Duct tape should do it, right?!

Yes, I’m still up on the roof.  I suddenly realize it’s been almost three weeks since I’ve written a post for my blog; where did the time go? Everyone expressed envy at the plethora of leisure  hours I would have once I began.  I remember thinking the same thing as I contemplated my time on the roof.

I pictured myself learning and practicing meditation.  Quietly re-reading favorite biographies. Peacefully writing short stories from my development experiences.  Languidly contemplating the air around me. It all sounded so idyliic in my head as I anticipated my free time on the roof.

The reality?  How to adequately describe the madness of my days?  Here goes…

Edmonds sits peacefully on the waterfront where ferries cross the Puget Sound delivering cars and habitants to the Olympic Peninsula. My roof is right in the middle of a corridore that funnels wind from the ocean to the hillside bowl of Edmonds.

What this means is that tiny wind gusts become exaggerated and the ensuing flapping of my tent causes frequent wakeful nights.  Imagine  adding rain to the equation and one has a formula for Maslow’s basic needs heirarchy: safe shelter.

Much of my time lately has been spent securing tent flaps. Anchoring wind-whipped tarps to prevent rain from creeping into my home for the past 100 days; my tent. If there’s an open nook or cranny, the rain soaked wind will find it.  Let’s just say that towels and brooms and tarps have become my best friends. Not to mention duct tape!

Never thought wind could cause sleepless nights.  It does.

I wake after tossing and turning most of the hours dedicated to sleep, to find it mid-morning. I reluctantly exit my warm cocoon to face the day.  Walnut street Cafe has lovingly prepared and volunteer Carol Collier has delivered my morning latee.  I clean my porta potty and begin daily tasks which include: bookkeeping, product inventory and ordering, volunteer scheduling, meals management, phone calls and  a regular plethora of 60 -80 daily emails.

IS IT POSSIBLE TO DECLARE EMAIL BANKRUPTCY?   If so may I be the first to sign up?  I haven’t had an empty email inbox since late 2002, the last time I had a vacation.  Is 500 emails normal?  Shall I sign up for techno-therapy immediately?

I thought technology was intended to make our lives easier?  at least more efficient? I never realized how much technology could complicate and cause life stress!  Used to be one could contemplate an answer for several days before responding. Then write a letter.  Hand signed even.  Ah I long for the good ol’ days.

One reason I enjoy working in developing countries is that I slow down.  I slow down enough to re-discover  breathing. To pause. To contemplate.  Life in an African village is rich.  We have much to learn about that wealth in this country.

One of our foundation projects is to support the expansion of a credit cooperative 5 hours by  truck in the Senegalese desert northeast of Dakar, Senegal. The credit cooperative, run by Treasurer/Manager Cherif Sow, serves 7 villages surrounding Ndiaw Ndiaw Village.

Cherif would walk hours and hours between the 7 villages, collecting loan

Cherif walks, bringing credit union services village to village

payments and member savings plus solving member challenges throughout the seven villages. Cherif Sow was hired by the credit cooperative because he reads and writes and can effectively manage daily operations and record-keeping.

After working with Ndiaw Ndiaw village for several weeks, I became a ‘family’ member to the Board President and his family with whom I lived.   Over the years I kept in touch as we funded several institution building projects.

One grant request in particular would save time and energy for Treasurer/Manager Cherif Sow, allowing him to travel more efficiently between villages:  funds to purchase a horse.  Fabric of Life Foundation duly sent a $500 grant to fund the transportation purchase.

I remember thinking what a shame to add that Western sense of urgency when the walks between villages were a peaceful time for contemplation.  But then I wasn’t the one walking  hours a day.

Two weeks after the grant was sent I received a telephone call.  By the ‘fuzzy’ connection, I knew it was coming from overseas. Didn’t realize how far until I heard Cherif Sow’s voice in French,  “Mme Carol? C’est Cherif Sow.  Je vous telephone pour vous remercier pour le cheval.” The thank you for the horse was obvious as I heard the neighing and clop clop through the phone.

