
overwhelming for me? Maybe I’m like a child who gets given chocolate/sugar for
the first time. I’m that child who got that sugar rush and run around the house
for a full hour afterwards. It was just too much for me! I can’t anymore… I don’t know how to be
patient, and hope I figure it out.
Either all my cards are on the table or they’re not… I don’t
know how to bluff!
“ But you are always too intenseFrightening in the way you want himUnashamed and sacrificial.” ~ Warsan Shire
I am not a poetry expert or that much of a fan but I feel poetry
should speak to your soul. That quote speaks to MY SOUL. It makes me sing gospel like Aretha
Franklin in my head … so I had to place it somewhere. Please bare with me as I chop,
dissect, mold, pound and cook the ingredients
of this story into a lovely meal of a blog post
for you. Forgive me for the sad aftertaste, I have yet to discover the right kind of seasoning to
disguise it.
When people ask me about grief, I often tell them about the
strangeness of losing my mother.
One odd moment still stands out.
I remember us. When I say us I mean my siblings, their wives
(soon to be), their children, and family friends who I consider siblings all
hurdled up in the masters bedroom upstairs, looking through family albums.
Theses albums were created by my mother. She always had a
camera. ALWAYS. Do you remember those
cameras in the 90’s? The one which required you to carefully roll out part of the
film. Do you remember the rewinding sound? Do remember how you had to try so hard
not to touch the film? That was my mum….. always prepared to capture that
moment; to capture those memories for the albums. It’s really a wonder she never became
a professional photographer. I mean she knew nothing about technology in that
way, but she certainly enjoyed taking photos of the people she loved.
So there we were all hurdled together, a day after her death
looking for photos to put in her funeral book. You know the one that has the
order of mass, the hymns, and a short bio of the deceased? Yes, that one. I am not sure how this odd moment occurred
but somehow it did. All I can tell you
is that grief is strange. Maybe it was
my mother’s spirit upon us , who knows?
She always loved bringing people together. She really was the
quintessential definition of ‘ home’. Anyways …two minutes into looking through
the albums, we started recalling the stories behind these captured moments ,
and before you know it we were laughing, the fresh mourning tears were still
streaming down our faces…but we were laughing. All those happy childhood
memories came flooding back, including the awkward moments where our mother
would pull out the camera and chase us down till she got her photo.
As we flipped through the pages, pulling out our favourite
photos, I had one of my famous epiphanies.
It was really special.
My heart is smiling as I write about these next few
sentences.
I figured out what my mother's legacy was.
Her legacy was LOVE
It was LOVE.
It will always be LOVE.
My mother’s legacy was her ABILITY TO LOVE. She LOVED hard
and she LOVED strong. I don’t know
anybody in my life who can LOVE like my mother did. That’s what they said at her funeral. They
said her heart was too big. They said people could wrong her and she’d still be
there. I don’t know whether they wanted to give the impression that it was her
weakness, but it stayed with me. People failed my mother. People knowingly
failed my mother multiple times. I feel like the world was always telling her
to seek power, to be vengeful, and ditch people when they misbehaved. She couldn’t.
It wasn’t her nature. She was loyal. Lord knows she should have been treated better
by those around her, and they know it too. Yet they want to make it her
mistake; they want to make it seem like she was flawed in that way.
"You can’t make a home out of human beingsSomeone should have told you that.” ~ Warsan Shire
When I look in the mirror, I see her. I see her cheeks. I
see her lips. I see my mother’s vulnerability staring back at me. I love all those things about my mother, but I wonder if they are things I need to change
in myself. I don’t know if I am as strong as her . I hate that when I break up with a boyfriend they never truly leave my essence.
I still love them despite all that they are. Which brings me back to the
question that I asked earlier……. Is the power of love really that useful? The
world keeps telling me that Love doesn’t win
Love. Doesn’t. Win.
I need to pack up my favorite fairytales and romantic
comedies, the ones that I had stashed away to share with my daughter someday.
