Grandmother, Veronica says, you remind me of my grandmother. So you will be my grandmother here.

Every part of my body resists this title. Why not auntie, mom, big sis, teacher?

I could not be a grandmother I think, but I could. In some way the years have been added to my life and here I am, old enough to be a grandmother.

In this place Vero is not calling me old, there is no negative connotation. Only deep love, reverence, and respect.

A grandmother: holding love, tradition, and family in her hands and heart, giving wisdom and life. Watching and caring with compassionate nurturing.

Grandmother, she says,  and I grimace a little and smile.

Another volunteer here just turned twenty one. While I don't want to party like she does and I can see my wisdom of age over hers, I do not recognize that I am almost thirty years her elder. I do not feel it.

Grandmother.

How does one age without watching their own children grow? How do I measure my place in life and wear this status with grace and humility.  How do I become an elder when there is no stick for me to measure.

To grow old is an honor. To wear age with grace and humility, to take my place as an elder with pride and wisdom. What is my coming of age ceremony? What is the right of passage? When is it time?

How do I own this transition and become it? Do I need to change my thinking, actions, way through life? Can I be an elder without a family line? What does that look like?

A new journey to embark in time.

Grandmother.

Matatu: a small van in disrepair to move people nearer to their destination

The door slides open and the "conductor" shuffles people out and more people in. Crammed into vehicles in such disrepair, an American in America would never climb aboard. Small vans rusted, cracked, broken, ripped,  missing parts. Push start this one, bang on the side, move forward with a jolt. Conductor jumps in. Bangs on the roof. Slides the door closed. Bills folded in half, turned long ways and slid between his fingers, coins in his palm and a couple in his fingers to bang the door or click on the window. Every sound giving some message to the driver. Click on the window and the Matatu pulls to the side, off the pavement and into the dirt. Three people off, five people on. Radio blarring, the ripped seats rumble from the bass. Click, bang, jerk to a start. Weaving between traffic, passing on blind curves, honking to let you know it is coming around.  People sliding into each other. A light tap on your shoulder with an outstretched hand and you know you need to pay. Wrong change likely given. The three person bench seat in which you sit is holding six people. Bodies piled onto each other, no concept of personal space, handing babies to strangers, the conductor loses his seat and bends over the entire front row and through some flexible feat, closes the door behind him and bangs the window, the van bolts to a start. music deafening, body oder, dust and exhaust fill your nostrils. Young, old, large and small crammed, stacked, pushed in, rolled out, and we move on. Kenyan local transport.

Baboons move like gangs
Spread out to claim and cover territory
Piercing eyes look right at you with puffed up chests.
They swagger with confidence and a raw attitude of challenge
Don't mess with me is the message recieved.

A pride of lions
Two females and five cubs
Lounging on a fallen tree

Big cats
African lions in lazing action
Breathe deep

Six white rhinos
Lumbering over the grass. Massive
Ancient,  prehistoric creature

Flamingo in flight
Wing span of deep magenta edged in jet black
Surprising deep brilliance

Flamingos on shore
backwards knees lift high through the water
Dip their heads deep

Solo black rhino
Browsing on the tree leaves
A rare, special sighting. Blessed.

Heart be still
Rothchild giraffes
A plenty

Such a wide variety of animals
All on the same plain
Unimaginable before now

Perfectly still water capturing
twice the trees, twice the flamingos
Dancing between reality and reflection


Tangled lines of legs and bodies
Between bird and reflection
Pink flamingos

Smokey lake revealing
Mountain silhouettes of
Dead trees casting shadows

The waterlogged trees cast
Shadows in one direction
And reflections in another

Stillness with African music
In the background
Always

Today I dug dirt.

Side by side with 23 girls. We weeded the garden, turned soil, made mounds and ditches, and planted spinach.

You like digging? they ask.
Yes, I have a garden at home.
What do you grow? they wonder.
And I give them the list
Ooh they say with interest.

The dirt is fertile and rich, black red in color and soft to the touch. It takes a while to recognize the weeds from the greens but Priscillah and Agnes patiently teach me and my hands soon work as quickly as theirs.

The girls laugh at me when they see me fling a bag of weeds over my shoulder to take to the cow (nothing wasted). A white woman doing hard work. They stop laughing by my third trip. 

They hand me a hoe and with the last remaining girls I begin to make the final mounds.  Rows of high dirt between walking valleys of low. The digging is hard and steady. Soon the mounds are tall enough to smooth over, and create divits for planting.

We water the holes and seperate old spinach patches to use as new starters. Same same over and over until all the holes hold new life. We water once again.

Mercy comes to watch me. She has never planted, but today she will learn.

My feet and fingers turn red like the soil. My body and soul (finally working) rejoice. I think about my garden at home. It will be three more months before I can dig and plant.  I think about these plants soon to nourish these girls.

Yes, I like digging, I think.  It is good to grow your own food.