“Where are you?” I asked.  “Almost home” came the reply. “Wait, Cherif.  How can you be home?”  Home is 3 hours into the desert far from electricity!  ”Ah, Miss Carol, we called to thank you for the grant for transportation.  You actually sent us enough for both a horse ~ and a cell phone!”

Just when I thought I’d escaped technology.  <sigh>   “At the sound of the horses hoofs, please record your message.”

My own offering of gratitude goes to the graduates of Hèrè jè Center in Mali who bring deep meaning to my life and purpose to my self-imposed exile living in this tent.

Today I honor Assa Sissoko by sharing her story from my Africa journal

Bamako, Mali, April 2005:

Assa Sissoko guiding her blind uncle

When we first encountered Assa she walked slowly along the street with her blind uncle’s hand resting on her shoulder. Assa, about 11, wore a rag around her hips, a tattered blouse and no underclothes or shoes.  We learned they had come 6 months earlier from their village 2 days walk to Bamako to beg for food. Assa had lost both  parents and was being raised by an elderly aunt.

Subsistence crops were not adequate to feed the village so Assa and her uncle were sent to beg for money, hoping to purchase food staples and return to the village.  Instead, they barely begged enough to feed themselves but every other day. They knew no one in the city and had been living on the streets for months, wherever they dropped each night.

Despite her situation Assa had a gentle positive spirit and smiled curiously at me as Kaaba spoke with her uncle. It was clear Assa was ready and willing; anything was better than begging. It was her uncle we had the hardest time convincing. With river blindness, he would have no one to guide him. Their plan was to return to the village because Assa must help with their meager harvest.

We cajoled and begged, finally convincing the uncle to let Assa join Hèrè jè Center. He reluctantly agreed to meet us the next day. As we drove away, I turned to watch out the back window and saw Assa watching us, a wistful smile of hope on her face. Exhausted and happy, we had located our tenth student.

The next day at the appointed time, we waited patiently on the street. They never showed. We searched for an hour until Kaaba conceded the uncle probably changed his mind or only said yes the day before to get rid of us. There was nothing else to do but go home.  Now it was I who cajoled and begged.  Please can we just try one final time to find them I implored.  Kaaba explained, “it was not her destiny, Carol, let it go. There are plenty of others.”

It was a sad night. I tossed and turned; my nightmares included the leering face of forced labor and child marriage. I felt in my heart Assa was the one.

It was several sad days later on our way home we saw them. Assa’s face lit up with joy when we stopped the car. It took some time but we finally convinced the uncle to let her into the program. Oh joy.

It was a night for celebration in the household. Only a small nagging thought wondered if they would show.  Please let it be her fate to show up.  I think I hardly breathed until we saw them both waiting patiently at the designated corner. I remember giving Kaaba my “I told you so” look.  Her comment, “It was her destiny and the will of God.”

If there are levels of poverty then Assa was at the bottom; the most destitute of all the students. Pape, our sewing instructor at Hèrè jè made Assa three outfits in one day.  I laughed as he shook his head and refused to allow her to touch the new clothes until she had properly bathed.  Holding your nose must be a universal sign.

It was with absolute pleasure I watched Assa on her first day at the center.  She proudly and carefully smoothed the skirt of her outfit; mostly likely the first new piece of clothing she has ever worn.  She is such a gentle soul despite her tribulations.

Assa Sissoko became the youngest apprentice at Hèrè jè Center.

Assa Sissoko

SEVEN MONTHS LATER:  THE REST OF THE STORY

November 2005

Assa has clearly taken to the Hèrè jè culture quickly. Her eyes are bright. Her skin is clear. Her playful personality shines. Assa, like the others, is beginning to trust the possibility of a more fulfilling and creative existence.  Begging is no longer a part of her future.

What a thrill to see Assa’s transformation.  She is thriving under the tutelage of instructors and the stern loving guidance of Tante Kia. I’m amazed at the metamorphosis.  When I see the students after 6 months, I revel in their progress.

Today I had the luxury of observing activities at Hèrè jè. The young women sat around the work table beading. They chatted and laughed, heads bent in concentration, fingers moving swiftly.  We explain how their creations are selling in the American market and how they will share in the profits. I don’t think they really believe it yet.

