The soaring impulse

Love the world into change

2011-09-03T01:45:00.004+10:00

Dear Friends,

I am blogging again, but in a different place...

I invite you to join me here....

http://lovetheworldintochange.com

With love,

Maithri

A few little Ants

2011-04-22T10:25:00.001+10:00

As I stepped out of the truck I saw them, pouring from cracks in the dry earth. A dark multitude of Ants. A quiet army surging towards every corner of the little tired homestead at which we had just arrived.

Gogo Nhlabatsi lived here. A woman who had endured more than most human beings in the span of her 60 years of living. Being poor and uneducated, she had been given a plot of land far away from the centre of Makhewu, the community in which she lived. She had built her home of mud and stick on this dry, rocky outcrop. A tiny sullen plateau which overlooked the quiet majesty of Makhewu and its surrounding areas.

I first met Gogo in 2005. I will never forget the way her grandson appeared that day. He was two years old, and deeply malnourished. Gogo had no source of Vitamin A to provide for her grand child, no carrots or vegetables. Due to this deficiency in Vitamin A, the delicate structures of his eye had begun to break down, he had developed a deep corneal ulcer and a condition which we describe as keratomalacia. He was diagnosed as being blind in his right eye at the age of two.

Since that time Gogo had struggled not only with the health of her grandchildren, but her own. She had recurrent episodes of Tuberculosis, and her HIV infection had progressed into the more advanced stages.

She now had 6 children to look after and no income.

Things became so difficult for her that she would regularly have no food to take with her medication. One of the side effects of ARV's (the drugs we use for those infected with AIDS) is a deep seated nausea. Gogo found that if she took her ARV's without food she would vomit. But there was simply no food to take. Once her six children had their single meal for the day, nothing remained.

So Gogo would break her tablets in half. She would take one half today, and the next half tomorrow. A valiant but ultimately futile effort to stem the progress of her infection.

I met her again two years ago. This time we had the strength of a team to help address some of the issues which she and her family were grappling with. We commenced her on a monthly emergency food supplement. We engaged her in planning and commencing an income generation project - A dream which Gogo had to sell vegetables to her community and use that money to help support her family. We assessed her dilapidated mud hut which had a large hole in the side from the recent rains and made plans to build a brand new house for the family in mid 2011.

On this particular visit we came simply to see how all these plans were going and discuss the way forward.

My teammates Cyprian Ngozo, a compassionate and innovative Swazi man who has the arduous task of being our project co-ordinator in Swaziland, and Matron Anna Zwane, our erudite supervisor and leader of our local team spoke with Gogo at length, whilst the rest of the team listened intently to the conversation.

As I stood there next to our young administrative assistants Bekezela and Sphamandla and my wonderful friend and colleague Kathleen Hartmann, I noticed something about Gogo.

Gogo was seated on a rock, absorbed in conversation. Her tattered dress was covered in red dust whilst her barefeet were planted squarely in the dirt below.

As I looked closer I noticed that her beautiful brown legs were covered in ants.

Since the moment we arrived at the homestead we were all aware that the place was infested. Most of us had spent a lot of time dusting our feet, jumping up and down and doing what we could to make sure that the ants stayed well away from our skin and clothes.

And yet as I watched the dogged procession of little feet which were climbing up Gogos bare legs, I realised that she wasnt even flinching. She didnt even notice that they were there.

I thought of all the she had been through in her life.

AIDS, extreme poverty, seemingly intractable despair.

I imagined the world of suffering which she had borne upon her narrow shoulders.

And I realised that for her a few little ants meant nothing.

Her eyes were fixed on bigger things.

Moving House

2011-03-10T19:52:00.002+11:00

2011-03-10

0600

Siteki, Swaziland

At the feet of the Lubombo mountains of Swaziland there is a little town called Ngcina. Life is tough here and poverty pervasive.

For the last seven years local residents Gogo and Mkhulu (grandmother and grandfather) Musa have lived in a dilapidated shack made of rusty, ancient sheets of corrugated iron.

Last wet season the holes in their roof began to gape and the incoming rain soaked them to the bone each night while they slept. Mkhulu took it upon himself to build another house made of mud and stick but due to arthritic hands and advancing age found it a slow and laborious process.

When we met them last year, we found that in spite of their living conditions, Gogo and Mkhulu remained hopeful and rarely, if ever, complained. They were active in their community, always willing to offer what little they had to those who were less fortunate than themselves.

With Gogo and Mkhulu’s advice and input, our team at Possible Dreams International built them a brand new house. Not only does it have a sturdy new floor, walls and roof, it has a verandah to keep rain away from the doorstep and a rain gutter and drum to collect rain water for the familys use. As with all PDI houses, we also built the family a pit latrine as part of our ongoing commitment to improving sanitation in remote and rural communities.

When I met Gogo and Mkhulu this week there was a quickness in their step and a soft contentment in their eyes. As part of PDI’s ‘pay it forward’ program, Mkhulu is going to help a nearby family of orphans collect water for their homestead. In this way the chain of empowerment within the community will continue to grow.

I asked Mkhulu what it was like to finally ‘move house’. He told me “Dokotella, we have opened the door to freedom. It is like moving from Egypt to Israel.”

As we shared in the warmth of their quiet smiles and laughter, I understood what he meant.

From Siteki with love,

Maithri

Its not easy being green

2011-03-08T17:56:00.001+11:00

Tuesday 8^th March

2011

Siteki, Swaziland

As a teenager I once watched a documentary on ‘phobias’. It contained profiles on a range of people with intense fears of everything from ‘heights’ to ‘clowns’ with complementary descriptions of just how debilitating those phobias could be. One particular woman stayed in my mind. She was afraid of frogs. One morning she sat down at her kitchen table to open her mail. At one point she noticed that a letter she’d received had a stamp with a little green frog on it. With a blood curdling scream she threw the letters to the farthest corner of the room and jumped on to her kitchen table in a state of pure hysteria. At the time I thought this was the funniest thing I had ever seen. I’ve since learned that perhaps her fears were not totally unfounded.

Over the years my relationship with frogs, or any amphibians for that matter, has been incredibly unremarkable. I leave them alone and they offer me the same courtesy. We don’t get in each others way.

Two nights ago I awoke at three am and needed to visit the bathroom. As I sat, half asleep on the toilet, I noticed something on the wall. It was a spectacular frog. Emerald green with blood red legs, I was startled by its beauty and couldn’t wait to grab my camera to take photo. But before I could even wash my hands the little creature jumped at least 7 or 8 feet into the air and landed on the ceiling.