It’s time to give them away.
I am so sad I am
coming to this realization. I have to
throw away that part of me that that was holding on to ‘love wins’. Is it a
just a concept? An idea that was constructed? One that stayed with us for
centuries until we thought it was true, like a really good myth, a story some
grandma told long ago.
There is no happy ending to this story, except maybe the
fact that I was able to write it, and now hopefully let it go.
"Grieve, so that you can be free to feel so meting else" - Nayyirah Waheed
Let me write from the heart.
My natural instinct is to always consult my heart first.
Whether I listen to my heart is a totally different matter. This world sometimes
require us to do the total opposite of what our heart asks.
But for now let me listen to it and write from the heart.
Nursery school are my first few memories of being in an
environment where social acceptance wasn’t assured. It’s where I first learnt
the concept of feeling alone, but not actually being alone, Nursery school was
where I learnt that the world was bigger than home. I was dropped off by my father every morning, and even with
welcoming teachers and making new friends, I felt alone. I felt separate. I
felt like I could easily be forgotten. Dismissed. Overlooked.
Don’t worry. Eventually, I found it fun; this new world. I learnt my way around. My teacher wrote in one of my reports that I
spent more time taking care of other children than playing. I wonder what my mother and father thought
when they read that. Especially, since I was the youngest in the house. Where
could that have possible come from? It seems I was more concerned with giving
myself a purpose in order to fit in.
I am reflecting on
that moment because I see around me a number of people who struggle with feelings
of loneliness. I think sometimes we are scared to say that on some days we not comfortable in this world. Sometimes the mission of
existing is tough, and the experience is rough. But we are scared to say in case we appear
ungrateful.
Someone asked those same
questions long ago, and it even inspired them to write a poem. Have you heard of the poem ‘The Dark Night of the Soul’ by St John of the Cross?
In the happy night,
In secret, when none saw me,
Nor I beheld aught,
Without light or guide, save that which burned in my
heart.
He writes about this strange euphoria he experiences in mist
of despair, when he finally realizes the purpose of his suffering. (btw... I am
not saying that we are all Saints) I love his honesty in the poem. I love the
fact that his journey is not always blissful. That there are moments of doubt,
fear, loneliness and even dullness in the process of life. As much as we try to
fill our lives with things people, places, there will always be emptiness.
There will always be sharp moments of stillness. Thoughts that remind us that this
is all temporary and we are mortal. It
will always catch up with us but it doesn’t have to overcome us, most likely
there is a purpose to not fitting in so neatly into this world.
Years ago, I went on a catholic retreat. We visited a monastery for the weekend. I don’t even remember the name and yet it had such a
monumental impact on my life. I was going through a break up and the stress of
back to back assignments at University. My friends and I were also going
through the tensions of renting a house together for two years. I needed a
break. The Catholic Student’s society offered one, so I packed my bags and
disappeared for the weekend.
What I found interesting about this retreat is the fact that
the Monks were not allowed to talk to
each other. That was one of their vows. One of their sacrifices. They spent
their days in silence, with very little time in the day allocated to speaking.
An hour into the retreat, we joined then, we sacrificed our voice to God and began
our silence. I spent atleast 24 hours in silence. Solitude.
In our world with 7.1 billion people, everyone must struggle
in some way to be seen, to be noticed to be acknowledged. Office politics, social
circles, family gatherings, daily life require us to use our voices and our
words, our conversations, and body language to assert our presence. Imagine a
world where you can’t. Imagine if those 7.1 billion people were told they could not
speak to anyone for two days. How would we communicate with each other? Imagine
if we took it further and said everyone must wear the same clothing. What would
that do for egos? How would people be able to catch clues of who we are if we
all dress the same, and if we could verbally express who we are? Even the
graves of the former monks have no names. Just a modern cross, marking the loss
of many in a special section of the
garden. At first I thought it was a modern art exhibition. We don’t know who
they are. We just know that they are graves.