I noticed Assa laboriously separating a large bowl of mixed colored beads. As she worked we began to chat about designs and colors. I complimented her on the speed with which she was sorting and how seriously she took her task. “We all work together,” she said, “and it’s important we don’t waste the beads when they spill and colors get mixed up. I’m the youngest so I have to separate the beads.”  She wrinkled her nose.

Hèrè jè students understand the value of saving resources.  During their 18 month training, each student builds a savings account with a balance of $150.00 by graduation.  This savings philosophy clearly goes beyond money, as here was Assa, diligently saving the spilled beads, separating them by color.

Assa designing spilled beads jewelry

At one point I asked Assa, “How long do you think it will take you to separate all those beads?”

“Oh days,” Assa replied as she rolled her eyes, “it’s a pretty big bowl.”  I heard Assa loves to create new necklace designs and I could see the frustration in her eyes as she continued to tackle the big bowl of beads.

“So, what might you do with all those mixed beads instead of separating them into each color?” I asked.

She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully.  With a sudden sparkle in her eyes, she asked, “Would it be okay for me make necklaces out of the spilled beads?”

I asked, “What do you think?”

“I think that would be a very smart idea!” she proclaimed.

And so Assa’s “spilled beads” necklace was born.  It’s Assa’s signature design.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER: A NEW BEGINNING 2007

In front of 300 Malian dignitaries in the Palais du Congrès, Assa and her sister apprentices graduated from Hèrè jè Center, receiving their diplomas from the First Lady of Mali. Now Assa is a full-fledged member of the Hèrè jè artisan cooperative. She never knew she was destined to become a jewelry designer. All she needed was the opportunity to discover her talents and how to use them. Fortunately for us all, she found that opportunity at Hèrè jè.

Below is Assa on graduation day. (second from the right) Yes, those are tears of joy.

A successful person is one who can lay a firm
foundation with the bricks others throw at them.
~ David Brinkley, TV newscaster~

Gary Lehde erased all the wounds from ‘bricks’ thrown at me this week. He exemplifies why I’m on the roof drawing attention to small acts of greatness. Gary drove from Tacoma this morning on his day off, arriving at our Edmonds shop at 9:30am.

I’m briefly down from the roof for my morning ritual of opening the doors for the volunteers who generously staff our shop.  I hear a voice calling, “Carol, are you up there?” I expect it’s someone I know at this hour on a Saturday morning so I don’t worry about my tatty t-shirt and pj’s tucked into rubber rain boots. As I unlock the door of the shop, I realize it’s a complete stranger.

“Hello, my name is Gary. I saw you on King 5 TV News last night and what you’re doing touched me so this is for you.” He hands me a brown paper bag of  cheese and treats  “for your Saturday night” he says.  In my other hand he places a stack of bills, “and this is for what you’re doing in Africa.” Let’s just say it was much much more than the $1 I’m asking each person to contribute.  I was dumbstruck.

I invited him in for a  chat and discovered this is not Gary Lehde’s first, nor will it be his last angel mission.  Last year during the holidays he was watching the news and learned that a robber stole presents from under a family’s tree. He showed up on their front porch Christmas Day bearing gifts for everyone. Gary dropped them off and walked away.

“I don’t need recognition,” he said, “ I do it because I’m moved. It makes me feel good. It’s just what I do.”

In his full time work at King County Jail, Gary works at what he calls, “the gates of hell“.  Lehde also volunteers for Crystal Judson Family Justice Center for Tacoma/Pierce County offering his expertise to minimize domestic violence situations.  His volunteering and angel missions are Gary’s way of finding balance in a world of violence.

As a Navy veteran, Gary is no stranger to violence and shared that, “jail guards have heart too”.  Bravo Gary for your small acts of greatness.

Thank you to all the Gary’s in our world who have shared their stories with me.  And for those of you throwing “bricks” at me, thank you for strengthening my resolve.

Yesterday in an interview, King5 TV’s morning anchor Carolyn Douglas asked, “What’s the toughest part about living up here?” My response, “the wind.”

The last three days I have cursed the wind. I have been buffeted by rain driven into every cranny by what seems like the angry hands of Zeus hurling insults. The 50 ft tarp covering my tent flew off during the storm. Rain soaked everywhere before I finally captured a corner to secure the tarp.