‘Bravo!’ I said. ‘What talent!’

Then as I watched he seemed to be readying himself for another death defying leap. His little eyes shone like black diamonds as he leaned his body down from the ceiling. Then within a flash he was off. My eyes scanned the floors and the walls, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. Then as I turned my head I saw him. He was sitting on my right shoulder, looking direcly at me.

Immediately my mind flew back to the ‘frog lady’ I had seen on that documentary all those years ago. Did she know something I didn’t? Was this little slimy guy friend or foe? I also remembered that it’s the brightly coloured frogs which tend to be the most poisonous.

Not knowing, I did what most sane people would do at three am in the morning when a potentially dangerous frog has just jumped onto their shoulder. I decided to talk him down.

“Hi.”

Mr Frog: Silence

“How are you?”

Mr Frog: Silence again.

“So what brings you to Swaziland?”

Mr Frog: Silence

“You’re not very talkative are you. Ha ha”

Mr Frog: Silence

“So, are you poisonous?”

Mr Frog: More Silence

“Please don’t hurt me.”

Mr Frog: Silence

“Are you going to jump on my face?”

Mr Frog: Long awkward silence.

“ Ummm….No offence. But shouldn’t you be IN THE AMAZON??!!!”

With that my silent friend made a guttural noise as if to say “That’s not funny dude.” And catopaulted himself to another wall before beginning to hurl himself at light speed from wall to floor to ceiling like some kind of insane green ninja.

As I sat helpless in the midst of this display of crazy amphibian acrobatics, trying to protect my face from what I had now surmised might be potentially lethal Amazonian frog venom, I remembered ‘frog stamp lady’ and vowed never to laugh at any ones fears again….

Cos baby, Karma’s a bitch!

On Doors

2011-03-06T23:47:00.000+11:00

Siteki, Swaziland

0530

6^th March 2011-03-06

Dawn is breaking over Swaziland. I am sitting under a torn mosquito net, listening to a quiet symphony of little birds and crickets that grows in harmonic intensity with every new drop of morning light.

It is good to be here again.

Today I will follow the long ochre dust road that runs like a river through these mountains and meet old friends. Gogos (grandmothers) who carry the wounded world on their backs, soft eyed children with joy stealing through their veins in spite of the ominous darkness of poverty and disease that looms around them.

The men and women of the rural communities of Lubombo are the heroes of my understanding. Collectively their life expectancy may be only 31 years, but there is richness in those years; A defiant goodness in the face of adversity, a laughing humility, an uncommon lack of complaint.

Yesterday I spent time with Anna Zwane. For many decades Anna (or Matron as we lovingly call her) has been a jewel in the kingdom of Swaziland. Now seventy years old, her experience as a senior nurse working in the rural areas of Subsaharan Africa is unparalleled. From Kenya to Malawi, Kwa Zulu Natal in South Africa to Siteki in

Swaziland

she has left a legacy of unflinching compassion, wisdom and dignity in her wake.

Matron knows so much about Africa that even the wild lions of Hlane could sit at her feet and learn. Yesterday as we spoke about a family of orphans in the hills of Mambane she told me “Yes, those children need food, but I know that there is a family nearby that grows jugo beans and another that has had a large harvest of Maize this year. Let us call upon them to help these children before we seek assistance elsewhere.” This is the kind of advice I receive from her every day of the year. Anna Zwane is an instrument of empowerment for her people.

One day a few years ago Matron Anna and I were driving behind a dusty bus on the road that runs from Siteki to Lonhlupheko. Swazi buses are famous for the pithy and often unintentionally amusing sayings which they have written on their side. Sayings like “The Lord is my shepherd for hire”.

This particular bus had two words written in Si Swati underneath the windscreen. “Vula Bevalile”.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“That’s your name.” came the reply.

“My name?”

“Yes, your Swazi name”.

“Vula Bevalile is a person who doesn’t care about whether a door is locked. He just opens it anyway. Vula Bevalile is the one who opens the closed door.”

“So you’re giving me your name, then Matron?” I asked as I thought about all the doors Anna Zwane had broken down in the name of justice and human dignity.

She laughed, the way only she can, and a sudden warmth filled my dusty, shuddering car.

I know who the real heroes are.

From Siteki with Love,

Maithri

On Love

2011-02-28T16:16:00.007+11:00

Mynah is my friend. Her frail body reminds me of the fever trees that grow by the side of the road in many parts of the Lubombo area. Slender and delicate, and yet strangely luminous, incandescent, unmistakeably alive.

Known for her quiet strength and a wide unforced smile, she has lived her 74 years in the red dust hills of Makhewu.

Mynah had five children. All of them contracted HIV/AIDS during their lifetimes.

One by one Mynah watched them suffer and die. And as each one passed away, she took in their children, her newly orphaned grandchildren into her little cement home with two rooms.

At last count there are 17 children staying with Gogo Mynah. Two more are on the way.

One day, just after the sun had risen I found myself wandering through the little rocky paths of Makhewu. I stopped at Mynahs house and saw the children playing barefoot outside.

I thought I would stop by and say hello to my friend and maybe play a game with the children.

As I walked into her house, the faint scent of urine hung in the air. I guess thats what happens when 17 children sleep together in one room.

Mynah was standing by a dusty, yellow wall, her whole attention focussed on something she was holding in her hand.

"Whats that?" I asked, smiling broadly. She jumped. Startled by my presence. After greeting me with a fond embrace, she answered.

"Rat Poison, Dokotella".

"Gogo are the rats bothering you?" I asked.

"No. The rats are ok. This is my ritual. Each morning I awake and i remember that I have 17 children to look after. I remember that I am weak and old. I remember that my own children are now dead. As I think about these things, I look at this rat poison in my hand.

I know I have a choice. I could eat this. I could eat it and end all the suffering that lives inside me.

And sometimes I'm so tired that i begin to lift my hand closer to my mouth.

But then I hear it Dokotella...

Somewhere outside, my grandchildren are playing. I hear their voices. Their laughter.

I look down at this poison in my hand, and shaking my head I whisper,

"Not today."

"Not today".

From Siteki with Love,

Maithri.

The Challenge of Christmas

2010-12-24T22:44:00.001+11:00

Christmas is my favourite time of year. Perhaps not for the reasons you might expect.

I have never been very impressed by images of pious perfection, nor dazzled by the gaudy idols of consumerism.

But in truth I love the person of Jesus.