I'm scared of lonely
And I'm scared of being the only shadow I see along the wall
And I'm scared the only heartbeat I hear beating is my own
And I'm scared of being alone
I can't seem to breathe when I am lost in this dream, I need you to hold me
I'm scared of lonely
I'm scared of lonely...
Yes. I just quoted a Beyonce single. I thought it was
interesting that she choose to put this song on her album. As a successful woman
with a husband and close family, she chose to sing this single. She never
promoted it that much though. Interesting.
A lot of our masters spent time in solitude, Jesus, Buddha, etc.
So don’t worry you are in good company.
A lot of great works are produced when the mind is allowed to wonder on it’s
own. But it’s so nice to be with people, to connect, to laugh, to share
moments, to share each others’ lives. As Brene Brown says we are hard wired to
connect with each other.
After a good night sleep, I remember enjoying the first early morning hours of the Catholic retreat. I liked this new challenge. Five hours in and I was starting to feel it.
No TV. No Movies. No Magazines. Just books. Lot’s of books on history. Lot’s of
books on theology. No loud music was allowed, we had to commit to being quiet.
I would pass a fellow retreat member in
the corridor, or find them in the tiny kitchen making tea, and force myself to swallow the urge to speak. It felt rude. It
felt unnatural, yet I had committed to silence. We had tea with the monks at
4.00 pm that day. Some really good scones…but no conversation. Just silence and
the sound of people sipping and chewing. A few moments of eye contact and short
smiles but mostly emptiness. By night time as I lay in bed the emotions hit me.
I realized how much I rely on connecting with people throughout the day. Also everything that I had been bottling up, suddenly came rushing out of me. Demanding to be dealt with. Such is the nature of solitude.
Solitary confinement in prison is supposed be the worst
punishment of all. Is it because the prisoners are left alone with themselves? The mind
is incredible, but is it all the more unbearable if you’ve committed despicable
acts, if you lived a terrible life?
Is solitude only for the strong minded
like our masters?
When I asked people to write for a “welcome to womanhood”
series, it was mostly because I was reaching a milestone in birthdays, and
feeling extremely self reflective. I wondered whether other women had the same internal
struggles that I was having. So I asked them to write their stories. I asked
for moments in life when they realized they were grown women. My story is about
solitude. It’s
so far removed from my ideal experience of what it means to be woman. Yet it sticks
out like sore thumb, it’s my experience. I see so many people dealing with loneliness
but I am not quite sure why it’s there. They have families. They have children.
They have partners. They have great
jobs, a social life. Yet there is the feeling staring them in the mirror. Loneliness.
In my head solitude feels odd. In my heart in feels good.
A month ago I attended a party with a friend, where we met a
kindred spirit. Barely a few minutes
into knowing each other, somehow we found ourselves talking about some of the
struggles women go through when dating and when in relationships. She told us, during a very dark period in her
life, a newly single mother, and extremely heartbroken, she used to go to bars and
order a drink by herself because for most of her young life she had always gone
with someone. She had always ordered what she thought other people around would
approve off. Forcing herself to go to the bar alone, made her figure out which drinks she
liked. When she started figuring out who she was, she felt like she could be a good mother. I immediately thought she so brave, to go to a bar by herself in Kampala.
Most people when they see a women by herself in bar… they assume certain things
about her lifestyle. Even I was judgemental, as i listened to the story. When people see a woman alone they feel sorry for
her, like she should be miserable.
In my world I’d be able to write the following sentence
across my forehead:
“Stop feeling sorry for me, I am chartering my course,
figuring out my destiny. ”
Some people are like me, innate nurturers, we feel guilty about alone
time. We usually happily forget all about ourselves in other people. It’s so
tempting and so easy for us. Regular solitude ensures I have no excuses. I have
to work on myself. I can’t get lost in someone else’s life.
I feel like am fighting back for the woman who feels alone.