So this is what the labor in Labor Day means.

By then it was 3:00am Monday with no full night’s sleep in sight for the third day in a row. The last straw came when I made a mad dash to the porta potty only to find my bathroom structure had collapsed with the flimsy “roof” barely attached. With what little dignity remained I sat in the rain thankful at least that it was too dark to be seen. At that moment the roof decided to collapse on my head.

I finally gave in. I took off my shoes, my wool socks and my knit hat. At 3:00 a.m. I danced around the rooftop in the rain. Go ahead and laugh. I did. Deep, breath-gasping, belly laughs. And it felt terrific. And I felt exhilarated.

I celebrated our capacity to handle whatever comes our way. And the choices we make to get through whatever happens with humour.

Sometimes you just have to accept what is.  Like things one cannot control in other cultures.

I remember my naiveté, trying to tell my African colleagues in Mali, how the practice of paying bribes to police can only be stopped if one quits paying bribes.  Silly me.

We were driving home from a field visit to the branch office of PIYELI savings and credit institution for which Kaaba is CEO. The light was just beginning to fade as we reached the capital city, Bamako. Of course my white face could still be seen in the car. As frequently happens, we were stopped by the police. The look on the officer’s face could only mean, “hand over money and no one will be delayed”.

Zachary and Kaaba exit the car, driving papers in hand. Lots of gesturing and shaking of heads. The bribe dance has begun. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Suddenly Kaaba and Zachary are moving quickly to the car, “Allons-y, Allons-y” and we’re driving off quickly.

“What happened? What happened?” I ask, my heart pounding with indignation.

“We paid him off and he let us go. Because it’s dark, we slipped him a 1,000 cfa note instead of 10,000 cfa and he doesn’t know it yet. We’re getting as far away as we can before he discovers it.”

At this point with my clearly superior, great white Western logic, I express that perhaps the practice of bribes would end if people would stop paying them. Kaaba and Zachary exchange patient looks and Kaaba says, “You explain it to her, Zachary.”

“If we don’t pay, he takes my papers. To to get them back, I must take a day off of work for which I am not paid, to go to court.  I wait the whole day for my case to be brought before the judge. If I want it to be heard that day, I pay off the clerk. Then I pay off the police officer.  Then I pay off the judge who then gives me back my papers. So what would you have me do?  Follow your logic or mine?”

As we pulled into the office the rain began to fall in torrents.  I took off my shoes and danced in the rain.

Lake Tana Monasteries, Ethiopia

Imagine it’s 10:00 pm. You hear a noise outside and open the door to find your house surrounded by armed militia. You are dragged forcefully from your home, away from your wife and young children.  Thrown into a dark cell and tortured for 3 weeks before you are released with a warning to cease doing your job or face death.

Because you are educated. And you live in Ethiopia.

Because the reigning party fears your education. Because you are doing your job as a regional administrator meeting and supporting principals from 60 schools for which you are responsible. If you continue doing your job, you face imprisonment, torture and death. Because the reigning party doesn’t like you. You are “conspiring” with other educated people. 

Stay and be murdered. Stay and lose your job. Either way your family is in jeopardy. There is no choice if you want your family to live. You escape across the border with just the clothes on your back to seek political asylum. But you must leave your family behind. All you can do is pray they will be safe.

Fast forward through 3 years in a Kenya refugee camp without family contact. You finally arrive in the U.S. to find you have missed your family at the same Kenya refugee camp only weeks after your departure.

The only job open to you in Seattle is cleaning hotel rooms. You finally make contact with your family who spend two more years in the Kenya Refugee camp and you are unable to help them. The system takes over.

Finally, you graduate from cleaning hotel rooms to pushing a wheelchair for passengers at SeaTac. A woman gives you her business card and tells you to call her. You forget about this woman.

One day you hear of a woman living in a tent on a roof and you recognize her. It’s a year since you pushed her in that wheelchair at SeaTac airport.