The Jesus I speak of is not the haloed seraph who some believe in.

I'm talking about Jesus the refugee; Jesus the outcast; Friend of prostitute and leper; tax collector and mad man. A man who defied the literalists and fear mongers, sharing his life fully with those who were given no room in the human family.

When I read the stories of his defiant kindness in the face of prejudice, spiritual arrogance and hatred, I see a man who daily gestated compassion, and in doing so was able to give birth to a fearless, all inclusive love which catalysed the world.

At Christmas time, pallid sentiment abounds. Yet it seems to me that Christ the lover has been almost incarcerated by religion. His way of radical non judgement and boundless kindness, molested by cloistered minds who sense that real 'Christ love' is all too dangerous to the fear fortified fences which we've built between 'us and them'.

What is more, time and again Jesus calls us out of our lives of anaesthetized luxury into those wounded, jagged edged corners of our world where our brothers and sisters endure suffering and iniquities of leviathan proportions.

In Swaziland, where we work, there are two hundred thousand orphaned children who will go to sleep this Christmas night without any hope of Santa Clause arriving in the morning.

They have not been bad.

They have watched their parents grow feeble and die of AIDS. They have taken on the responsibilities of looking after their siblings: Carrying water; Tending the fields; Begging for money or food; They are 4 and 5 and 6 years old. Children of whom I am conviced Jesus Christ would say 'theirs is the kingdom of heaven' . And yet the majority of western Christians will go to sleep on Christmas eve with bellies full of food, and visons of sugarplums dancing in our heads, blissfully unaware, or conveniently forgetful, of the fact that they even exist at all.

If we let it, Christmas draws us out of complacency and confronts us with the immediacy of human need. It dares us to challenge oppressive indifference and fear; and step out into what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. described as the 'fierce urgency of now'.

I do not want to be a Christian. I want to strive to be like Christ.

To be humble; To daily give birth to compassion within the contours of a broken world.

Happy Christmas,

Maithri

If you want to read more about our work in Swaziland we invite you to join us here:

www.possibledreamsinternational.org

On World AIDS Day - A tribute to Swaziland

2010-12-01T07:31:00.000+11:00

It is World AIDS day and I would like to make a simple tribute to those whom we serve in the country of Swaziland.

For their unflinching courage in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. For their graciousness which startles and humbles me daily.

I offer my love, my gratitude and the commitment of our team. We will continue to work to remind those who are suffering with HIV/AIDS, malnutrition and despair that they are not alone in the darkness.

Hope is indomitable.

Together we can,

Maithri

(This song written by me and performed with the Possible Dreams Choir in 2010 - footage from Swaziland and members of our team)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dSVv-0QZBw8

I bring the sun

2010-11-26T15:33:00.001+11:00

The day of dark invitation
found me unprepared

No bag was packed,
No course was chartered

The arenose suitcase in the
unswept corner was barely deep enough
to contain
a few pressed shirts and folded
blue jeans
Much less bulwarks against weeping
or safe harbour
from the rabid ocean of fear
that suddenly engulfed
my little room.

The world was ablaze with
vermillion tongued
sorrow

It Licked the air
dry
of dulcet hope

Leaving in its stead
the acrid scent
of
sudden
despair

From the womb of that night
I called to you
dear Sun

Whose lustrous fingers
have guided my every step

Who has dappled
my days in tender hues of warmth
and meaning

'Wake up beloved '
I whispered

'I need you now

Reach out a resplendent hand
and fissure the darkness
with Your grace'

But the night festered on
And my expectant
eyes were time and again
disappointed

Until that
one tempestuous morning
When I finally learned
how to
let go

There in the midst of the storm
my empty fingers kindled
with a soft fire
all their own

And I stood by
the arenose suitcase

Unbroken,
Undefeated

Alive to the invitation
of sorrow,

Gifted with
one whispered
ray of truth:

I
bring
the sun

Copyright 2010 Maithri Goonetilleke - All rights reserved.

On healing

2010-10-29T14:04:00.001+11:00

One blue sky morning several months ago, I was betrayed.

The details are no longer important.

All i remember is sitting silently on the edge of a bed, somewhere in the jade mountains of Swaziland, with my right hand pressed firmly against my heart. Unable to think; Unable to cry; Only aware of a dull ache deep in my chest that throbbed louder with every heartbeat.

In those first moments after I learned the truth, I watched as the world I had known just seconds ago began to recede like the blue edge of the ocean. I wanted to reach out, to grab a hold of it, like a baby grasping for the hem of his mothers dress. But it was beyond my reach.

Suddenly i stood on a grey and lonely shore. My mind racing, raging. My heart unable to fathom the enormity of what had just occurred.

I called a friend who was doing her rounds in the hospital where I work. "Please come".

She came and embraced me and with eyes of full of love said "Maithri, I dont believe this is possible. Its not true." But I knew the truth.

We went out that morning with our team of wonderful Swazi nurses; packed the little white hospital truck full of food and medical supplies and took the red dust road into the rural community of Lukhetseni.

My mind was awash in tears, but I tried my best to keep the conversation light. To forget the unforgettable, and get on with the work which was at hand. Sometimes not sharing is equally redemptive.

The third homestead we came to was composed of three or four huts made of mud and stick. The sun was blinding that morning. A mangy dog, whose fur was the colour of maize, licked his paws under a shade tree as half naked children played quiet games in the ochre dirt outside.

I could not shake the sadness that had descended upon me like rain that morning. It soaked me through. And even the radiant sunlight had no chance of curing it.

After attending to a few of the children in the homestead, we walked into a mud hut where a sick gogo (Grandmother) was living.

It was dark. So dark that you needed candles in the day time.

Gogo had fallen about a month ago and fractured both her hips. Because of her age and limited resources, she had been told at the hospital that there was nothing they could do for her, and she had been sent home with a weeks worth of paracetamol for her pain. It was now a month later, the analgesia was long finished and every movement sent lancinating pains shooting through her pelvis and down her legs.

I knelt down beside her and could see the sorrow etched into her face. Unable to move; Lying on the cold mud floor.

She pointed to her left breast. Gogo also had breast cancer, and on her breast she had developed a large ulcer which ate into the skin. It was oozing yellow green pus and her daughter had dressed it with some cotton wool swabs which had now adhered to the wound like glue.

I tried to remove some of the cotton wool so that we could properly evaluate the wound below. The moment i touched it, she screamed in pain. It was more excruciating than the pain from her two broken hips.

