Journal peek - Day 2

Honest words fell into diary pages on the second day, muddled and unformed in direction. As this is an essential part of journeying, I let them stutter forth without trying to think things through too much. I let comments slip out uncensored and did not try to wrestle them into boxes of reason - there was the small matter of my future at stake. Interestingly, this was the last time I needed to journal this way, after this my writing time became much more focussed and dealt to heart issues that I was able to uncover and unpack into the light for the first time, thus propelling me into a unprecendented heights of freedom.

It is mid-afternoon, sleepy time. Apart from the singing shouts of neighbouring children and the incessant whining of a chain saw, the noises of the night are gone. I am assuming in the heat that the animals have gone off to sleep curled up in the shade.



We drove around the island this morning, and I shot the country through my lens, freezing the broken, peeling buildings and dilapidated street side stores. It is poor, run down and some places lie in ruin. There is a slow undercurrent, people move like treacle and sit staring into space, waiting. They walk with casual steps, under the shade of parasols or drapes of fabric over their heads. Dogs roam the streets, heavy with whelping and cattle are tied by the neck to trees and graze amid the piles of rubbish that line the narrow strip road. Tiny striped piglets trot squealing after lumbering sows through plantation green plots and frangipani trees offer twirls of white or pink flowers on their grey twisting arms up to the rainclouds.



The water is serene, wave-less and dotted with fishermen. The cafe we went to for lunch was on the waterfront, simple and bright in the sun and sea breeze. I tried the internet there but it crept so slowly that I lost patience.



Afternoon sleep is elusive, now loud traffic noises on the busy road, and throbbing music beating from a nearby building. I think of the ones at home, in the sunshine and routine, I hear they are playing outdoors, giggling and having afternoon tea. I press my toes into the bedspread, noone is here is ask me for permission to watch something on tv, or to eat something from the lolly jar, and no baby needs me. I am free yet holding back, although not sure why. I would like to cry, and the lump is big in my throat but no words are linking to that place and no tears will fall.


The journey back to remembrance has been stark. Third world mission trip meets the new life I have crafted about me. I am overwhelmed by the separation from routine, the new experiences, the level of need, feeling so small in this place and yet can sense a deeper part of myself is beginning to freefall out of dark folds.




Simoney  – (October 29, 2009 at 9:13 PM)  

Beautiful Amy. Beautiful words, beautiful images. I have been to Tonga twice, and you have captured something of it in those few snaps that brings it all rushing back. x

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