THE REST OF THE STORY…

Wat and Injera

Tsegaye, joins me on the roof for a traditional Ethiopian meal of wat and injera and shares his story.  He still pushes wheelchairs at SeaTac.  Yet, Tsegaye is grinning from ear to ear as he shares that in April, he found his family and became an America citizen. April is a good month.

It should be a fairy tale ending but it’s not – - YET.

After 8 years Tsegaye saw his wife and children for the first time in April, after he received his American citizenship. While this allowed him to leave and re-enter the United States, there is still much paper work to do before his family can join him. And the costs are high.

And Tsegaye is still pushing wheelchairs. Pushing wheelchairs doesn’t afford extra money to bring his wife and four children to Seattle.

Despite everything that has happened, he is still hopeful about the future.  I know Tsegaye will reunite with his family, permanently. He wants to use his education administrative gifts in his newly adopted country. And he is very proud to be an American citizen.

Look around you. How many educated, smart refugees in menial jobs cannot use their talents.  Often their less than perfect accents cause refugees to be misperceived.

The next time you meet a foreigner caregiving a family member at a nursing home or pushing a wheelchair at the airport or a hotel employee cleaning your room who speaks with an accent what will you think of them? 

They might just be an engineer or a doctor waiting to be reunited with their loved ones.

It’s a rainy night here in Edmonds. Unlike many, I will sleep well tonight because my grandparents immigrated to America where anything is possible.

In this week’s update from Mali, Kaaba wrote:

“Les nouvelles de Hèrè qui ne sont pas très bonnes.
Fatoumata Sangaré et Mamou Diarra sont enceintes, donc elles ont été renvoyées.
Astan Traoré est décédée suite à une maladie.”

Translation:

“The news from Hèrè jè (the training center) is not very good. Fatoumata Sangaré and Mamou Diarra are pregnant and thus expelled from the center.  Astan Traoré died after an illness (malaria)“

I am heart sick.  Every part of my being is ANGRY.  If I scream loudly enough will the world hear? If I jump off this roof will our collective will work harder to eradicate poverty?

A child who lost her parents at 2 and hungers for love at 15, thinks the young man paying attention will fill the emptiness in her soul. Rape is part of daily life. For the uneducated, birth control causes  sterilization so the elders tell young women not to accept it. There is no clean water, so the young woman washes in still standing pools surrounded by mosquitos. And she dies.

I am thinking of staying on this roof forever.

Can you see my fist in the air?!

Gabriele shows what can be made with recycled plastic bags.

Long before the plastics debate, Gabriel Raudebaugh at Trinity Lutheran Church was recycling plastic bags to generate financial support for their international outreach program in Nicaragua. Trinity’s Sowing Seeds of Hope group is helping develop a sewing cooperative in Nicaragua. The  cooperative helps women generate income for self-sufficiency, improved health and education for themselves, their children and their communities.

Just imagine, plastic bags are transforming lives instead of landfills.

When you see Sowing Seeds of Hope recycle kits and products at the Edmonds Saturday Market be sure to support them.  You’ll find crocheted totes. Luggage handles. Eyeglass holders. Table runners. All from recycled materials. Purse kits are packaged in recycled newspaper delivery bags. Plastic bags have been washed, cut and cleverly stuffed in empty paper towel tubes, ready to be knit or crocheted into artful multi-use bags.

Intern Ari McPhearson models the award-winning recycled plastic bag hat

Ari MacPherson, Fabric of Life Foundation intern, models the latest in recycled styles. (Can you guess which store’s plastic bags?).  This charming creation by Trinity Church member Fern Thompson, won best of show at Mountlake Terrace’s recycling festival.

Recycling for a purpose. Has a nice ring to it.

When we opened the Fabric of Life Foundation’s fair trade boutique in Edmonds, we made a point of locating used store fixtures.  Just about everyone I know uses Craigs List. Have you seen Freecycle (”Changing the world one gift at a time.”)

The tents we set up on the roof came from Craigs List. The toaster in our shop came from Freecycle.  Okay, so only one side of the toaster works.  Big deal.  We seem to be obsessed with new and improved.  I remember a potential donor once said to me, “I know  you don’t spend money unnecessarily; I’ve seen your car“.  Hey, it gets me where I want to go, despite her 180,000 miles.  What are a few dents if I arrive safely at my destination? Who needs windows to go up and down anyway? Whatever happened to functional?