We took some water, made a fire outside the hut and warmed it.

Delicately I poured warm water over her wound, until the cotton wool came away. I removed the excess and then after giving Gogo what pain relief we had, began to clean the wound. I explained to her that it would hurt, but hopefully once we took out the infection, the wound could heal again.

She put a piece of cloth in her mouth and bit down. Crying silent tears while i mopped up as much of the yellow exudate, the pus, as i could.

I felt her pain. Every tear, every wince of agony. I couldn't understand her strength. Her unflinching grace in the midst of sorrow.

Afterwards with the wonderful assistance of Kathleen, Anna Zwane and the other nursing staff we dressed the wounds and gave her antibiotics, pain relief and dressings. Enough to last till our next visit.

I knelt by her side in that dark little hut, holding her hand. We looked into each others brown eyes and somehow without any words, our wounds understood each other.

A million thoughts filled my mind. I heard the fragment of a song which my own dear father used to sing to us as children....I felt the ache in my chest from the deepest betrayal i had ever known....Most of all I saw the ineffable grace of this wonderful old woman whose quiet dignity humbled me in ways which i cannot describe.

Holding her frail hand, in the softest of whispers, I started to sing,

"Amazing Grace

How Sweet the Sound

That saved a wretch

Like me.

I once was lost

but now am found

Was blind

but now I see"

I opened my eyes to see her face looking up at me, smiling gently.

Closing her hands together in a prayer she whispered:

"Ngiyabonga, Dokotella. Ngiyabonga".

(Thank you Doctor. Thank you.)

I heard it once said "We are each others angels. We meet when it is time."

And on that broken day when even the sun was not enough, i was suddenly surrounded by the powerful, generous wings of a dying Swazi woman with two broken hips and a wound that would not heal.

I bowed my head and said ....

"Ngiyabonga."

On Hidden Lives

2010-09-07T18:31:00.001+10:00

Its not uncommon to hear a tourist say of Swaziland, "Its such a beautiful country, I can't imagine there being poverty here."

The long black road which winds from Mbabane down towards Lonhlupeko and Simunye affords spectacular views of this country cradled by the mountains. Rolling hills rise around you on every side like green eyed friends, and as you pass well built towns like Manzini, seeing the sumptuous houses of the elite which stud the road side, you might be forgiven for believing that perhaps the iron fist of extreme poverty has overlooked this beautiful land.

And yet the fact remains that over two thirds of the Swazi population live in extreme poverty. It is exactly these 'two thirds' which the tourists don't see. They live in what is known as rural Swaziland; Away from the tar road. In places where houses are made of mud and stick and lives are lived on the brink.

One such house made of mud and stick resides at the bottom of a red dust hill in the rural town of Maphungwane.

Its a tiny place, comprised of one room, no more than a few square feet in diameter. Its sole inhabitant is an elderly gogo (grandmother) named Anna.

Anna warms the interior of her little brown house with her gentle voice and a singular, soft light that dwells humbly in her wide brown eyes.

She is all alone in this world.

Several years ago, Anna lost the use of both her legs, and so spends each day seated on the dirt floor of her little room. When she wants to go somewhere, she crawls on her hands and knees.

Little holes have developed in the corners of Annas house and ceiling; Almost twelve in total.

At night when darkness falls across the lubombo mountains, and Gogo Anna lays down to sleep, these holes become open invitations, nocturnal gateways for an army of mice.

"Dokotella, when the sun sets, I hear them coming. They come through the roof. Through the floor. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty of them." she told me.

And once there the mice begin to nibble upon her almost immobile feet.

"I used to be terrified. But now when they come and they eat my feet, it simply reminds me that i am helpless. Without hope."

I stood in the room and imagined the horror that Gogo Anna must endure every single night of her life. Could there be any more vivid and tangible reminder of the visceral sting of human isolation?

So that day as the yellow sun etched its path across the African sky, we went to work.

We cleaned. We mixed cement. Filled every hole. Laid down coverings for the floor. Threw out the mice eaten mattress and blanket which Gogo was lying on and replaced them with new ones.

We laid down rat poison and over the next several days we collected the corpses of no less than 20 adult mice.

A few days later I went to re-visit Gogo and found her sleeping in her new bed under the red blanket which we had purchased for her.

I remembered that when I'd first met her she'd said "Dokotella, I have pain everywhere. Pain in my eyes. In my fingernails. Everywhere."

So I asked "Yini Inkinga Gogo? Kubuhlungu kuphi?" - Where is the pain?

And she replied with a gentle smile "No pain. No pain."

Poverty is viscerally, painfully real, but its not hard to make a difference. All we need are eyes that look beyond the places where the light burns golden. To willingly walk the broken roads, a little removed from where most of us like to venture. And we will be taken to places like rural Swaziland, where Gogo Anna sleeps alone.

www.possibledreamsinternational.org

On Blistered Feet

2010-07-05T17:19:00.002+10:00

Take the deepest shade of green; Texture it with ochre dust, the infinite curve of a mountain and fields of wild yellow grass; People it with gentleness and little smiles breaking on the shores of unimaginable pain and you will glimpse the Lubombo I know.

One Sunday afternoon after visiting some patients in the communities surrounding the hospital, I decided to take a leisurely drive along the dirt road which extends from Mapuwane to Big Bend. The road is long and littered with jagged rocks and pot holes, but affords stunning panoramic views of Swazilands Lubombo mountains as you descend from Mapuwane to the plains below.

I had not driven more than a kilometre when I noticed an older Swazi woman walking the same road. She had a ten kilo bag of maize meal on her head and neatly wrapped under her arm was what seemed to be a little blanket.

Opening my window I asked in my awkward Siswati “ Make (pronounced Ma-gay: ‘mother’) can I give you a lift?”

Her time sculpted face was etched in brown dignity. Without a word she removed the maize meal from her head, put it in the trunk of my car and with the smallest of smiles we recommenced our journey.

She was a woman of few words. I explained that I was a doctor and that I came each year to work with the people. She told me that her home was just a ‘little way’.

We drove down the steep gravel road, past huts of mud and thatch, some in disrepair from the recent storms. Barefoot toddlers with muddy legs and wild smiles waved and blew kisses from the side of the road as we passed.

After driving for 15 minutes I asked “Is it close Make?”

“Hame Embile” she whispered - Keep going.

So we did. Seemingly suicidal goats weaved in and out of the traffic, mothers and daughters carrying large containers of freshly collected water on the heads for their evening meal.

