Toothpaste as a marker in time

 

I thought I’d have to buy more toothpaste in the ship store

as I squeezed out just a tiny bit more onto my brush

only in that moment recognizing the toothpaste as a timepiece

without sand sifting through a tiny hole to mark seconds or minutes

we are measuring days and weeks, more than a month

every morning and every night a bit more toothpaste is squeezed 

onto the brush, every few weeks, the brush is recharged,

not as often as one might have expected

the toothpaste, the toothbrush marked the time on the ship

without me having realized it, I might have resorted to

magical thinking, squeezing out just a bit more than needed

to see if the time would pass more quickly, the needed 

experiences compressing in time, all that I needed to learn

being integrated more quickly, I learn quickly 

but no, no, this is not that kind of learning, the quick mind

no, it’s the slow learning that life offers and that we accept

at our best, with grace. 

I thought she was the one that I am missing so much

 She came up behind me, my eyes focused on the land looming ahead of me

A gentle touch on the shoulder, was it, or my arm, maybe more of an embrace because

I knew it was my husband who had come to comfort me

To welcome me to the new day, such a small gesture 

That assures me that we are together again

Literally touching my back in that very specific way that I don’t even know what it is. 

My heart leaped for the smallest moment and I turned to

Gaze into her very kind face, a woman that I have come to know, who comforts everyone in ways that even she cannot fathom

The sound of cars whizzing by

 The whir of the tires on cement, a dog barking in the distance

And the birds chattering in the trees, some more insistent than others, a cat mewing for its milk

Fallen small green fruits add color to the grey patio stones and a man walks by shouting gaily to his friend in Creole

My breakfast, finally the way that I like it, yogurt on fruit with granola and seeds, a coffee, my journal

The pen can write once again, dispersing its usual mix of observation and critique, pondering the differences of men and women

Men do not cackle in the back seats of rental cars

The men across the street are gathering to discuss the night, the days work before the trucks and machinery will roar to life

A lone insect drifts by and I smell the odor of insect repellent wafting up from my body

The day has begun.

She Sparkles in the Sun

I would have been lost but for my eyes

drawn to a sparkling pattern of reflected sun

far down the dark passageway

it was her again in her security jacket

her black slacks and black shoes

her hand beckoning me 

I always got lost exiting the terminal 

but 

as I strolled towards her, I noticed that

her jacket had stopped sparkling and now it was her 

smile that lit up the darkness, not like the reflected sun

but the shine of shared humanity, the shared recognition 

that I was so lost and she knew the way.

Every day she showed me the way

She pointed to the right and I walked through

the one-way gate into the terminal, the rush 

of air, the fluorescent lights making me blink

as I passed from one world to another.

 

 

Modise, who said he loved us

Our Black tour guide standing alone at 

the front of the bus, speaking to a load of white strangers

said that he loved us, his white teeth flashing with sincerity

a former prisoner, tortured, a witness to

the rising and falling of the sun through barred windows, life

slipping away between his fingers, only grateful for such esteemed company, the 

Nelson Mandelas of the world

they tried to reduce him to a number

but his name was and is Modise, back again

astoundingly, on this island, Robben Island, to

stand at the front of the bus, smiling at a load of white strangers

the same race as those who tortured and imprisoned him

every day, now a willing inhabitant on this desolate island

dedicated to keeping the searing memory alive

enduring loneliness perhaps for a paycheck home

to the son that arrived despite the unspeakable torture

the one who should never have found life

I stepped down from the bus, his hand guiding

my elbow, oh so carefully, step carefully, ma'am

let nothing befall you on this island

enough blood has been shed.

 

Life while at Semester at Sea

It’s now been 19 days since I joined Semester at Sea, arriving in Salvador after 21 hours of travel to board the ship and find my room, 8029.  I love my room, with its rose-colored floral carpeting, twin beds with their own brilliant white duvets, large windows looking to the sea – that open onto the vast Atlantic Ocean.  I am finally crossing the ocean, something I have wanted to do ever since my mother recounted the story of her friend who used to regularly cross the ocean on cargo ships.  

There are two parts to this voyage:  on land and at sea.  Upon arrival in Salvador, Bahia in Brazil, I joined a small community of people that had not departed on overnight excursions.  I found my room and then promptly went out into the port where I stumbled upon a bi-lingual tour guide with whom I did two full days of excursions.  This was an excellent find because otherwise I was mostly on my own, in a strange city, in a country where I do not speak the language and where we were frequently warned about abundant dangers.  It was actually quite lonely, but to catch you up, I enjoyed connecting with the capoeira culture here, including meeting a 90 year old mestre and watching him teach class on evening, admiring statues of very famous mestres in the main square by the port, and watching local capoeristas dance, even dancing with them.  

Ship life is a completely different thing. Everyone is on board and has chosen their people with whom they will generally share their meals and will plan activities in the next port.   I would never advise a solo traveler to join mid-voyage like I did, but here I am.   The components of ship life are….eating, going to classes and participating in a myriad of activities in the evening, including special presentations, movies, talent night, happy hours, etc.  I am taking Global Environmental Politics, Books without Borders, Global Cinema and Global Core, the last being highly disliked by almost everyone.  I wanted to start reading more intensively in life so the Books without Borders is great..although I admit to punting today’s class as I am kind of overscheduled today.  Global Film is great.  The students in the classes are generally engaged and have many interesting things to say, which is cool.  I guess I’d call myself a Floater, since few of my appeals to be included with other groups have succeeded, I have taken it upon myself to invite someone new to join me at lunch and at dinner for a 1:1 conversation.  I have had breakfast twice with a group that I like and I was so touched that one of them said they missed me this morning.  That was the first time that someone expressed that sort of sentiment. 

My favorite person on board is Samantha, a solo nomad traveler who has truly inspired and encouraged me to just do what interests me on my own, which is pretty much what I’ll be doing in Cape Town.  At times I feel brave and strong, other times I feel discouraged and lonely, but that is life and there are lessons to be learned, forced reflections and stepping out of my comfort zone.  I miss home but have no regrets.  

Dancing on one foot

 he’s lithe and alive, slender and spinning

young and supple, a smile that stuns a world

that finds itself applauding while still unsure of 

such insistent gaiety, enduring truth telling

he will be heard, he will be seen

the lame foot that finds a way to dance even as

tears may stream behind closed doors yet he 

steps out in the sunshine on deck 10 the wind 

whipping against his baggy trousers, the thin fabric

of his T-shirt billowing like a sail to dance

as if his life depended on it

we watch from below our silence

Only broken by his exuberant cries of 

delight – freedom!