Sick

There are times in one's simple, insignificant little life when we ask ourselves...what am I doing, and how did I get here? For me, this time is at about 7:30, towards the end of my everyday, when I am hungry and tired and need to go home, covered in the grime of the camps and my skin is damp and itchy under my bra.

Big day at Dondra camp the other day. Another puppet show. We started the preschool murals. Michele and I were laughing, as the last time we worked together we were making silhouettes for Barbie ad campaigns, bitching about how we never had time to paint anymore.It dawned on me how long it had been since I picked up a paintbrush, and had felt a comfort and calm in it. I thought about how many times I had picked up a pencil or a paintbrush and felt anxiety, fear, self-doubt and judgment. But somehow doing it this day, it felt different. It was for a reason bigger than making a good piece of work that someone would look at and say, "Wow, wanna that's so good" and make me feel some weird confirmation for some stupid issue of some crap I didn't get from my mother. Maybe someone would buy it at the artwalk for a couple hundred bucks and I could go buy a pair of shoes or pay off an old debt. Maybe I could scan it and use it for some flyer for some cool night. I've had The Smiths "Half a Person" stuck in my head the entire week. The idea of Morrisey seemed bizarre to me here, the grey and pale of england, and his morbid lyrics...I wondered what lyrics would come out of this struggle.."That's the story of my life..."

So many things I've always felt kind of good at but not good enough to do full on. And all these things, in this strange place in this completely new capacity I've finally felt that I've been able to use to my full potential. I never spoke German and French fluent enough to be a translator, but I speak it fluently enough to get French and German NGOs to give me free art supplies and first aid supplies. I never felt like a very good artist, though I enjoy drawing and painting, but again never felt good enough to be a full fledged creative, though it's been enough to bring some relief to lots of kids and start art projects in the camps. I've never been a good enough manager to make lots of money, but I've been good enough to facilitate the relief effort just that little bit more. I've never been a successful filmmaker, but I could make a really great documentary about a traveling puppet show in tsunami camps. I'm now finding here, that when I'm doing things for a reason bigger than myself, than my own success, than my own satisfaction, for the first time, I've felt that I may actually be good enough.

Could I have found my special purpose? Also,I'm finding how the chaos of things in my past have put me to an advantage to others working here in this capacity. I can source things easily, though in a very foreign place, and as foreign as I may be I feel a sense of comraderie with the locals. Being a flip, I've found this to be a big plus. We have a good rep internationally for being friendly, hard workers. We have an understanding of the "Western" need in management, but don't seem to have the adverse effect of the loud Americans or the ultra-efficient germans, the drunken Irishmen or the crazy frenchmen. I sound like a racist, but I can say honestly that this is what many many Singhalese have said of these NGOs that prance into their country, each with their own idea of how to help- without stopping to ask, "What do YOU think?"

Did another art day with the kids. Later, in the night, sitting cross legged on the tarp in front of the stage, little ones crawled into my lap, held onto my knee, put their arms on my shoulders, laid their heads on my arms, pinched my cheecks, played with my earrings. I've found that I have a pretty good way with kids. With little Dilini, 8, clapping my hands with hers, I wondered if there ever would be a day where I had a home, where I would have sat still long enough, when there would be someone I trusted enough to commit to, to have a little girl of my own. Later that night, when all the kids were returning to their tents, I realized I had not yet seen her mother. And when I saw the weathered, solemn face of her sister when she let go of my hand and took hers, it was clear little Dilini had lost her mother in the second wave. Nonetheless, she smiled at me, the way kids smile and the way grown ups try not to cry when kids are looking to them, and waved goodbye.

I started feeling sick last night, and took a separate room from the girls. This morning, I was deathly ill, with the kind of fever so high that you begin to hallucinate and cry, with your hands on the walls to push your aching body to the toilet. My head felt like it was going to explode, my throat and lungs pained form every breath. I came in and out of an uneasy sleep all day, either waking up cold and shivering or hot and sweating. When it was unbearable, I finally let myself see a doctor, who drew blood to test for dengue. I get results tomorrow. I think it's just a precautionary measure, really I never saw myself as the dengue type, more like a need for speed cliff diving accident or tiger mauling while on photo expedition maybe. He prescribed me 4 different medications, and my fever has subsided. It was bound to happen, I'm just glad it wasn't while I was alone in a mud hut with no toilet in india. And when you are sick, it forces you to stop and think, forces you to be grateful for your health, and all the little stresses in your day seem so meaningless when you can barely even breathe. It makes you want your mom and the arroz caldo she makes when you're sick, it makes you wonder what the kids are prone to in the camp if you got this just from visiting. It makes you feel pathetic and pitiful. It makes you yearn for carrot ginger soup, super green smoothies and yogi teas from Erewhon. It makes you wish you had your kitchen and your old teapot for ginger and hot honey and lemon tea. It makes you wonder if you are a little crazy for coming here, and hope and pray that you're doing the right thing.