We came to a sugar plantation and I decided that this must be the place where ‘Make’ stayed. I nodded “ Here?”

“Hamba Embile” came the reply.

We drove through acres of towering green sugar cane. After another half an hour we came to a muddy river. The signage beside it was clear “Beware Hippos and crocodiles”.

I wondered how anyone could walk this far, especially with a 10 kilo bag of maize on their heads.. “Make surely you do not walk this whole way?” I asked incredulously. Is there a bus or koombi that runs here.

“No bus. No koombi.”

“How long does this walk take you?”

She explained to me that she was going to her work place in Big Bend from her home in Mapuwane. She would leave at 2.00 pm and arrive in Big bend at 7.30 pm. 5 hours and thirty minutes.

Then suddenly, without warning, this quiet angel told me the rest of her story.

“Last night I was here in Big bend grinding leaves to sell at market. My eldest daughter who lives next door to me cried out for help. She was in labour and delivered a tiny baby girl, who was struggling to breathe.

We knew we had to get the child to hospital. But there was no bus and I had no money.

It was very dark and cold. We walked next door and borrowed a blanket to keep the baby warm. We started the journey on foot, but our baby died on the way.

She died in my daughters arms as she held her to her breast.

When we reached Mapuwane this morning, we buried the child next to my home.”

I found it difficult to speak. What experience in my priveledged existence could come close to the bitter sorrow that this family was living right now. To carry the body of your own dead child for five and a half hours up a steep mountain side.

The ‘concerned doctor’ in me wanted to do something to help, “Dear Make you have been through so much. But can I ask why are you walking back to Big bend to work today? You are grieving, 5 and a half hours walking is too much when you are carrying this burden of sorrow. Can I drive you back to your homestead so you can be with your daughter?”

“ Dokotella, I am not going to work.” She smiled.

“I am going to return the blanket”

There are moments in life when we are rendered silent. When a human being acts in such a way as to shatter all our preconceived notions of what is possible for the human heart to endure.

Here was a woman in the dark night of her soul, finding the strength to walk five and a half hours to return a little blanket so that anothers child would not be cold.

When I was a little boy I read these words: “ In life as in dance, Grace glides on blistered feet.”

Today I understand them.

In a world where selfishness presides, there are still those so gracious as to break the shoulders of their own sorrow with buds of kindness.

These are my heroes. My teachers. My shining light in the darkness.

Walk on,

Love the world into change,

Maithri.

On difference

2010-06-13T05:06:00.000+10:00

Saturday 12th, June
Siteki, Swaziland
0500

Sometimes little words are not enough. Each year as I walk the roads of rural Swaziland meeting those living with terminal AIDS, tuberculosis, endemic disease and extreme poverty, I inevitably come to the realisation that my words form only the most awkward of mirrors upon which the depth and urgency of the needs which are brought before me might be reflected. What I see each day is painted in such vivid tones of soft grace, brokenness and wounded love that the wings of my little words always fall short of holding them.

And yet I will continue to try.

Recently I was in the the community of Ngcina, a place where the green aloe constellates like stars beside the red dust road. In the back seat of our truck were two Swazi nurses whose quiet dignity and persistent gentleness in the face of arid despair teaches all those blessed to be in their presence. And in the drivers seat was my wonderful friend and team mate Kathleen, who embodies the truest meaning of compassion.

You need a truck full of love when you visit the house of sorrow. It clothes you in helpfulness; it allows you to be useful.

That day in Ngcina, after seeing many patients with end stage HIV and sick orphaned children, we came upon a little one bedroom home made of cement.

Lying on a mattress inside was a man covered in a blanket.

“Sawubona” He greeted us softly.

This man had stage four HIV, terminal AIDS and had not walked in many months because of nerve damage caused by the virus. I asked if I could look at his legs and so drew back the blanket covering him.

No one could have expected what we found.

His legs were covered from thigh to toe, in deep, long ulcers. Ulcers which had eaten through skin, soft tissue and even muscle.

What was more these ulcers were suppratively infected with what was immediately recognisable as pseudomonas aeruginosa. Thick bright yellow pus poured like honey from his wounds; His bed awash in oozing sickness. The smell was so powerful that it took all within me just to put on my gloves and examine his legs further. We lifted up one leg and found that his heels were covered in cavitating lesions which were eating into his ankle joints. He had no dressings to put on his wounds, so he had used newspaper, which had now adhered itself to his legs.

I cannot imagine what it is like to go to sleep at night with a bed covered in wet infected pus. To be unable to get up and clean yourself. To endure the pain of knowing that every day the infection is moving further up your body and being completely unable to assist yourself.

We cleaned his wounds, dressed them as well as we could. Gave him medications and organised for him to come to hospital for immediate surgical debridment and intravenous antibiotics.

As I looked around the walls of his cement home I saw a photo hanging on the wall positioned directly at the foot of his bed.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“My daughter Dokotella” he responded.

“She is beautiful” I said with a smile.

“Yes, I love her.” He whispered. “ I keep it there because when I see her face it makes the pain go away for a moment.”

When we hear stories of Africa or the developing world, we hear of diseases and poverty of such unimaginable quality and texture that it almost seems ‘unreal’. So we create for ourselves a ‘third world’, and shelter our minds from the realities which other human beings face on a daily basis.

And yet what I want to tell you is that in this cement house in Ngcina Swaziland, There resides more than another third world victim of HIV.

There is a man, a good man, who loves his children. A man who has known wild laughter and soft joy. Someone who in the height of his sorrow looks upon the face of his daughter to find a breath of hope and courage.

We are not as different as we seem.

When we truly realise this, when we allow the river of understanding to wind its way into the farthest reaches of our being, nothing can ever be the same.

Love the world into change,

Maithri

On the importance of nests

2010-06-09T19:06:00.000+10:00

Sunday, 6 June 2010

08:00

It is nesting time in Siteki and a host of little brown eyed birds have descended upon the field of grass growing outside my window. Each earnest parent tenderly picks a sallow complected stalk, often twice their own size, and takes it back to furnish the modest home which they are building.

A nest is the ensign of the family. There we are nurtured and nourished; Given roots and wings.

Yet in so many parts of Swaziland, human nests are fractured and fissured.

Recently I was visiting the little community of Makhewu with some of my team members when we found a lonely 3 year old child wandering among the homesteads.

His clothes were muddied and brown; his eyes wide with fear.

