Blessings, Birds and Probably Too Many Bananas

“Child you’ve got to run on my back, farther than you’ve ever gone before, deeper than you’ve ever known before. Run, right to your edges, right through your edges, right through the edge of your edge, jump off that cliff, dive in below, jump off that cliff and let it in.”

I recently read in a book that birds sing more in the morning because the moisture in the air carries their songs further into the day. And perhaps this is true. But here, on this mountain side, the birds never cease to sing their songs. The moisture hangs in the air throughout the day, like a curtain, that lifts and rises not until the tides. This closeness to the water creates a home for me here, amongst the songs of birds and voices speaking not so foreign tongues.

I have begun to cultivate a home here. As I discover new paths through this village, tucked into the Pare Mountains, I am intentional. Or at least, I try to be as intentional as my mood of the day will allow me. Perhaps the better word is mindfulness, but without all the fuss that’s been made recently. This practice isn’t glamorous. There are no frills. As I walk down paths, worn in by years of people’s passing, I take notice of the singing of the birds. There is always one nearby, and then further and further into the densely population forest. The songs ring through the air. Hornbills, pied crows, strikes and weavers. I have come to know their music, their particular symphony.

This past week brought deep emotional processing and many, many tears. Part of my reason in coming on this journey was because I knew it would give me an incredibly unique opportunity to dive deep into myself and my mind. I have had such deep moments of pondering who I am and how I want to be, and hold space in this world. About two weeks ago I began to feel, for the first time, some sort of longing. I do not resonate with this longing feeling like homesickness, no. I feel my home is very much a place within myself, I do not long for home. I am always here. And sickness? It doesn’t fit.

There is no sickness or malady here. The longing is, after days of exhausting processing and self-reflection, a desire for the comfort of space, of a breath, of not doing all of this emotional heavy lifting day in and day out. I recall days spent in New York City, when I didn’t reflect once on my emotional and mental state. I moved through the day, mechanical, removed, unattached. There is a liberation in this, but of course, this is not how I want to exist. I would rather do this work. No matter how exhausting and fraught with some not so pleasant truths. I want to move through my days organically, deeply involved, and unattached to outcomes, fully present. I want to push to my edges, and then jump. I want to know what the water feels like below. I know that the ocean will hold me, that I will be buoyant in its salted tides.

Spending the last week here in Moshi, surrounded by people and bustling city energy, I am reminded how deeply I am growing into myself. I spend weeks alone at a time, and then after all the deep personal work I am doing, I come and see myself interacting with others, growing in my speech, my ideas and my abilities to hold space for others. To shine and to create space and lightness of spirit. Or at least, I hope.

The other night, I lay on the top of a bus in the middle of a field on the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro. The sun had just slipped below the horizon and the sky was filled with the indigo of coming night and the mustard sunlight still hanging on the horizon. The stars began to dance into view. I lay with my head in my friend’s lap, his head in another friend’s lap and so on. We laughed and listened to the laughter of others from a distance, and we grew closer, to ourselves, to each other, to this land, to the moment at hand.