Usually

The funny thing is I’m perfectly fine. Ok, let me back up a little.

Last week a thief came in through a hole in the fence…no, let me back up even further.

About three weeks ago I stopped listening to my voice of reason. It first began the day I was so absorbed in telling my student some last minute instructions that I was completely oblivious to the tornado of little people that had emptied from the art room next door and were busy moving benches and stools from my room back into the art room for the next class. It was the unmistakable sound of wood against wood resonating with strings and a crunch that shocked me to my surroundings with slap in the face. I knew without even looking that my dear 200-year-old friend had suffered an injury from the pervading storm and my eyes only confirmed what made my stomach twist and harden. Amongst shock and tears I don’t really know what came out of my mouth as I held my cello before me and took in the sight of a bridge snapped in two.

It wasn’t until the soft touch and reassuring voice of my friend Imraan came edging into my awareness that I was once again brought back to the reality of the room. I looked up to find myself surrounded by a frozen forest of solemn faced students and parents, some still holding their bench in mid-stride. I don’t know how it was – but somehow after just one inhale and long exhale, I was able to turn the situation into a positive learning experience for everyone, calling them near to see what happened and calmly reminding everyone to be careful on busy Saturdays, etc. etc. And I put my cello to rest on my bed and returned to proceed with Josephs lesson, the regular hum of the school having kicked back into speed as if the crash had never happened.

The harsher reality is that the voice had said, “Don’t put your cello here.” But I hadn’t heeded its warning, thinking it was far enough in a corner to be safe. But I knew it had been right, which is why I didn’t have to look to know what that resonating crunch had been…..

A year and a half ago, I went on a journey with my father to Taos, New Mexico. Something had strongly made me want to retrace the route I had taken in my childhood with my late grandparents, and Taos had been one of the many places that had left an undeniable impression on me. Walking the path of ghosts I meandered through the Taos Pueblo taking in the earth made hard into walls and pottery, and the strings of silver, feathers, beads and stone.

Then I saw it, or it saw me. A pendant of turquoise, yellow, black and burnt orange. It was beautiful and it fell into my hands as if it were waiting to do so. So powerful it was it became the token of the memory of that journey that my father and I had taken. A journey of letting the past go with the dying winds of autumn, and standing still in the possibilities of now.

And this token, I took with me here. But one day last week I woke up from a nap with an alarming sense that I had not watched over it carefully enough. As I reached for the pouch containing all my jewelry I had a vague image of it falling out. But the clouds of sleep hadn’t cleared enough for me to catch its warning and when I heard a dull clink on the ground I knew exactly what had happened. The second most precious thing I had brought with me had been broken in two, and I was again, put into a state of shock. Although a little glue might help make it presentable again, I sense now that the energy of that little stone pendant has been released, and with it the power of the memory.

Anecdote number three. Or shall I say, warning thrice ignored.

Usually, I put my little handheld computer that I received as a gift from a Japanese friend, along with the portable keyboard and SD card reader, in a little orange pouch. Usually, I put the SD cards with all my files I have ever written in my wallet separate from the computer. Usually, when I was going anywhere with the computer I put both the orange pouch and my wallet in my purse which is always slung around one shoulder and across my chest. Usually I never leave anything of value on my doorstep. And usually, there is a guard nearby anyway.

Usually.

One morning two weeks ago, from behind a mangle of bushes and wire a thief had patiently peered into the Umoja grounds for who knows how long. He chose his perch wisely for he could easily see both doors to the main building as well as the porch to the guesthouse where I was living.

That day, I was getting ready to run and catch a daladala heading to Makumira to teach history and had been peddling back and forth between my guest house and the main building in my preparations. For some reason, that day, I hadn’t put the orange pouch containing my small computer in my purse. I had put it in my black book bag. And for some reason I had also put my SD cards inside the orange pouch instead of in my wallet. Then, at one point I had taken the black bag and put it outside my room. The thief might have noticed a slight hesitation before I lowered the bag to the ground and then locked my door. And he might have even caught my sideways glance at the bag as I ran for the last time back to the kitchen to grab my lunch box. What he couldn’t see was the silent conversation that occurred between that voice and myself. It had been a foreboding so slight, yet clear enough to stall my movement ever so briefly in reconsideration. Luckily for the thief, the inertia of other impeding thoughts pushed me on my way, leaving the bag alone on the doorstep. And luckily for the thief, right at that same moment, our guard had entered to main building to help move tables back inside from the previous days art exhibition.

I never did end up going to Makumira that day. I spent the entire morning at the police station, which is a story in itself (just imagine a place where bribes are as common as thieves and reports are filed on scraps of paper with no computer in sight). However, I was surprised upon my return to Umoja to see that everyone from Makumira had come to me instead. Maybe because of this immediate outpouring of emotional support by these friends, within days I recovered from the loss of what I thought was the third most precious possession in Tanzanaia; “thought” being the key word here, because it is, in fact, replaceable.

Unfortunately, what is irreplaceable are the hours and hours of work, including an extensive blog entry about my trip to Bagamoyo that I had taken in December as well as the pictures from my trip to Zanzibar, many of them capturing the essence of the place in ways that words cannot. Instead, I will have to express Bagamoyo through images (check out the Bagamoyo album to the right) and eventually, Zanzibar through words.

That voice has now returned to its rightful place in my consciousness. Having remembered the depth of its wisdom, I happily take its advice and follow its impulses, however subtle they might be. And usually, I am able to interpret the meaning of its message. Usually.