A little further investigation revealed that he was the youngest of three children. Their father had died of AIDS last year leaving their pregnant twenty year old mother to raise them on their own. The family live in a one room hut made of mud and thatch. Each morning their mother goes to work and the elder siblings leave for school. The three year old boy is left at home with a little food and a plaintiff request that a neighbour looks in on him from time to time.

There is almost a hallmark quietude which emanates from a deeply frightened child. They reach into themselves and put on whatever armour they can to protect themselves from fear and pain. We saw it so vividly in this little one. Even the slender grass that towered above him seemed stronger, more resilient than he did.

At an emergency meeting with the childs mother, we spoke at length about our deep concerns for this childs safety and the dangers of leaving him alone.

Her response was heartfelt: “What do I do Dokotella? My husband has died. I am pregnant. I have to work and the children have to go to school. I love my children. But I don’t know what else I can do?”

It would be convenient if problem solving was a linear process. If A plus B always equalled C. But in Swaziland that is rarely the case. The blame game gets us nowhere. In truth, supporting this child means supporting his mother and helping her to become truly independent in the context of her socioeconomic and cultural situation.

In a country where there is a deep scarcity of social services, we need to do more than just provide food assistance or medical care to truly empower this family. We need to engage their social network allowing the Makhewu community itself to become a nest for this child and his family.

And what about those of us who do not live in Makhewu or Siteki, Dafur or Delhi. Do we have any responsibility? I would contend that we have more than a responsibility; we have a singular, shining opportunity. A chance to adamantly refuse to choose the path of indifference to pain; To inform ourselves of the crises facing children and to change the paradigm, the lens through which we see this wounded world. As we become champions for those whom we have not met, but to whom we feel connected, we affirm the common humanity that runs like blood through the veins of this world.

We stir hope from its sleeping place and breathe vibrant life into the dormant seeds of change.

It matters not, whose child walks the paths of Makhewu alone. What matters is that they are seen and found; Nested in the love of true community.

Given roots and wings.

From Siteki with love,

Maithri

On Hope

2010-06-05T19:36:00.001+10:00

Saturday June 5th

Siteki, Swaziland
0530

Gogo Ida Gama turns seventy this year. Her house, made of mud, is falling down.

When it rains or the withering southern wind begins to blow, the wall above her bed, shifts and crumbles.

She can barely walk. She has no food. She is always cold.

In her lifetime, Gogo has seen more than her share of suffering. All but one of her children have died before her, as a consequence of HIV/AIDS. Her only remaining daughter is also HIV positive and has just given birth to a newborn to go with her other little 3 year old piece of heaven named ‘Nothando’ – which means ‘Love’.

The mud hut where the children sleep is also in disrepair. There are holes in the walls through which intruders like snakes and rats find their way to threaten the children as they sleep.
Our team at Possible Dreams, met Gogo, as the sun was setting one cold Swazi evening. She talked in tones of quiet despair of her trials and little dreams for her family; That they might have food enough for the days ahead; That they might find some portion of shelter from the storms that raged around them.

We gathered together Gogo’s community, our PDI builders, some of whom are also orphans of AIDS, and we set about building her a house.

Yesterday when we visited Gogo, a sublime sense of hope burned like the sun around her. The fragrance of new life was everywhere apparent.

The house is almost complete. It has strong walls and floors; A corrugated iron roof; Windows and doors are on the way... Even a verandah. These are things which mostof us take for granted, but for so many living in Swaziland, they are luxuries which they will simply never experience in their lifetime.
Last month we commenced Gogo’s family on our ‘mealie meal project’ which offers emergency food assistance to families of orphans or Gogo families who are in desperate need of food. Each month she will receive 25 kg of mealie meal (a porridge based meal which is the staple of the Swazi diet), 60 eggs, sugar and beans as a supplement to her diet.

As we were about to leave Gogo Gama’s homestead last night, I heard shouting.

It was Gogo, and she just received her latest parcel of food from Possible Dreams International.

As we watched, she started waving her hands and singing. She even began to slowly rock her largely immobile legs from side to side. Dancing. In her way.

Tears came. Streams of joy flowing down cheeks forged by the fires of life.

She said in Siswati. “Last night every morsel of food that we have, was finished. Now the children can eat. “

I bowed my head and cried.

Sometimes it seems that the problems of this world loom over us like deep unshakeable shadows. But the reality is that in the face of even the most unimaginable despair, hope can find a way.

All we have to do is open a door for her. Build her a house. Make space for her to breathe.

Love the world into change,

We can,
Maithri.

On Presence

2010-06-04T17:39:00.001+10:00

Thursday 3rd May

0600
Siteki, Swaziland.

We underestimate presence.

The last 24 hours of plane flight and bustling airport terminals have been a keen reminder.

I would be one of the first to sing the praises of the cellular phone for its singular ability to connect people across the world, but as I sat in a Melbourne airport lounge last evening in the company of a hundred kindred travellers, there was a distinct feeling of disconnect. Walled within a series of discrete, invisible cocoons each of us sat, in quiet adoration of the phone in our hand; deftly insulated and conveniently protected from the ‘strangers’ milling around us.

As I stepped out of the arrivals gate of Matsapha airport, onto Swazi soil once more. The cocoon began to lift.

We pay lipservice to the manifest separateness which pervades our communities. Even when it violently rears its head in the form of psychological and emotional pathology, we brush it off as merely a symptom of the age, a byproduct of progress.

The dichotomy of the work in which I am engaged and my consistent experience of working in places of extreme material poverty, is that a concomitant and almost counter-intuitive spiritual wealth is so frequent as to be the norm in many of these places.

I am aware of not allowing the arch of my words to sweep too broadly in this matter, there are always exceptions and to say that a wealth of spirit is often the heirloom of impoverished communities around our world does not even for a moment trivialise the immediacy or the devastation caused by abject material poverty.

But the fact remains that each day that I walk the dusty roads of Swaziland I meet millionaires in spirit clothed as the humble poor.

Presence is more than physical. There is an invisible exchange that occurs in the spaces between us which even the most brilliant scientist would have difficulty articulating.

Healing so often occurs in our least medicated moments. In soft glances and shared laughter. There is a nutritive power in being truly listened to, a womb like comfort which comes from being heard and seen deeply.

I know there are many medical professionals who cringe at this kind of discourse. But perhaps that is merely because we have been taught to value ‘the seen’, the quantifiable, the tangible and discount ‘the rest’ as inconsequential.

I would like to see us speak of presence as an art form. An instrument of empowerment.

