5 weeks ago I arrived with my two children to Dar Es Salaam.
We were joining my husband here for 10 weeks. He has taken a new job here, and I with the children will spend half my time here for the next three years.
I am reminded of a plant that is transplanted.
And that needs extra care as its roots enter the new soil.
I did not consider this when I arrived. A part of me felt perhaps bad for leaving my village and my work behind – and so instead I got extra busy. How much more I would be able to accomplish from here, where I had no meetings, but just lots of glorious time.This was my thinking.
I landed and I got busy:
Busy busy busy
When there was a little moment of space I filled it with more
I had a spectacular entry into learning how to bake sourdough bread
I baked and baked and baked until I had it down pat
and then I baked some more
whole wheat bread
To say that there was a manic quality to my arrival in Tanzania would be an understatement
Shopping things for the home
Playing with the kids (downloading multiple waldorf home schooling books, to get that little details sorted while I was at it all 🙂
skyping, doing, baking
And then I woke many mornings in a row
and I wondered
what is going on?
Why can I no longer rouse myself?
My dance became slow and heavy
I kept baking, skyping, doing
And then I saw it,
From a conversation with a friend,
and then more fully the next morning
in the dance
the wound that all this was springing from:
A need to do,
A belief that I have to Do to be of value,
that I need to earn my room and board on planet earth
To simply stop, and land, and settle and arrive
feel the sand under my feet, the wind on my face, the sun on my shoulders
this would not do.
This would surely not do.
Of course the seeing of something like this
is the first step towards its losing its power
And so I made a commitment to myself to take five days off.
Five days of just being here.
The anxiety that the thought of five days of stillness induced
was another sign that something was way off
But I stopped.
I read Jane Austen (she had never made it into my reading list, and may never return, although it was a delightful little intermission)
I played with my children
We went to the beach
I journaled – though even this felt sometimes like too much effort
All in all I did nothing much that could be called by my mind
particularly productive or beneficial to something larger 🙂
And yet it was such a healing balm to me and perhaps my children also.
The days went, one and then the other
And the image of the transplanted plant came to me
and the feeling of my roots sinking in
and the gratitude for how quickly it was actually happening
once I allowed myself to be present to where I was
I danced a dance of Belonging.
I belong. I am loved.
Even when I am not Doing.
Doing has nothing to do with belonging.
Belonging has to do with belonging. Being here now.
And the manic doing is perhaps not so very pleasant
I am back in ‘work’
Still redefining what that means
Noticing what really fills me with joy
And what is being done from the wound
From the need to be a productive contributor to my community
From the need to be of value
Not that it is bad to want to give
But when it is coming from a fear of not belonging
(and here I speak of a more fundamental sense of belonging
To life, to the planet, to Pachamama),
It is not so healthy
When it is coming from love, delight of giving, joy of expressing my gifts,
It is a very different thing.
Dancing, moving, being,
Learning to simply be. Learning to simply Be
That that is not only enough.
That that is all I am ever required to do –
for right action flows from this place.
Beautiful, strong, inspired action
springs from this place.
I can still bake
I can still skype
I can still do
But I don’t have to.