Waking up this morning was the first time that I felt vulnerable since arriving here in Liberia, a huge sense of my smallness – yet totally peaceful and "home." I woke up before Vamsi, the sun, and even the compound resident rooster. Laying in the morning darkness, and listening beyond the drone of the blowing air conditioner, I realized what a rare moment of soundless peace: there was no loud dance music beating its' bass from the beach, there were no honking horns, no motor bikes growling down the street – nothing! no sounds echoing against the solid, thick cement walls of the compound. At this hour there is stillness, actual peace and then I heard the SOUND, I actually: ”felt it.” The ocean, apparently is also up early this morning, and it is POUNDING against the beach – so much more than usual that I felt her vibration, her strength. And while I have always been enamored with the ocean, and her awesome waves of foamy water – I never realized the uncomfortable feeling that the waves are not consistent/regular – more like lightening, or even punches in a fight – they don’t arrive on every 4th beat of the measure – no no these waves are unpredictable and every land of a punch is strong and forceful – sometimes the punches land one-two- three as if it were ready to knock out its opponent. But here I lay, in the comfort of my bed, next to Vamsi, behind a big white wall, I don’t know if they are at the foot of the beach or seconds from crashing over the wall – I trust that if the ocean wanted this much more of land it would just take it, me with it, happily I would go – as the ocean for me is a sign of life, of living, of God and I trust the ocean’s sense of ownership. So this feeling this morning, is a good one, it is the first morning I feel I actually belong here, that I am home: I have Vamsi, my God, my community, though I now realize I need to do better at meeting and learning about my neighbors. I will first start with a very strong, beautiful lovely neighbor, who like me wakes up early every morning:
the ocean.