If you want to see clean go visit a rural African village.  Not a spec of trash. But then, naturally grown food has no packaging. And when your wealth is in relationships there is no trash.  When I travel to new places I bring a poloroid camera to take photos to give away and a digital camera for my own photos.  In a rural village in Uganda I recall putting an empty poloroid cartridge into the trash.  The next morning I found the cartridge propped against a window ledge ~ with a photo neatly tucked into it.

A woman who likes to shop in our store explained she was having a giveaway party. She descriibed that sometimes things of beauty need to be passed on because they no longer belong to her.  She hosts a party to which everyone brings a favorite treasure they want to pass along for someone else to enjoy.  What a lovely idea.

I think we’ll start putting out a table in front of our shop so people can exchange their old treasures.  And we’ll use hand crocheted reuseable plastic bags for people to carry off their new treasures.

It’s after midnight here in Seattle.  My tent beckons me.

I like Arundhati’s statement. It reminds me to slow down. To listen to the world breathing.  Where are we racing to anyway? Or perhaps running from? Today I’ve felt like the cartoon character with legs racing in circles going nowhere.  Doing stuff.  Minding  details. Recording data. Deposits. Emailing. Twitting. Doing. Doing. Doing. As if life depended on completing tasks.

Ever notice  when we meet new people, once we find out where they’re from we inevitably ask, “What do you do?“  Doing seems to be the indicator of usefulness in our western world. How much do you get done?  I have so much to do! “Hello, my name is Carol and I do things.“  Once you’ve identified my doing-ness I’m then a category of person.  Labeled. Boxed. Stacked. Ready for shipment.

I often want to respond to the question, “What do you do?” by saying, “I breathe“. Lately I find myself holding my breath a lot.  At least that’s what my trainer, Nicole observes because she always has to remind me to “BREATHE”. (Did I mention MKG Martial Arts in Edmonds has gifted me a trainer while I’m upontheroof?)

At Ndiaw Ndiaw Village in the Senegal desert, when we finished each day’s workshop we would rest.  The plastic mats would be spread on the sand and we would all lie on the ground and stare up at the sky.  And we would breathe.  And sometimes someone would tell a story. The night sky would unveil the stars.  It would be so still one could hear the stars twinkle.

When I first began working in Africa it would take me days to slow down. I would always feel a sense of urgency to do stuff. I became anxious if a meeting didn’t start when it was planned. I found myself frustrated because “time is money”.  We’re wasting time. Let’s get going. What are we waiting for? I would tap my foot and watch the clock.  Feeling I wasn’t worthy unless getting stuff done.

Finally one of the leadership team would say, “slowly slowly“.  And they would ask how I slept? How was my family? Had I eaten well? How are my parents? Would I like a cup of tea?  And suddenly I’d remember to breathe. To be and not do. And the richness of life would re-appear. When did we become human doings instead of human beings?

There’s always a question in the back of my mind when I think of developing countries.  Who is better off?  We with our stuff and our doing? Or those without stuff and their being?

I love how African friends use story-telling to make a point. Once I was rushing to yet another meeting when a Kenyan colleague in Nairobi reminded me again to slow down.  He told me the story of the great white explorers who first came to Africa.  They would rush to make camp and explore. They would break camp and move on. Set up camp and explore. Break camp and move on. Set up camp and explore. Break camp and move on. You get the picture.

One morning, the local guide refused to break camp.  The explorers were impatient sayingm “hurry, we must move on, we have places to explore and things to discover.”  The guide said simply, “You are moving too fast.  I must stay behind in this camp, to allow my soul to catch up to my body.”

I’m going to my tent to breathe.  Good night.

Will there be coffee? What if it rains? Will I be lonely? Will they remember to feed me? How will I shower? Brush my teeth? Will anyone care? What am I doing? How crazy is this? Can I go home now?

Odd. They’re the very same thoughts I experienced working in a developing country for the first time. My first solo assignment was training facilitators of strategic planning in rural village cooperatives. In French West Africa. In French! (only now do I appreciate the rigor with which Mlle Brunell made me repeat, ‘je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes’ until my head ached.) 