When we allow the barriers to fall away for even the most cursory of moments and create a genuine intimacy between ourselves and another human being, that which is stagnant in us is released into flow and dynamism. In the warm embrace of human connection, we are reminded of our own potentiality and power; liberated into fearless understanding.

As I go out into the communities this morning to visit those living with AIDS, malnutrition and extreme poverty, my wish is to be fully and vibrantly present. To create soft spaces where the song of a wounded world might enter the wounded places of my own heart; and that somewhere within that communion of presence, the river of healing might flow.

From Siteki with love,

Maithri

Till every shackle falls....

2010-05-20T20:46:00.007+10:00

20th May 2010

7pm, Melbourne

Australia

I still remember the warmth of the rain on my skin as I waited for my taxi. I had just finished a stint as a medical registrar in one of the larger Queensland hospitals and that day I was flying home to a little relaxation and the shade of southern skies.

As the white taxi pulled into the kerb, I watched the driver emerge and greet me. There was an uncommon softness laughing in her eyes; A vibrant goodness that startled and warmed me. The drive to the airport lasted only the briefest of minutes but in those few moments a friendship was born.

I told her of Swaziland. Of motherless children in roofless huts who taught me more than spectacled professors ever had; Angels dressed in raiments of AIDS and malnutrition, whose wings were thank you's and gentle lessons of grace.

And she shared with me her story. How after longs hours of work, driving weary travellers around the streets of Cairns, she would return home and sew quilts for the orphans of India. Patches of hope, threads of tenderness woven together in her own unique, laughing way . She went each year. Quietly; Humbly and without ceremony. To share a simple love and wide eyed joys with her new found friends in the slums.

As we pulled into an airport awash in rain, I shared with her my crazy philosophy.... "It matters.... All of it."

"Humanity is a spiders web. Touch it at its most forgotten point and the whole web vibrates."

I remember the two rainbows that rode the sky that morning as I walked from that black and white taxi last year. I remember the smile that i couldn't wipe from my face; and the certain knowledge that the world was one.

Tomorrow I turn another day, another year, another decade older.

I turn my head over the shoulders of my life and all I see is grace; wild and deep; constellating like a million shining points of light around me.

My only wish is to keep on returning that which has been given to me. To walk each step in gratefulness and to remember that those of us who truly believe in freedom, must not fail to keep on touching fingers of kindness upon the web of life.... Till every shackle falls.

Love the world into change,

Maithri

PS I am returning to Swaziland in the coming days,

Walk with me.

Love is fearless

2010-05-14T11:28:00.006+10:00

Picture Credits

Thats all I want to say.

Love the world into change, M

Islamophobia and the politics of fear

2010-05-12T13:30:00.001+10:00

Picture Credits: New York Times

Intolerance is the most socially acceptable form of egotism, for it permits us to
assume superiority without personal boasting. -- Sidney J. Harris

Friends,

I have become increasingly alarmed at just how deeply entrenched islamophobic views have become within our culture.

It seems that many of us have stopped even seeking to differentiate between the teachings of a religion and the actions of a few extremists or certain governmental/political regimes.

I have often written on these pages that if I have a religion, then it is compassion. My father is a Christian minister and taught us from our birth that true love is boundless and all embracing, that it can never be captured by the cloistered walls of fearful minds and prejudiced thinking.

Throughout my life my muslim brothers and sisters have taught and continue to teach me so much about loving deeply, living graciously and walking with humility.

So it is absolutely heart breaking to watch these socially conscious, intelligent and gentle people being vilified again and again by those who do not even count a single muslim person within their circle of acquaintance.

A scholar named Edward Said conceptualised 'the Other'. The other is a construct of the mind, created to divide the world into us and them, east and west, backward and modern, irrational and rational, weak and strong. The 'other' is the person that we are not and so we project onto them all that we loathe about our own selves.

In Saids paradigm for many 'westerners' (And that term in itself is fraught with prejudice...which would constitute another blog entirely) the 'Other' is Islamic people.

In Australia at the moment and in many parts of the world there is a movement to ban certain types of Muslim dress, such as the burqa. The proponents of these kinds of legislations argue that they are rescuing 'poor oppressed muslim women' from themselves and their oppressive and backward culture.

I consider myself a gentle person and I try not to waste my time or energy in argument. But I feel strongly that this kind of unmitigated colonialism, and searing condescension cannot go unanswered.

The strongest women I know are muslim, they have their own reasons for wearing hijab, niqab or burqa but in countries like Australia and America it is most definitely not forced upon them. It is a choice. Their choice. Similar to the choice a nun might make to wear a habit, or another woman might make to wear something completely different. Legislating what women can and cannot wear is not only patriarchal, it is in violation of their basic human rights.

It concerns me that in this entire discourse there is one key voice to whom we are not listening, and that is the muslim voice, moreover when it comes to the debate on dress it is the female muslim voice which we are ignoring.

As a society which prides itself on how literate and educated we are compared to the rest of the world, I would contend that there are giant gaping holes in our knowledge when it comes to subjects relating to Islam and the role of women in Islamic culture.

We would rather believe the propoganda that we are fed by a fear mongering media than use our own rational minds to sift fact from fiction, demonization from truth.

So friends the purpose of this post is simple, I would like to share with you some wonderful articles, books and videos about the subjects to which we so often only hear one side....

May we all seek to understand before we judge,

It is the only road to peace.

M

A book: Covering the moon - An introduction to Middle Eastern Face Veils

An article : All terrorists are muslim except the 94% that aren't

A blog post by Pakistani American Wajahat Ali entitled "What I understand about Faisal Shahzad"

An article by Rachel Woodlock entitled "Muslims the focus of misplaced fears"
http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/contributors/muslims-the-focus-of-misplaced-fears-20100219-olqk.html

An article by Shakira Hussein on the recent controversy surrounding the burqa in Australia

A video by my wonderful friend Susan: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANoswUeabWY

A video message from Maithri

2010-05-03T15:16:00.003+10:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3ac0kcenAA

Hey guys,

I'm returning to Swaziland in a few weeks, wanted to share this with you before I go,

With love, Maithri

Grateful

2010-05-01T12:05:00.000+10:00

For the sound of wings upon the water,
For light that is intrinsic,
unfathomable,
undiminished by the night;
For unexpected softness,
For the memory of shade trees,
For a bowed head and a quiet heart,

Thank you.