It’s the experience she finds herself in. It's okay. It’s okay to have dark
night of the soul too. Don’t worry, great things come from solitude.
“You are born alone. You die alone. The value of the space in between is
trust and love.”
“Nourish yourself with grand and austere ideas of beauty that feed the soul… Seek solitude,” Young Delacroix counseled himself in 1824
Illustrated by Chris Mugarura
10 Reasons Why You Need to Attend Jackee batanda’s Success Spark Brand Writing Retreat
Friday, 30 October 2015
 |
I recently had the pleasure of attending Jackee Batanda’s Success Spark Brand Writing Retreat on Bulago Island, and here are the top 10
reasons why I think you should be a part of the next one:
- They will accept you at whatever level of writing you find yourself. You don’t have to be published, or be an active blogger. You just need to have a passion for writing, and be willing to share and learn.
- You will spend five days with people who are natural born storytellers like yourself. For four nights, you will no longer be the outcast in the family who has decided to pursue a writing profession. Apart from the resourceful workshops, breakfast, lunch and dinner conversations will surprisingly become the highlight of your day. You will probably laugh like you have never laughed before, but remember Jackee has one rule, “what is spoken on the island stays on the island.”
- It’s a safe place to share your writing. Take it as a great opportunity to gain insights on your work from experienced facilitators like Nyana Kakoma of ‘Sooo Many Stories’, and other budding writers like yourself. The constructive criticism from the facilitators will help you start to polish your own unique style and voice.
- Jackee’s goal is to make sure that you actually get published. The facilitators will help you think through your writing goals, and consider publishing platforms that are relevant to your work. Rejoice! Your one-on-one mentoring session will occur on the beach and not some dingy classroom that was built in the 1970’s.
- You will most likely gain weight, but don’t panic because it is totally guilt free. Not once in the five days will you ever set foot in the kitchen to prepare a meal or to wash the dishes. The food cooked by the resident chef is so mouth-wateringly good, that it would be considered RUDE of you and the other participants not to gain weight. The chef makes fresh orange muffins for breakfast from scratch; no Nakumatt-bought cake mix is involved in the process at all! Take a minute to pause, smile, and fully grasp the meaning of the last few sentences, because during the retreat Jackee’s only task for you will be to focus on honing your writing skills. Alas, gaining weight is the only way you will be able to show your appreciation and gratitude to the chef who is working so hard in the kitchen to prepare your delicious meals.
- Prepare
yourself to be mesmerized by the majestic sunrises and sunsets. Every day
you’ll find yourself either standing by the window, or outside watching the sun
like a zombie. I have a whole new kind
of adoration and respect for God, and the first two chapters of the book of
Genesis. In my head, I’d like to think that this island is the spot where God
first told the sun to rise.
- For all you social media junkies, let me confirm that the internet does work on the island. We were not totally cut off from civilization. You can still access all your accounts on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, and share your wonderful experience with the friends and family members who told you not to come *wink wink*.
- Imagine falling asleep to the sound of waves at night, instead of the sound of the mosquitoes you usually fight with, or the prayer shouts from the local church, or even the road-side disco and bar. Just relax to the melodic sound of the waves as they entice you into dreamland, because it’s a well known fact that writers need their beauty sleep too.
- This is not a drug or alcohol fueled retreat! You should definitely leave behind in Kampala, the belief that you will find your muse while using illegal substances. We are all upstanding citizens, who just happen to be writers. So tell your Dad, Mum, your hubby and your wifey, that they can stop hyperventilating, you are not being abducted or brainwashed. All you need to do, is come prepared to take writing and storytelling seriously.
- You will return to your normal life and anxiously await for Jackee to announce the dates of the next writing retreat. You’ll have had so much fun, that these retreats will just have to become a permanent fixture on your annual calendar.
I’ve already booked my place at the next writing retreat, so
make sure you contact Jackee and book yours. You can reach Jackee via e-mail at jbatanda@gmail.com. I am looking forward
to meeting you, and hearing your stories.
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