Ndiaw Ndiaw village Savings and Credit Cooperative (SACCO), where the field training was to take place is 6 hours north into the desert outside Dakar, Senegal. I remember asking if I could plug in my computer.  I remember asking if I’d be staying in the same hotel where the workshops would be held.  I remember being confused when they said I should bring enough water to drink for 10 days because the well wasn’t working. 

It’s 38 hours to travel from the comforts of Seattle to Dakar. The door to the plane opened on a whole new world for which I was unprepared. Little did I realize the life-altering event this would be. I remember feeling at once excited and anxious. My senses on hyper alert responded to the spicy scents, breath-altering heat, lilting tones of Wolof, and the vulnerability of being in the minority.

It was the first time I saw begging children dying on the streets. And it changed me forever.

I’m hardly suffering up here on the roof mind you. At the same time, adapting to unknown environments brings up vulnerabilities no matter where you might be. And choosing to take a risk, marching to your own drummer, acting against norms, sometimes requires courage. To believe in something so strongly you’re willing to give something up to make it happen. 

Like Sister Marie McLaughlin did in South Africa.  She faced risks because she believed in the philosophy of cooperation regardless of the color of ones skin. She formed cooperative savings and credit societies in South African townships during apartheid. Sister Marie began meeting with women’s sewing circles in townships; common needs brought black women and white women side by side to improve the quality of life. Even if it was illegal.  Sister Marie believed forming cooperatives was more important than her own safety. She had 10 credit cooperatives formed and linked by computers before the apartheid government realized.

My own stand-taking can hardly be compared to that of Sister Marie McLaughlin.  The most fearful thing I face up here on the roof are the revelers after the bars close in downtown Edmonds.

You don’t have to go to Africa to take an action that makes a world of difference. You don’t have to defy a norm, or even live on a roof in a tent. (…although I highly recommend it!)  My Granddad used to say, “Do something. Even if it’s wrong. Just do something.”  I always interpreted his comment as, “get off your butt and quit being afraid”. Thank you Granddad for that philosophy.

I applaud those of you taking action for something in which you believe. No action is too small.  And thank you for sharing your actions with me. I  am hopeful about the future.

MY FINGER NAILS ARE DIRTY AND I CAN’T GET THEM CLEAN! Aaaccck!

As I ponder my predicament and calm my irritation at the lack of warm, soapy water in which to wash my hands, I glance up to find four ladies climbing the ladder to my aerie. They brought me French toast. And bacon. And coffee.

I curl my fingers into my palms so they won’t see the dirt. I hope they don’t notice I’m wearing my pajamas. I haven’t brushed my teeth in 2 days (Please tell me my dentist isn’t reading this!) And my wool socks leave wet prints on the mat as I greet them.

When their stories unfold suddenly my nails don’t seem so important. Barbie and Cassie are homeless.

They brought me breakfast this morning cooked at Mary’s Place. It’s a day center for homeless women. And so much more. It’s a loving community of support. A place to remember what it was like to cook in a kitchen. A place where people look you in the eye and hug you. A place where people call you by name.

“It’s so important to be called by your name; because when you’re homeless you get called a lot of names and not necessarily your own.” This quote from formerly homeless, Mona Joyner, is from a book of portraits titled, Women of Mary’s Place.  Sixteen women artists and sixteen homeless and formerly homeless women of Seattle participated.  What a great heART project.

Mary’s place is where homeless and formerly homeless women and children find a safe environment to build community, find resources and develop strength to help themselves.  Marcia McLaughlin, Mary’s Place, shared that in addition to direct contributions, they could use volunteers:  nurses for their free health program, people to cook on Saturdays, volunteers to write a note of support to homeless women in jail. Call Marcia at (206) 228-4354.

We shared a powerful conversation this morning. Barbie and Cassie reminded me that many of us are one paycheck away from homelessness, one illness away from living in a shelter. In Snohomish county alone, we have almost 2,000 people every day who don’t have a place to sleep except the street or in their cars. I could be one of them.

Seems so trivial to worry about my dirty nails.