Image Credits

When Butterflies whisper

2010-04-14T17:25:00.004+10:00

Today
I walked down
to Yamba Beach
My heart
Still bloodied
and wincing after
the thorny cadences
of yesterdays song

Unexpected, unbidden,
There
suddenly came
a yellow sun riding softly across

blue sky shoulders

By the rocks
gangly surfers laughed through

tangled hair and unchained eyes
at the burnished waves

mounting before them

And I felt myself
letting go
of more than the
breath that
was still to
be exhaled

At the feet
of the sandy staircase
I glanced at my shoulder
and there was
a purple eyed
butterfly
whispering...

Perhaps she had been there

all along

Singing
The dawn

towards

me.

The Conquering Lion ~ The story of Promise

2010-04-11T11:09:00.008+10:00

On wounded days, when the wind blows cold against my back, I remember Promise.

Promise Maposa was born in the emerald mountains of Swaziland. Here in the little southern African country which has gained infamy as having the worlds highest prevalence of HIV/AIDS, Promise found love. Love which rested in the arms of a soldier and the eyes of a little girl who would soon become the epicentre of her world.

Promise worked as a teacher. And was in charge of a preschool class for orphans of AIDS in the community where she lived.

In 1999 Promise noticed that something was drastically wrong with her body. She became increasingly weak, and was told by hospital staff that she was having recurrent bouts of severe anaemia. Her weakness soon became so profound that she would become breathless at the slightest level of exertion, and it became difficult to accomplish the most menial of every day tasks.

Promise felt deeply alone in her pain as her husbands work meant that he would spend much of his time travelling. She also began to suspect that he was being unfaithful, and concerned that she too may have become infected with HIV.

So with what little strength she could muster, she packed her belongings, took her child in her arms and walked out of her husbands home. In Swaziland, such defiance on the part of a woman is not only rare, it is in many ways counter-cultural.

She returned to her mothers house and determined to raise her child alone. But her health continued to worsen.

In 2005 , almost 6 years after her symptoms commenced, Promises deepest fears were realised when she tested positive for HIV.

As her disease progressed, she became increasingly bed-bound.

In addition to severe recurrent vomiting, Promise developed a severe inflammation of the nerves in her feet, which made it very difficult to walk.

At 5 years old Siphesiwe her daughter, became her nurse.

Siphesiwe would wipe the vomit and effluent from her clothes each morning and bring her food to eat and water to drink when she was thirsty. She would sleep next to her each night and wake before her each morning to make sure that her mother was still breathing.

At the height of her illness, when her immune function had dropped to almost nothing, she was afforded some of the precious Antiretroviral medication (the treatment for AIDS) which had been allotted to the hospital by the World Health Organisation.

Little by little, day by day, Promise began to regain a little of the strength which had always been her hallmark.

One day she woke up and made a command to her illness. “ Today I say to you, AIDS, You will not conquer me.”

And with that command, Promise Maposa began to lift herself up.

No longer able to work as a teacher, she started selling icecubes by the side of the road to make enough money to buy food for her and her daughter.

She cut and portioned Pork for market. She made and sold scarves. She did whatever she could to break free of the shackles which HIV had placed upon her life.

Today she continues to find it difficult to walk. “Its like walking on cotton wool” she says…She is still weak and becomes short of breath easily. She is plagued by recurrent infections.

But her voice is strong….

“All I want...is to live. I want to see my child grow up and have her own family.”

“I want to be there for her. So that she too will not become an orphan.”

" I am a conqueror. I will not be conquered.”

In Promises wide brown eyes there resides a flame of dignity which even the deepest waves of suffering have never been able to put out. She is evidence that the human person is far more than a fragile amalgam of fears and insecurities, nerve and sinew.

The old Bob Marley song says "The conquering Lion shall break every chain."

As far as I'm concerned, she already has.

www.possibledreamsinternational.org

Where is God?

2010-04-02T11:11:00.004+11:00

It is Good Friday.

At this time my thoughts always fly to that little hamlet filled with pain in the mountains of Swaziland, where i work each year.

When I walk into the outpatient department at the Good Shepherd hospital, I am greeted by at least a hundred faces...each of whom are suffering in their own way. Most of them have travelled many miles up the mountain side to reach the hospital.

They either come by foot, or go without a meal (or several) so they can afford the bus fare to reach the hospital. The large majority of them are HIV positive. And of these very few will be on appropriate medications.

They come with the complications of AIDS. Opportunistic infections like Tuberculosis and cryptococcal meningitis, atypical pneumonias and endemic diseases like malaria and schistosomiasis.

They come with the complications of extreme poverty. Every rib palpable, visible to the naked eye. Children with stomachs bursting from kwashiorkor (protein deficiency), eyes red and ulcerated from a lack of vitamin A.

I see each in turn, offer what i help I can and admit to hospital those who are too sick to make the journey home.

Then I go out into the communities in the company of angels. The nurses who call themselves the 'home based care' team. We see people in their homes. Dilapidated huts made of mud or thatch. Child led households. Patients with terminal AIDS, forgotten by the world, lying in their own wastes and suffering inexplicable, unimaginable pain.

And every day as I go about doing my work, I see His face.

A thousand times over. A Crucified God. Forsaken. Denied. Betrayed by a world who claims to believe in universal human rights. Offering me a broken smile and gratitude for whatever trifle of kindness I can provide.

If God exists, then he is suffering. His heart is breaking in forgotten corners of our world.

There is a story written by Elie Wiesel in his book Night. He tells of a day at the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp where he was witness to a hanging.

Three Jewish men stood at the gallows. Two were adults and died very quickly. But the third was a little boy. He struggled and gasped and suffered for at least an hour, while the other prisoners looked on.

Elie Wiesel heard someone behind him weeping and saying "Where is God??" "Where is God?"

And this was his reply "Where is he? Here He is -- He is hanging here on these gallows"

There are many ways of drawing close to God. For some it is through prayer and meditation. For some it is through a religious service or celebration.

But for me, the deepest intimacy with the divine is felt when I am on my knees in a dark mud hut tending to the wounds of a man, woman or child in pain.

Love is my religion.

Service is how I pray.

Back to Blogging ;)

2010-03-26T10:37:00.005+11:00

Hey guys,

I'm back! ;)... Life has been incredibly busy with work and preparations for returning to Africa... But the time is right to return to this place and start sharing with you some of the things that have been on my mind of late... Especially some new stories of the gracious people of Swaziland...

Sending love and laughter,

Maithri

This video made me laugh and laugh this morning (Thanks to my friend Suze for sharing it with me) - double click on the video to see it in full size...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lj-x9ygQEGA