I am writing to you from my uncle’s kitchen in Manila after a nice meal of pancakes and a cat nap in the den. It has been a week of dozing under the fan and reflecting and meditating in the attic, of course whilst eating arguably the best food in the world and nurtured by the laughter and love of my family. Not to mention Starbucks.
Last week, I said goodbye to my school and goodbye to Kibarani. Just as it was with my kids, it is difficult for me to explain to you the reasons why and it would perhaps be too raw for me to try to tackle that now. Please forgive me for keeping that to myself as I work through it. Suffice it to say, I cried for at least three weeks straight. That is how these very difficult decisions are sometimes I suppose, deeply painful but ultimately what is necessary and right.
On my last day, the kids sang songs telling me not to forget them and assuring me that they are better because I came. I told them that part of me would always be there with them, that I believed in the people they were becoming. The entire school: kids from the baby class up to Class 7, parents, teachers, cooks, and the night guard, all contributed whatever they had to a small pile of gifts that they presented to me very ceremoniously, draping each piece of cloth on my body until I wasn’t sure if the liquid covering me was sweat or tears. Probably both. Now I have earrings with turtles and wooden spoons with safari animals, brightly colored fabrics with messages of gratitude, sticky dates, a painted smiling zebra.
They bought a white cake which said, “Happy Birthday Farewell!” Characteristic of me (even if tears are running down my face), I laughed when I saw it. Madam Mutta, the principal, asked me, “When is your birthday?” I told her it was not any time soon and she said, “Well, we intended to celebrate your birthday with you at some point, but have not had the opportunity.” That is indeed a neat explanation, however, I am fairly certain that the more logical and perhaps correct explanation is that she bought a pre-made cake that said “Happy Birthday” and she asked them to add “Farewell!” In my mind, this was indeed perfect as this was both a farewell and a rebirth. This is what happens every time we give our heart away, there is a goodbye and a new beginning along with all of the sorrow and excitement that comes with it.
I’ll be starting language school in Cochabamba, Bolivia on September 26th. I have downloaded copious amounts of Enrique Iglesias, Jesse and Joy, and a dash of Juanes, in preparation. Duolingo keeps reminding me to practice my Spanish each day. For now, I keep mixing it with Kiswahili and something that is neither Spanish nor Kiswahili, but some strange fusion language that nobody seems to understand. My family can attest to the utter weirdness of my accent due to where I have been and perhaps where I am going. In the meantime, here is to all of the time betwixt and between.
Love to you all,
Tessa