Saturday, August 25, 2012

Summer Fever

Throughout my difficult, greasy, awkward middle-school years, my mother and father were the sorry recipients of a series of notes with two or three thematic repetitions.  "Annie is not living up to her potential."  "Your daughter is quite bright, but refuses to turn in her homework."  "Annie is failing to apply herself."  I have no further explanation for my three month absence from this blog.

The months of separation have made our hearts grow fonder, filled with excitement, change, perhaps a little unrest, then much needed rest and the telltale signs of settlement.  The summer moon hung low and wet like laundry between apartments.   We moved as the stars from the east to the west, packing our trappings of permanence into a minivan driven by an adulterous uncle and unloading our life into a western style flat near the hospital.  Rick notices Antares, a dwarf star that flickers red and white low in the sky and then sets behind the horizon by midnight as if it arrived too quickly, and then realized it had to leave.

Other people have been moving as well.  Our neighbors to the north come over in droves with far less, and somehow far more baggage.  Ever the hosts, Jordanians have redefined generosity, stretching their already thin resources into a chai we all can drink.  I am reminded that we are all brothers and sisters.  I am reminded that we are all hosts and we are all guests in this world.  I am reminded of Mogadishu.  I want to call my brother.

The volunteers closer to the border have been moved.  We are far enough from the nearest crossing to stay, but close enough to keep a bag packed.  Living in evacuation limbo is like being sick, but not sick enough to go to the doctor.  Waiting for a fever to tip one way or the other, living life in a sort of in-between state.  Always keeping your clothes clean and never buying too much yogurt.

It is, admittedly, normal feeling.  We fast and feast with friends for Ramadan.  We host people from Amman, visitors from Spain, volunteers from Africa.  The city opens it's arms again and again without complaint, a hadja taking in one more, and then another and then just one more, feeding the world with arthritic, weathered hands.

2 comments:

  1. I wish our part of the world understood the generosity and compassion of the people of Jordan, as expressed in your writing. It is also good to hear from someone who thinks, "I know this one," when it comes to leaving everything behind. Take care of your head, heart and the rest of your body, and make sure Rick does the same.

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  2. Thanks for bringing me back to the real reality. Love and hope for you guys.

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